BAYMI Dept.

 

 

This is fantastic. DL much better quality here:

https://workupload.com/file/bZVqfftjSh7

Perfect Tens Dept. - Soft Machine Third

By the time Soft Machine stopped counting their albums, they stopped counting for anything much, becoming just another super-proficient jazz rock combo, losing the indefinably fluid quality that made them unique, even after line-up changes that would have crippled any other band.

Third was a monster of an album. Even the sleeve seemed somehow massive. A double album with only four tracks? Yow! What could that sound like!? Even in an era when side-long compositions weren't too rare, Third was pioneering, uncompromising, and out-bloody-rageous. It came with a gold price sticker on the front - I remember 39/11 but that's probably wrong [39/11 is around 23c US today - Ed.].

Flashback to the party to which [grammar - Ed.] I lugged my newly-purchased copy of Third, in the absence of a girlfriend (the two would prove to be incompatible). Anyway, you didn't take girlfriends to parties, you went to parties to get free drinks and impress girls with your toxic masculinity and deep knowledge of blues rock guitarists, then miss the last bus and walk home alone in the rain. What a time to be alive! Waiting for the ideal moment, I cued it up on the stereo only to discover there is never an ideal moment to cue up Third at a party. In my blissful ignorance, I thought the three minutes of tar pit anteater gargling that introduce the thrilling main theme of Facelift would be appreciated by teen revelers tiring of T Rex and Slade or whatever it was and I would get nods of respect from the guys and come-hither glances from the girls. My wrongness became immediately apparent. The scratch over that intro remained a useful reminder never to try that shit again.

In retrospect, maybe I should have played Moon In June, or Slightly All The Time. Or Out Bloody Rageous. Better I should have taken Motown Chartbusters, because Christine Williams was into Tamla, and I was desirous of getting into her pants. Anyway, joke's on her because I still hunker down in my headphones for the duration of Third and I bet she's entirely forgotten Motown Chartbusters and harbors to this day a secret regret she never let me get in her pants.

Here's the inner gatefold, showing my guys waiting for some girls to show up. Note groovy beverage table, Wyatt's groovy shirt, Ratledge's groovy shades.

"What time is it?" "Ten." What time you tell them?" "EIGHT FUCKING THIRTY for the fiftieth fucking time I told them HALF PAST EIGHT!" [pause] "Where are they then?" "I don't fucking know." "Fancy a pint?"

 

Third, as you may have guessed from the title of this piece - assuming you read that far - qualifies as a Perfect Ten because no part of it can be improved, including the cover. It is an astonishing piece of work. But because this is th' IoF©, where quantity is quality, I'm throwing in a bonus contemporary album of them at the Albert Hall - the first rock group to ever play at the prestigious BBC Proms (Promenade Concerts). Pearls were clutched.

 

Iconic cover by Isle O' Foam© Art Department o' Art Dept. That's a full-color photograph - London was like that in 1970.

 

Better Than The Beatles? YOU Decide!

Who needs three shoes? You do. Lensed for their Ignition comeback, 2012

The Shoes (that is, the individuals who constitute the band Shoes, no definite article) are all in their eighties now, except for founding member - well, they're all founding members - Gary Klebe, who will be ninety-four years young come September! Long-time residents of the Where Are They Now home for elderly power-poppers, they are unique in having released at least three first albums, the latest of which, Heads Or Tails, is actually the first, recorded in '74! I don't have this, so if you do, frisbee it over to th' Isle o' Foam©!

Extensively FoamFeatured© antecedently, (the) Shoes are arguably better than the Beatles! Hear me out! In addition to releasing three first albums, where the Fabs could manage only one:

👞 Still legally alive

👞 Never copied anyone else, covered show tunes, made a shit movie, or even a shit album

👞 Avoided marrying oriental scag pandas and finagling amputees

👞 Didn't write Maxwell's Silver Hammer

I rest my case, but th' IoF© is nothing if not a platform for diverse opinion, and if you're loopy enough to think The Beatles were a better band, light your tiki torch in the comments!

Today's freeloads pick up from where we left off, way back in May 2022, and represent the band's Imperial Period (which was and is still always) with five, maybe, fantastic platters! Details in comments!

