spin artical on underground music venues

woods performance review NY Times. the review sucks, but he singles me out for some reason

NYtimes theater review of a theatrical production i was involved in as part of the juggernaught theater company

woods interview in the onion AV section

Non-Horse - Rigor Lore (Not Not Fun)

Here Gabriel Lucas Crane spews forth a massive
secretion of creepdrone as Non-Horse. Crane is most
well-known for his position in the Vanishing Voice but
Rigor Lore is something far more sinister. This
limited C80 is packed, folks. Look at that
tracklisting! Add 'em up and it's 77 different
selections all told! At that rate, Crane would have to
be crunching into a new song as every minute of the
tape rolled by but the truth is there are only 2 songs
here; ones I've taken to calling "A" and "B" for their
respective sides. According to the good folks over at
Not Not Fun, the A-side is an exploration of Crane's
experiments at home while the B-side is a selection
from a live show. To Crane's credit, I can tell no
difference in fidelity nor is there even a moment of
faltering of the course of that side's 40 minutes. The
A-side starts equal parts archaic drone, Tibetan moan,
broken bone. Things evolve slowly with bells and
squiggling electronics. Squiggles turn to stabs and
disjointed banjo and it becomes clear just how much of
Crane's work as Non-Horse is predicated on tape
manipulation; as well as his superlative skill at the
art (and damn is it art; try it for yourself). Soon
all is shimmering delay feedback and suffering horns
with hammered, bubbling melody. Crane ends things in
the haunted cave the Erlkönig retreated to after he
silenced you in your father's arms. I do prefer the
B-side, though. Things get coniderably thicker.
Cut-up, barely identifiable vocals meld into
single-note neargrooves and quickly succumb to the
powers of abrasion. Cycling drone meets drums and
shakers later; screechings are your friend. The side
really really makes me want to watch Crane do this
live. How much of it is played on the spot? How much
of it is on tapes? How many damn tapes does the dude
have? Such an experience would be absolutely hypnotic.
Rigor Lore has a sonic variety rare in albums of this
ilk; the natural transitions and immediacy of the
cryptic breaths Crane exhales are testaments to the
man's skill. Hopefully Rigor Lore, being his first
real full-length as Non-Horse, is the genesis of a new
moniker to spy for.

 

 

 

 

Apples and Heroin

Nonhorse "Xol Mic" (Abandon Ship): Psychotic LAFMS-style cut-ups, moaning and plodding highlight this lengthy cassette. The ever-prolific Vanishing Voice member conjures an epic score to a lost silent film revealing the spiritual world within Monster Truck rallies. In parts, it sound as if Nonhorse rescued the decrepit reel-to-reel from decaying in storage. Surreal occult jazz with touches of Bobby Beausoleil psych.

 

 

Aquarius records

 

Nonhorse is the work of one Gabriel Lucas Crane who
spends his day job rocking in the group Wooden Wand &
The Vanishing Voice, but when he's on his own, it's a
whole 'nother sonic ball of wax. Ot maybe ball of old
busted cassettes would be more like it.
Each track, always clocking in at either 3:12, 3:13.
or 3:14, is a dense assemblage of random sonic
detritus, fuzzy indistinct song fragments, manipulated
tape drop outs, ringing phones, sound effects, huge
swaths of buzzing distortion, looped bits of detuned
guitar, slabs of damaged percussion, the sounds of
tapes rewinding and fast forwarding, abstract guitar
shimmer looped and slowed down, snippets of classical
music, crackle and static, everything murky and
indistinct, blurry and smeared into strange cross-eyed
soundscapes. It's a bit like John Oswald for the ADD
set, but when the mania subsides just a little, and
sounds are allowed to shimmer and fade, the sound
becomes remarkably beautiful, like Dialing In, all
blown out and gorgeously crumbling to bits before our
ears, or like a more corrosive lo-fi version of our
favorite soundscapers, Jasper TX, Tim Hecker,
Machinefabriek, Philip Jeck, the same sort of milk
eyed warble and disembodied drift, but assembled from
a pile of junkyard tapes. A seriously drug addled
mashup of light and dark, pretty and ugly, noisy and
serene, and somehow it works. In a big way. Completely
dizzying and confusional, warped and warbly, but in
it's own ugly duckling manner quite pretty. If all
that blissed out fuzzscape crap is a little too mellow
for you, but you still want to be dragged off to some
other world, Nonhorse might be the little red pill
you've been waiting for.
Mastered by the Yellow Swans' Pete Swanson.

