Stone Harbour
Emerges

The space agenda was an inlay of indecipherable notes, alien paragraphs, and references to interplanetary projects, obviously in the process of being defined/extinguished and lost in the pockets of some star merchant. But around here, those elevators to the 13th floor were perpetually out of order for a change, they too probably longed to dive among the stars and therefore did not want to peek onto the surface. And so, for those who were deluded into having once again stolen those keys to paradise, there was no choice but to slowly lower themselves on foot from the ziggurats and descend those steps, wrapped in the mist of those circles, down to the slopes of that snubbed place, where the jocund dance of commerce and death proceeded silently in a grave and earthy atmosphere like that of a fiery catacomb.

Bunkers with jacuzzis to isolate us from the atomic, basements with strawberry-scented carpet to isolate us from humanity.

From that leap into the void from the higher floors, one tumbled dusty into that arid, flat land of Hicksville, Ohio, where two + two still equals four, four lost souls not even sufficient in number to form a pseudo band of romantics. And so, from that creative mire like from a swamp, there emerged and was molded that clay mixed with stardust, one half plus one half forming something more substantial than a thought and less cumbersome than a union, after all even the Id needs someone to iron its shirts as well as someone to pull it out of bed at dawn and make it less fluid.

Who invented rock & roll? And who invented soul? Was it you or was it me?

And from that cocoon in the depths of that basement came forth, like a stammering dawn, the genesis of two hallucinated multi-instrumentalists from a tavern, in pocket-sized format and as light as a pinch or an innocent grope, in a confused mode but if we really want to focus whisky-fucked by Hound Dog Taylor / Rocky Erickson, freakfolk and viva LSD.

Fairytale undergrowth, with that clay that touch after touch becomes first a frog from the pond and then even a prince of low-fi basement psychedelia, glam is dying or perhaps in Ohio it hasn't even been seen wiggle a bit and perhaps it’s time to bring out of that plethora of burnt valves & transistors, between that fingerpicking that fades into smoking synthesizers that fiery jamming of Rock & Roll Puzzle.

Even at the cost of being happily trapped forever, in that ecstatic darkness of those dungeons, among those rough caresses of Summer Magic is Gone, in that journey into the dark heart of psychedelia.