The over caffeinated brain bursts with frenetic will. Hungry. Eager to forage and sort through the sonic evergreens overdue for a prune. The songs are plump, the voice memos: delectable, the field recordings: hallucinogenic. Warm. Aborted song ideas are but dried berries waiting to be plucked and sucked. The movie dialogues, sprinkled about for a tart tickle. The once buried song stem, unearthed to be tossed into the Emperor’s cornucopia. Magenta dreams. Found. Mixed. Matched. Devoured, defecated out into a scat crescendo--of a life mired in chaos, glimpses of joy, punches of pain. Salt. Salt of the earth "for your man's bland ballad." C’est la vie. The portrait is messy. No doubt, a debt owed to the cut up methodology of Burroughs past. A prayer offering to the sonic altar of Milford Graves. A wink to Pierre Henry’s playful brutality. We invite you to a celebration of life, in all its chaotic glory. This is 亂.
