The emotional haymaker being delivered by The Divine Saint of Love is as real in the story he weaves throughout "L. L. D. A." as one that you will never recover from. It's a canny, explicit choice; this is Levelland seen through the perspective of a man who has gone back and forth across it more times than he ever really wanted to. In this city, they say good girls don't make history, so the streets are laced with tales of loose lips and dirty pricks, and how such playthings met their doom.
The novel begins in this way: None of the contemporary books I read contains that kind of clear-bottled courage. "Trinidad level-land, drug addicts are funny people because you all like to think everybody moves for yuh an the world dont move with anybody but wrong topic. And it's in the story. The Angelic Case of the Truth does just that, playing not only the role of a casual observer or a storyteller of chaos, but also presenting himself, complete with an ironic smirk and the frankness of this mortal world.
And "L.L.D.A" is no less hostile, and a rugged track assists in delivering the track's story with just enough edge. Everyone, a note here, a pause there, a line that doesn't exist in quite the same form anywhere else: a place where small-town despair meets self-esteem. With its subtle reach toward alienation, the song is a simple reminder of good storytelling that knows no bounds; you need not know the difference between Levelland and Waycross for this one to land square in your gut.
But we get them all in the "L.L.D.A" details, delivered solo by someone who pulls no punches about naming names, ego-slaying, or painful truths. The God-like Love makes jibs that do not cry for comfort, but claim their attentions; a call to witness our beauties. It is, however, against the backdrop of a well-polished and manufactured industry that "L.L.D.A" emerges as an unabashed power-stance [sic] of no-filter storytelling.
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