IMPORTANT NOTE: For those of you feeling betrayed by the lack of Fab Four content:

https://falsememoryfoam.blogspot.com/2021/06/beatlemania-dept-thirty-shades-of-gray.html

https://falsememoryfoam.blogspot.com/2019/05/compleat-beetles.html

https://falsememoryfoam.blogspot.com/2021/04/hello-goodbye-george-martin-interview.html

Milty Nussbaum, Head Of A&R Musicor Records, Grants Exclusive Preview Of Musicor's Chartbound Sounds For '68! (Dept.)

Family man Nussbaum proudly displays photo of wife on desk! "Darling Myra is a constant source of inspiration!" gushes youthful A&R prexy.

Legacy Old School® FOAM-O-GRAPH© created thru in-house AD (Artificial Dumbness) by IoF© Art Department O' Art Dept. For educational purposes only. No - well not much - livestock was harmed during production. Kittens don't count, right?

Milty Nussbaum, Head of A&R at Musicor Records (Hackensack and Pork Bend), was kind enough to send us this exclusive Musicor promo package! Here's his covering letter:

 

Dear Music Business Partner

We at Musicor Records are proud of not only our much-envied repertoire of stars such as Gene Pitney, Ronnie Gann, B.J. Thomas, Dick Cramer, and Gene Pitney, but also our reputation for keeping up with the times, and sometimes being just that little bit ahead of them! Yes, when it comes to making the music scene "happen" with a capital M, there's Musicor, and there's everybody else! And this swingin' year of sixty-eight is no exeption!

I'm delighted to send you personaly three exiting teen-oriented albums hot off the presses by newly-talented Artistes that are sure to become household names! Yes, from the "outer sight" acid rock of The Federal Ducks, thru the psychedelic jugband sounds of The Paper Gardens to the challenging protest rock-folk of The Tingling Mothers, Musicor has its finger on the pulse of today's youth!

Your Friend in the Music Business:

Milton O. Nussbaum

Head of A&R, Musicor Records

 

Musicor - Making Music Happen: Today!

Those albums in full:

 

I've read internet claims from swivel-eyed loons that the Federal Duck and Paper Garden albums are lost masterpieces of psych, which of course they ain't. Federal Duck is seven or eight college kids flexing their privilege before getting jobs on Wall St. or shooting up in a box full of rags under an offramp. It's charitable to call it 2nd Tier Psych, but you need to hear it more than you need to hear the next Taylor Swift album. Paper Garden has its moments, and its charm, and qualifies as a period piece. The Tingling Mother's Circus boasts some real musicians who can actually play (including Elliott Randall, featured antecedently on the Yellow Peril album), some singers who can sing, and a cover of Yellow Submarine that will make you hurl hot chunks. These albums are pure Musicor, the Zircon in the tarnished tiara of the music business, and as such should be protected and nurtured in a caring environment such as yours. Milty Nussbaum - we salute you!

 

 

This post funded in part by Jack's Snacks n' Slacks™, Mengele Mall, Knucklebutter, MT.
 

Fallen Heroes Dept. - Steely Dan Gets Tin Worm

This pitcher is, like, a metaphor. A metaphor is like a simile.

 

Way back in, ooh, seventy-three or whatever, there was nobody cooler on the face of the planet than Steely Dan. Carrying a Dan album around marked you out as one of the hipster elite. Compared to their lawyer-level snark smarts and jazzbo academy chops, Little Feat were a bunch of body shop slackers, filling the back of the project Camaro with bong smoke. And the Doobie Brothers were hillbillies, eternally falling off the same porch. Th' Dan VIP Leisure Lounge was where the smart kids hung out, in our dreams, snorting lines of pure Bolivian snow off the tits of the Latina room maid. Snickering at the Secret Lodge humor that only the initiated understood. The shine of your Japan, the sparkle of your China! Every arcane Dan delight was enriched by the knowledge that their music went wayyy over the heads of the shmuck in the street. Those fugitive melodies? The collegiate use of language qua signs? That indescribable, ineffable, incommunicable Dan-ness hung on you like some mystic glowing lamasery tour laminate. If you knew, you knew. Like New Yorkers believe that a "New York thing" is some private privilege only understood in all its deliciousness by scaly-skinned loft lizards, Dan Man Fans peered out warily at the rest of the world and opted to stay inside, clamped under the headphones.

Case in point: the author [left, and gee fucking whiz - Ed.] - Dan Man Fan, counting down to ecstasy. I bought all the albums. Even after the muse of melody crept away into the night, me and my hip pals carried the sodium torch of th' Dan, basking in its cold glow. Meanwhile, the dumb straights were out partying and pretending to like Motown and getting laid. Hah! Joke's on them, right? Right?