 

 

Boomkat.com

 

Nonhorse is the solo incarnation of Gabriel Lucas
Crane who participates in the Vanishing Voice element
of Wooden Wand & The Vanishing Voice. For this, his
debut solo album, Crane’s cassettecore noisescapes are
finally given centre-stage, and the resultant
scrapyard of lost sampled recordings and general audio
debris makes for a truly dizzying listen. This is
noise music at its most primitive, with a collage
approach being the principal technique at Crane’s
disposal. The severe tapedeck mangling never quite
allows the source material to reveal itself, but
throughout the album’s thirteen tracks there’s a
strong sense of variety and sonic dynamism, with Crane
by turns summoning up walls of howling feedback,
cut-and-paste slapstick plunderphonics and Henri
Chopin-like concrète manipulations. Noiseniks should
also be aware that this magnificent mess was mastered
by Yellow Swans’ din monger, Pete Swanson.

 

 

Outer space gamelon

 

Matthias Andersson must be a glutton for punishment,
because why else would he send me this new disc from
his Release the Bats publishing house? He had to know
I'd be talking about it, and no one wants that. But
heck, I won't say no. If you don't know Nonhorse - and
that's to be expected because this is the maiden
Nonhorse voyage - it's the moniker used by Wooden Wand
& the Vanishing Voice member Gabriel Lucas Crane. And
if that name doesn't tell you anything, well here's a
hint - he's the scruffy one. Ahahaha get it? Because
they're all pretty scruffy you see. Anyway the story
to "Haraam, Circle of Flame" is that it's apparently
composed entirely from from "mysterious old cassette
tapes", although I'm not 100% sure exactly what that
entails...if Crane is using old recordings he himself
made, or found-sound tapes, or some kind of
plunderphonic method or what. I can say that there's
nary an identifiable sound to be heard here, so don't
expect "Night Ripper" for the Luc Ferrari set.
I've played "Haraam" about five or six times through
now and I'm just barely beginning to get a grasp of
things although it's still a pretty flummoxing album.
There's thirteen individual tracks all almost exactly
3:14 in length with something on the insert that looks
like a tracklist but is way too jumbled to possibly
make any sense out of, so we'll say they're all
untitled for simplicity's sake. Every song is like an
excerpt of a larger composition, and each one sounds
indeed like old, mysterious sounds hitherto unheard by
the world at large being welded together, into and on
top of eachother. It really is more like a series of
sounds more than samples or anything like that, but
the choice of sounds is what's most intriguing. I'd
hazard a stab that most of what's heard on "Haraam"
comes from effect pedals, synthesizers, keyboards and
drum machines with the rest being indistinguishable
blurs of aural gloop from flea market tapes and
badly-damaged archival spools. Snatches of human
voices crop up every now and again but disappear too
quickly for your ear to hook onto anything and it's
anybody's guess where they're coming from or what
they're saying. Crane's work on this CD makes me think
especially of Spencer Clark's "Un Chand Pyramdelier"
CD-R under the Vodka Soap moniker, albeit less
drone/ritual hazed and more frequently-shifting moods
and sonics. Or maybe like he's mixing together
badly-recorded Double Leopards bootlegs with dubs of
the Sublime Frequencies catalogue and the more
esoteric and wordless jolts from the Sun City Girls
and calling it an ode to "Revolution No. 9". What
about McCartney and Ringo covering pieces by Philip
Jeck? Yeaaah, now we're talking! And then Crane comes
along and stomps all over the results with his
proverbial personal touch. I think I've got it!
Wait...no, I haven't. Which is the curious thing about
"Haraam" in that no matter how many times I play it,
nothing sticks. This is I guess a blessing and a curse
- I'd be hard-pressed to call it a very memorable
album but at the same time I want to keep coming back
to it because it never gets old. It'd take you an
infinite number of plays of each song (let alone the
entire album) before the molasses-like stew dribbling
out of the speakers begins to make some sense. So, as
you can see, I'm just getting started on cracking it.
Like a...Kinder Surprise! No, wait! Like Ringo and
Marcia Bassett putting together Kinder Surprises while
Jeck and the dudes from the Skaters listen to Sublime
Frequencies tapes at Luc Ferrari's house with Matthias
Andersson and Girl Talk jamming on Paul McCartney's
keyboard while...bah, lost my train of thought.
Only thing more perplexing than the CD is the package
it comes in. RtB usually do it up to the nines but
Nonhorse's disc comes surprisingly dressed-down (well,
for them) in a simple cardboard sleeve with a
single-sheet insert, albeit it just about everything
is covered in insane psych/kindergarten designs from
I'm assuming Mr. G.L.C. himself. It is limited to 500
however, but you've got time.

__________________________________________________

scene point blank

 

Someone beats on sheet metal. A phone rings? White noise and feedback. Sounds from a long lost sci-fi B movie… I think. Someone recorded the sounds from an alien spaceship's motherboard. A saxophone goes completely fucking berserk. An eerie, unrelenting din pervades everything. This is what I hear as I sit down to review Nonhorse's compact disc. Enter Haraam, Circle of Flame.

Do me a favor. Go to Wikipedia and type in “Haraam.” Read the first couple lines and tell me that's not intriguing. An album named after that? Spooky, right?

So, exactly who or what is Nonhorse? A man by the name of Gabriel Lucas Crane found “piles of mysterious old cassettes,” called himself Nonhorse and produced the most bizarre, enigmatic album I've heard in a very, very long time. He samples a potpourri of noises from “manipulated voices” to “train signals and animal sounds.” If this isn't arcane, I don't know what is.

Do you know those nature tapes? You know, the ones used to make the listener relax and feel completely calm? Nonhorse's Haraam, Circle of Flame is the exact opposite. I'm confident that this album would send anyone under the influence of a psychedelic drug directly into a bad trip. I mean a really bad trip. Hell, I even feel paranoid listening to it and I'm entirely void of drugs at the moment.

This could be haunted house music. I can see it now: walking down a hall in complete darkness, your heart rate elevates as your senses become disoriented. Just then, “Track Five” of Haraam, Circle of Flame comes on and a man wearing a Jason mask sprints out of the room at the end of the hall wielding a noisy fucking chainsaw. Of course, the chainsaw has no blade on it, but you're horrified nonetheless.

If you're psychologically unstable, do not listen to Haraam, Circle of Flame - it might put you over the edge. Give this album to your stoned friends and watch as their pupils dilate and contract uncontrollably. Nonhorse gives us one hell of a psychoactive experience. Disregard my score, as I have no way of truly rating this cacophonic creation. See for yourself.

 

 

 

Mashnote review

It’s not a horse. That is evil. It comes on like one. See that word 'horse' at the end there, after the 'non'? that’s right: 'non'. That means ANYTHING BUT A HORSE. But no. horse hits the brain more. First. Most. Better. Noun vs. qualifier. THIS IS THE HEART OF ALL PROBLEMS.

Whoever writes a biography like this about himself should be given a statue and be called a saint. Gabriel Lucas Crane, yes the tape guy from wooden wand and the vanishing voice, brings you his very first solo album which was first released on tape but re-released on cd by my top 5 favourite label: Release the bats. Crane seems to be telling one of the most frightening bedtime stories I've ever heard, mixing gloomy weird tape compositions with utter doom. It's like Tim Burton pissing his pants on Acid. It's like Stockhausen having cold sweat on acid. It's like everybody's scared on acid and GL Crane just keeps on vomiting his tapemixes on the masses, letting it stop at exactly 3.14 minutes (the number PI?), so they start screaming from the abrupt silence that follows.

Why to I say Tim Burton? Because the nightmare is beautiful! Why do I say Stockhausen? Because the composing sounds innovating to me. Why do I say everybody? Because there's a lot of things to listen to in these tracks. 2000 songs pressed in 13 ones. And it all sounds frightening. If I should file this in a cd store, I'd file it under: That story from Kafka about a guy who turns into an insect. Oh yeah, and Pete Swanson (Yellow Swans) mastered this cd-version.

"Only honest music is half an accident." Thus Gabriel Lucas Crane.
"This is an awesome cd man." Thus myself.

______________________________________________________________________

Cassette culture

Side one starts with an old style data run flowing through your fingers, splashing on the floor like an inverted brolly graveyard of broken winged fairies. Sounds roasting on the spit plate, sizzling strands travelling between the ears. Séance like shapes n shadows blossom, greedily gobbled back down feedback throats, leaving raspy belches in their wake, gaseous clouds buck shot peppered, tattered and singed. Staring into the vortex leaves you feeling queasy (in a good way) all those half buried sounds curve balling your cranium, as the unholy stink is cauterized by insect-o-cute blue laser zaps and warped Japanese lullabies.