I'm trying to remember the last time I - metaphorically - reached for a Dan album. Not that that's any measure of their worth - I'm also trying to remember what I came into the room for - but their appeal has atrophied to the point where memory drifts into forgetfulness. I still listen, with vein-pulsing pleasure - to Little Feat, and the Brothers Doobie, but if I'm going to have to choose a Dan album I might listen to today, it would be Becker's 18 Tracks Of Whack, which the quick-witted among you will have noted isn't even a Steely Dan record. And that would be because it's sincere and moving and mostly unironic and the jokes don't require a thesaurus to get. And if I chose just one Dan song to carry with me into the gilded eternity, it would be American Lovers, which they didn't even record, th' shmucks.

Today's Freeload™ is the oft-booted and variously-yclept Yellow Peril, as chock full o' good tunes as any album they released. I may even listen to it again. If I remember. And below is their best song, sung by the great Thomas Jefferson Kaye.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Other Mama

Sleeve job by IoF©

Michelle Phillips was the igloo snow queen to Cass Elliot's tiki cabin log fire. Her solo album came dressed in a sleeve [below left - Ed.] that she must have thought showed her sexy, sophisticated side, but the dull one-piece came over as sensible, even prudish. Carly Simon had set this particular benchmark a couple of years earlier with Playing Possum. The album was also called Victim Of Romance, and she never struck me as a victim of anything - certainly not romance. It was always Cass losing and breaking her big old heart. Michelle could look after herself.

She sang as good as she looked, and it's something of a mystery why her solo career didn't take off with this album, which is as unfailingly lovely as you'd want it to be. It got universally rave reviews, too. I put it down to the cheesy cover. But she had her acting career, and shrugged it off.

The deliverable is the usual IoF© cornycopium of bountiful largesse, including the album, plus the extra tracks on the limited re-release (a complete album in their own right), plus the rare missing tracks supplied by a Four Or Five Guy©. Yes, the sleeve uses a Mamas & Papas-era picture, but it expresses the essence of her appeal in a timeless way. Doncha think?

 

This post funded in part by The Gabriel Snubbers Timing Ass., Pismo Beach.

Crawlspace Collectables® Dept. - The Other Papa

A Crawlspace Collectable, re-upped by request!

Denny Doherty was noticeable for being the least noticeable of The Mamas & The Papas. Cass Elliot and Michelle Phillips, each in their own way, had gravitational fields capable of pulling lesser planets into orbit. Then you might notice the lanky one, the bearded boho with the jazz hat, but you'd only be vaguely aware of Papa II, Denny Doherty, even when he was singing. It's a quality that suffuses [what do you think this is - Pitchfork?? - Ed.] his first album, Watcha Gonna Do (1970). No great statements, no grandstanding, no pretension. Just that sublimely easy voice, songs sweet as summer, and a mouthwatering production from Bill Szymczyk (remind me to copy-paste that next time) using the Record Plant pool of perfect session talent. Perhaps because of the laid-back feel, it's an album that sneaks up on you, and you suddenly realise you couldn't live without it.

Millennials didn't invent the ecology movement. Album sleeve shows Denny, Pacific Palisades, yesterday. Watcha gonna do?

It didn't exactly bring him any more attention that he'd gotten being a Papa. A second album, the ominously titled Waiting For A Song, caused even even less excitement in '74, not even getting a release in the U.S. of A. The boilerplate critical view (Allmusic, ffs) holds that it documents a personal breakdown, drenched in depression, a man at the end of his tether. Absolute back story bullshit. He may have been battling his demons, but it doesn't show here. A couple of the songs express regret, and a wish that the good times could roll around again, but that doesn't make the album Skip Spence's Oar, not by a long way. And M&P songs weren't free from regret - California Dreaming? Monday Monday? You only have to think about the lyrics while they're being sung, which a lot of people didn't, like for Every Breath You Take, or Born In The USA.

The production, and the material, take a step back from the Malibu hippie vibe of the first album to a mainstream pop approach. Cass and Michelle back him up, and the whole thing sounds more like a worthy collection of Mamas & Papas outtakes (even the covers are as corny as M&P choices) than the more introspective singer-songwriter direction he might have taken. It's a less hip piece of work, and the string arrangements tend to the generic, but it's full of delights, his voice is still gorgeous, and the way it's been dismissed and forgotten is - oh well.