 

Side two starts off in reverbed and echoed clanks and pulses, the inklings of a tune suffocated in debris and guitar reek. Co-conspirator, Foxy Pink Gloves shoots poison drenched darts of clarinet through the murk, sax-like squeals with flanged tail feathers, excreting ghostly smears. The machines loop over themselves like Escher drawings, fx-ed to fuck, drizzling some crooked gamelan, as monstrous faces creep nearer…somewhere a cattle-prodded monkey is spasm-locked within the circuits. Shit this sound is so blissfully over-crowded, it’s unreal... Then everything cuts away to silence, but just as you think the action is over, a simple looped phantom rasps your ears so faintly the darkness threatens to extinguish it. This grows into some pleasing repetition before the sound is kick started again with a violent gyroscope coughing and spluttering - some mutant techno candy...

The best way to describe the music would be apparitional, a slow machine wrought nightmare you just can’t wake from. The sound effects from some self perpetuated ectoplasmic fall-out, or the simple product of delirium. Its rough edges may not appeal to some, but for me this gritty 80 minute plus improvisation is just the ticket.

 

One true dead angel

 

Gabriel Lucas Crane (from Wooden Wand and the Vanishing Voice) makes his solo debut on this noisy album (mastered by Pete Swanson for maximum sonic punishment) of thirteen tracks using old cassettes and a lot of gruesome sound processing to create layered epics of tortured sonic devolvement. Name your sound, it's here somewhere -- from wailing white noise to heavy reverb abuse, the album is a mausoleum of eccentric sounds all fighting for supremacy in the listener's ears, and most of it is of unidentifiable origin. Squealing tremelo sounds, damaged calliope and toy piano, backwards music, bell-like tones, rippling sheets of distortion, rhythmic grinding, bursts of static, and above all, lots of reverb abuse... all of these things and more (much more) are stacked up in shifting layers like crumbling sonic strata, with a level of density that ebbs and flows as the sound increasingly resembles agitated audio ghosts battling to free themselves from their invisible prison. The sound is often violent, sometimes even harsh, but more often is more eerie and ghostly, the sound of possessed machines and electronic gadgets switching themselves on and off at random for a mysterious and considerably more atmospheric feel than found on most noise albums. Think of it as a the soundtrack to a disintegrating psyche whose final scenes are played out in burned-out churches, cemeteries filled with emptied graves, and a towering heap of discarded junk brought back to terrifying electronic life. Strange, exotic stuff, limited to 500 copies.

 

Volcanic tounge

"New solo tape/electro-acoustic abstractions from Gabriel Lucas Crane of Wooden Wand & The Vanishing Voice. Gamelan sonorities give way to a brain-confusing swamp of alien bog sounds, cracked, subliminal vocals, fugs of tone-smoke and some beautiful drone and percussion work in a way that mimics what a Beefheart tribute from Tom Smith's To Live And Shave In LA might've sounded like had it been slowed down to suitable glue-huffing levels. Weird as hell." volcanic tongue

 

yourflesh
NON-HORSE Rigor Lore CS

Non-Horse is the sound of Gabriel Lucas Crane (from
the band Vanishing Voice) weaving together cassette
recordings of sonic debris culled from magnetic fields
of high tension wire scrambled daydreams. The A-side
of the Rigor Lore cassette exhumes and condenses the
infinite sounds of echoed heartbeats, friction,
detuned shortwave transmissions, and half-remembered
fright night soundtracks. Side B, a live recording,
sounds more intense; like a bulldozer plowing through
the bowels of mission control; rattling chains,
mangling steely architectural supports and triggering
a recital of motion detectors and fire alarms.
Non-Horse busts through the threshold of sublimity.
like turning vapor into concrete. [NotNotFun]

-Jeffrey L. Ouch

 

 

 

 

 

Paper Thin Walls

Cassettes Will Listen
For Brooklyn sound artist G. Lucas Crane, it's all a tale of the tape

Skzzz is a column that focuses on sound art, installations, field recordings, homemade instruments, anti-music and other unmanageable sounds. This is probably the last one for a while.

column by Christopher R. Weingarten

 

“New York City is really choked with information,” says NYC native and cassette-tape manipulator G. Lucas Crane. “I don’t have to expend any effort to find out the plots of popular movies; it’s just on the sides of buses. The world throws so much shit at you and asks you to process it, so what I’m doing is this anxiety response.”