This FoamExclusive® collection brings together the two albums, and the essential extra tracks that were included on the expanded first album re-issue All The Things, and the stunning Columbia single from '73, which wasn't. Plus a perfeshnial-quality cover you'll be proud to display! All part of th' IoF© T.O.S.

It's Dorky Day!

Dorky

Dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky.

Dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky [Dorky dorky - Ed.] dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky.

 Dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky.

Dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky.

Dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dork.

 Dorky dorky dorky. 

 

 Dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky dorky.

 

 

 

Crawlspace Collectables® Dept. - Elegies For The Last Golden Era

Cover remix copyright IoF© Art Department o' Art Dept.©

From 2019, this "nuanced and perceptive" (internet review) piece serves as a benchmark for music blog quality.

These albums, recorded months apart, are generally considered disappointing endings to distinguished pop careers, almost footnotes. Although The Mamas & The Papas' People Like Us received a probably now forgotten boost from Sean O'Hagan a few years back (decades? I've lost count), and enjoys respect from the ever-perceptive Japanese pop community, it still resides in the where-are-they-now category for most. I neglected it for many years for the usual reasons: it limped out on a budget label in the UK (where I was residing at the time), had no hits, and the group were then terminally nothing to nobody. Move on, nothing to see here, right?

Fast-forward to sometime in the late eighties, when I was in Berlin trying to finish a horror movie screenplay for a German independent producer ("the paper plane must fall with more melancholy!!"), an experience as grim as you imagine. But he had interesting taste in music, and one of the albums I pulled from the pile was People Like Us. He didn't rate it highly, laughing mirthlessly at the notion it was a lost classic, but I was hooked, and have remained so. The boilerplate critical dismissal always mentions the back story of a band already broken up, the lack of true ensemble singing, the sidelining of Cass Elliot, and yadda yadda. Color me I don't care. It's a beautiful album, made by people incapable of turning in a cynical performance. Cool as a dawn breeze off the ocean. The only album this group could have made at that time, and encapsulating the times with crystal definition. The end of the sixties, dealing with the damage, and the uncertainty of what was to come, yet still managing to bliss out on blueberries for breakfast.

Waterbeds In Trinidad was The Association's last album, barely scraping into the Billboard top two hundred. We can assume that the irony of the title in combination with the cover image was lost on most. Irony is never a good marketing hook. But its monochrome nostalgia has something in common with People Like Us, and the music shares that mature melancholy the movie producer missed in the fall of the paper plane. Again, it's a sheerly beautiful album made by seasoned professionals, and if we consider it a lesser work than, say, Cherish we're doing the band, and ourselves, a grievous mis-service. No more waterbeds in Trinidad for these guys. No more love-ins and dancing in the park. The dawning of Aquarius turned into a chill wind, and the sixties were already a dream.

 

 

Professional Bikini Tester Accuses Isle O' Foam© Of Deplatforming, Exclusioning

VoCalle Fry tests bikini top for elasticity, yesterday

 

Speaking from the comfort lounge at the Pork Bend (TX) Lube n' Wax Center yesterday, professional bikini tester VoCalle Fry [above - Ed.] stated IoF© policy of recycling old content actively deplatforms bikini testers. "The profession of bikini testing has been quietly canceled by so-called Fabulous False Memory Foam Island©. The last time a bikini tester was featured was, like, I can't remember? [October 29, 2024 - Ed.] Anyway, Mister Farquhar Throckmorton III needs to get his head out his ass, because professionals in the garment safety industry such as like I were the only reason guys ever visited the place in the first place, duh."

(©Associated Press)

I reached out to Ms. Fry to suggest a compromise. If she pretends to know about a couple of second-rate psychedelic albums from the 'sixties, I am happy to showcase her professional skills. Happily, she agreed to having the albums seamlessly "photoshopped" into her picture in a tasteful way, and to reading from a card in an interview to give content-hungry visitors the impression she knows what she's talking about. Above all, I insisted, the content will be respectful of the bikini testing community. Too many people take a sniggering, immature and sexist view of what is a demanding and dignified career choice.

FT3 Heyyy! VoCalle baby! Lookin' hotter than a two dollar pistol!

VCF Likewise I'm sure. You want I should read the card?

FT3 Go for it, baby!

VCF Okay ... uh .. The Little Boy Blues and the Human Beinz were psi ... psycodeli ...

FT3 SY-chodelic. You don't pronounce the p. And it's Little Boys Blue?

VCF [wrinkles nose] puh-SY-chodelic bands which ... uh ... 