As Nonhorse, Crane creates his own competing swirls of anxiety by colliding the mysterious, untraceable sounds from his colorful arsenal of cassette tapes. Slowed-down symphonies, prepared noise, found objects, field recordings—just like a muddled urban reality, pretty much anything can end up a part of his his clicking, woozy encounters. His unique set up allows him to mix and loop gnarled C-16s like the Grandmaster Flash of pause-tapes, his live shows a frenetic mix of hissing and clacking. In his mellower moments, he adds gauzy tape textures to bands like Vanishing Voice, folk-drifters Castanets and krauty dubwonks Shepherds.

“People have been churning out all these machines, all these boxes with knobs and switches that basically do the same thing. You wanna make a song? You can record it on GarageBand, you can record it on a cassette tape, you can record it on the most beautifully hi-fi system, whatever you want. Now it’s like an aesthetic decision to pick what you’re gonna record with. I just happened to land on one that speaks to me.”

 

Tell me about how you use cassettes as a response to anxiety and confusion.
You hear a record and there’s absolutely no guarantee as to how it was recorded. You can use a program to make your record sound like James Brown. That confusion about where sound or information can come from is very interesting to me. The tape for me is just like this absorbing tool, a practical platform for that type of confusion. The tape being what it is, it’s way harder to track where the information is coming from. On a tape I can take a record of someone’s music and play it slow and put in a computer and put effects on it, burn a CD, make that CD skip, record that on to a tape and then mix that tape. Each tape is an X factor. I can find a Beethoven symphony on tape which took hundreds of people, or a tape can be a weird preacher yelling into something. It revels in that confusion. Where does the information come from?

 

What were your earliest experiences with tapes?
I think lots of people have the same [experience]. That’s another reason I’m attracted to this medium. My first experience with tapes is someone gives you a tape player when you’re a kid—you’re a little kid and playing make believe and yelling into it and throwing shit at it and recording your sister holding the cat. That creates a really intimate connection to recording. I say something, and it goes into this machine and I can rewind and re-experience reality. That’s some shaman shit. That’s actually magic if you take yourself back to this primordial state in your brain. You’re re-experiencing time. I’m trapping time in this object.

 

How do you organize your tapes?
I have a lot of them. When you start dealing with samples, your brain just has to come up with some personal organizing system. My tapes are all organized by color. You can’t just keep writing down what’s on each tape, because then all the tapes just look like tapes with writing on them. When I’m playing, I’m in this certain state, so it’s hard for me to think with my front brain and read a tape—I can’t read very well when I’m playing music. So all the tapes are painted to attract me to them when I’m playing. It’s like I’m trying to trick myself. Like I have to turn into a bat to play live. “Ah, the orange tape with the star on it, that’s the sound of a bottle hitting the ground. I remember that!” I’ll make a tape and be displeased with it and I won’t label it nicely, and then I won’t play that one that much because it isn’t pretty enough.

 

What are some of your favorite field recording stories?
Ugh! I have this reoccurring story in my life where there’s about seven lost tapes. Really awesome sounds and really awesome moments on tape that I don’t have anymore. I lament these. One time I put this tape recorder in this closet in someone’s college dorm and I was like, “This is the confessional. I’ll be back at the end of the year.” It was kind of a joke at the time but people started doing this. And so this tape at the end of the year would just be like: Click. “I fucking hate that bitch! That stupid horrible slut, I hate it when she comes over here” Beep. “Hey, I’m feeling great! Just wanted to tell you that she just said she loved me! OK, cool!” Beep. Just sample after sample after sample of people unburdening themselves. And all it took was a tape recorder and a room. There was some dust-up with a person and then they took the tape and I was supposed to get it back. And I’ve never been able to find that tape.

One of the other lost tapes… I was in England in some second-hand store and [found a tape that said] “International Karate” on it. It’s printed. It says “International Karate: Perfection is the only accepted standard.” I take it home and it’s this incredibly crazy super-industrial digital weird beats. Tkk-kk-kk-kkKZZKAAA. Really overblown, a super weird rhythm noise tape. And I’m like, “This is crazy music, this band International Karate.” I had a friend come over after I’ve been using this tape for a while and he’s like, “You know this is just a computer tape?” There’s this whole species of tapes, back when Commodore 64 and the beginning of computers, tapes were actually the discs. Programs on tapes. International Karate wasn’t a band, it was some fucking program for a computer. The ribbon broke on that tape so I don’t have that tape anymore.