FT3 Tell you what. Rip up the card, sweetpants. Your work is done.

ED>- PSE ADD RESRCH WOODLAND OF WEIR AND EVOLUTIONS HERE DON'T JUST COPY PASTE LIKE LAST TIME [Blow it out yer ass - Ed.]

 

 

We Are Not Worthy Dept.

Django, third from right, with his family

 

Django playing violin for his son

 

 

 

 

Crawlspace Collectables Dept. - Cross & Ross

 

The cover and title it deserves.

SPURIOUS HISTORY:

England, 1972. In the rain. Keith Cross and Peter Ross wanted out. "A new start, somewhere in the sun." Somewhere turned out to be Nassau, in the Bahamas. "Chris Blackwell was thinking of setting up a studio there, so he flew us all out to test the vibe." At Compass Point, the gray U.K. seemed a world away, and the sessions effortlessly produced a blissful, one-of-a-kind album.

Maybe predictably, the summery, airy feel didn't connect with rain-soaked Brits,  and Blackwell was forced to offload the project to Decca, who repackaged and retitled the album in a hope to catch the wave of prog gloom. "We went from Hawaiian shirts to greatcoats, for nothing. The press department concocted this story about us falling out, because Brits love that, but we could do nothing about the music, which nobody understood. Still don't."

So here it is, as it should have been, direct from the shores of Th' Isle O' Foam© to you, wherever you are. Surf's up.

TRUE STORY:

These guys were pissed off. With each other, with the music business, with everything. How they managed to cut such a sublime album is beyond understanding. But they crippled it with a typically Brit defeatist tile, Bored Civilians, and used a cover design that might have perfectly expressed their own disaffection and the state of the U.K. at the time, but only served to depress the shit out of everyone who saw it [left - Ed.]. It also grievously misrepresents the music, which is some of the most uplifting, blissed-out, melodic, West Coast rock the U.K. ever produced. They snatched defeat from the mouth of victory with this one, the daft buggers.

Three worthwhile extra tracks, fifty-six minutes of heaven. 

 

 

 

 

 

From a few years back. If you missed it then, don't now!

Work In Progress Dept. - Thirty Minutes On The Road

 

Thirty Minutes Dept. - In Lost Albion

There's nothing jingoistic about this, no anthems, no patriotism. It's not about a nation, or the characteristics of its people, even as it is all absolutely English*. It's an evocation of the spirit of Albion - the lost Eden, the garden of heaven, which is gone now, even as a prayer. Just as the land shapes the people, so the people shape the land, and the Albion of William Blake and Samuel Palmer is so twisted out of shape as to be unrecognisable. Yet the dream still lives, in memory. We can see it in Powell and Pressburger's A Canterbury Tale, in Palmer's luminous vision (that's his genius adorning the cover), and hear echoes of it in Sandy Denny's heartbreaking voice.

This is a dream (as the repetition of the word might suggest), and has the shifting, disjointed non-linearity of a dream. There are four undefined sections, merging into each other: Pastoral, At War, The Dark Side Of The Maypole, and At Sea. It does not pretend to be an overview of English musical tradition, or to tell any kind of story.

This has been by far the most labour intensive** and satisfying Thirty Minutes I've made. Many days researching, assembling, editing and mixing, with countless playbacks and adjustments. Unlike my other Thirty Minute projects, most of the elements were unfamiliar to me; I started with a vague idea (as Picasso recommends) and found what helped to express it, and what didn't, by experimentation rather than design.The biggest surprise for me has been opening my ears to Delius - better late than never.

Link 

Words and music include extracts from (in no particular order): Williams Shakespeare and Coleridge, Bert Jansch and Sandy Denny, the Third Ear Band, Arnold Bax, Wilfred Owen,  Ralph Vaughan Williams, John Tavener, Fredericks Delius and Kelly, Arthur Machen (guest Welshman*), Al Bowlly, Trad Arr, Peter Warlock, George Butterworth, and, exploiting the compiler's privilege, myself.

**A lie. Tear The Top Right Off Your Million Dollar Head is the most detailed and complex.

Thanks to Archie Valparaiso for his technical assistance! And, if you did, you, for reading and listening.

 

 

 

From Th' IoF© Library O' Books Dept. - The Fan Man

William Kotzwinkle's The Fan Man is about this guy Horse Badorties, right, and it's awesome, and you should like, read it, well, I don't mean should, right, it's your trip, man, but it'd be kinda cool if you did, or you could just like dig the pictures. Have a nice day!