Years ago I ran into a friend of mine in Manhattan. She was like, “My friends are all in that market right now. I’m taking care of them. I’m their chieftain today. They’re all tripping. And I’m the one who’s not tripping so I’m taking them around. I promised I would do this.” “Oh, here, you should just hang out with this tape recorder all day!” I get this tape back and I write “chieftain” on it. The whole thing is just these fucked-up songs. All these people singing all the time and my friend just being like, “Fucking idiot, get back here. Get back here!” Wrangling these psychedelic weirdos. But I lost that tape when I moved.

 

What’s the best story behind a tape you used on the Castanets record?
I was in Tennesse at James Toth’s [a.k.a. Wooden Wand] house. It was incredibly hot and there’s fucking nothing to do in Knoxville. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And they have a harmonium. And one of the other things they have in Tennessee is a billion fucking cicadas. I was down there at the time of year where the insects were so loud they hurt. One of the tapes I used was me in my underwear and a shirt sitting on a tree on their front porch playing harmonium, and recording the bugs. I slowed it way down.

 

Kid Shirt review

Yeah, so anyway, I set CD-player on Random.

One: Some sort of mid-60s electro-accoustic drug-binge is in progress. Muffled, yet somehow also sonorous at the same time. Dull bells and the battle-drums of Tribe Limbless. They're eating Bob Dylan!

Two: A hellish kill-machine from the Warhammer 4000 universe lurches into action, mowing down legions of armoured ghouls with some sort of blue-pulsing death-gun, electric whips and rapidly spinning razor-scythes that eviscerate everthing in their path. The sky rains bloody hands.

Three: Haunted organ music from an evil, old well. Some sort of Japanese computerised goblin lives down there spinning a web from dark green shit. Alt.soundtrack to "Hideo D: HellBitch Dead Stalker."

Four: I really don't want to talk about this one; it's too fucking disturbing.

Five: A dense, roaring cloud, malignant and unfathomable, falls upon the listener. Distant fire-engines. A machine wants to eat us. We fall into a dark purple vortex made from our own memories.

Six: Tape-transports stutter and howl. A murderous toy-robot limps around a 1960s amusement arcade on broken caterpillar-tracks. We fall into an arcane, automated mechanism that uses knitting-needles and rotating sanding-disks to progressively strip us of our skin. The soundtrack to yr own eventual demise.

Seven: 70s Biker Flick on ultra-fast-forward filmed by Jeff Keen. They Kill/rape/fight/drink/make music at 270mph. Alien cops kill them at the end. Credits in sickly black neon typefaces.

Eight: tape-crumpled 4-bit drum-machine over oil-drum gtr-line and the sound of faces scraping against granite.

There's loooooads more, but why go on. This astonishingly inventive CD fucks with yr head on a whole bunch of levels - it succeeds in somehow being both pyschedelic and post-industrial, invoking a series of unflinchingly raw soundworlds that are as original as they are unexpected. A mad mulch-up of primitive electronics, gtr meltdowns, found sound, cassette-deck abuse, live jams, circuit-bend-outs, thuggish beserko percussives, Brut Concrete - sometimes all on the same track! To be honest, the jams on this CD have blown me away - I'm sooo gonna have to raise my fucking game. It's ages old, I know, but I live in a cupboard-sized micro universe that's forever 6 months outa synch w/ The Spectacle.

Non-Horse (or NonHorse) is G. Lucas ('Glucose') Crane, better known for his antics with Vanishing Voice - I'm pretty sure he played on their fantastic "Stone Tablet" album, which you really do need to buy fucking pronto.

Of the Haraam CD, G. Lucas says: "Its basically a dream description. I was lost in a desert maze and I kept encountering small rooms and situations vibrating with hidden alien pitches and molded rules. A small alter, a reflective bowl, a spear shaped candle. I was trying for a crystalline structure with the tracts the same length like the facets of a large jewel. The desert was long and ponderous, and I had to speak to enemies and old kings to gain my freedom. This was while i was living in a blackmoldy basement after traveling for a year, so I was psychically unmoored and traumatized by New York city. The source material tapes were mostly stuff I recorded in America on tour, moments with other musicians in hotel rooms and backyards."

Available thru Release The Bats, you lucky fuckers.