The Sprouts - 2025 - One Room to Another

Self-released – none  

 
 The cover offers no conventional rooms. Instead, Dusty Anastassiou paints an entire unstable world beneath a black and gray sky. Small colored creatures, eyes, wires, buildings, faces, fragments, and unidentifiable objects are distributed across strips of red, yellow, green, and distant blue ground. A pale house-like figure with a red roof stands near the foreground, apparently equipped with eyes, legs, or both. Farther away, another white structure waits beneath electrical lines. Shapes float in the sky like birds, fish, clouds, spacecraft, scraps of paper, or thoughts that have escaped the architecture meant to contain them.

To the left of the image, handwriting explains the object with extraordinary modesty: “One Room to Another / 15 minutes of music / with / The Sprouts.” It resembles a note attached to a homemade gift, a message taped to a cassette, or instructions written by somebody who does not believe music requires a marketing department before it can travel.
The title makes the simplest domestic movement feel mysterious. Most people pass from one room to another dozens of times a day without treating the transition as an event. A body leaves the kitchen, enters a hallway, goes into a bedroom, returns to the living room, checks something in another room, and forgets why it went there. The architecture divides one life into small environments, each encouraging different behavior while belonging to the same home.
Music made at home travels this route repeatedly. A song begins in the room where someone happens to be holding a guitar. It may pass into another room where a microphone, computer, cassette machine, friend, parent, or better acoustic surface is available. Later it leaves the house entirely and enters other rooms through speakers. A private action becomes somebody else’s atmosphere.
“One room to another” can therefore describe recording, friendship, family, memory, and listening at once. Rob Remedios sends these six songs from his room toward ours. Tom Marinelli enters one. Matthew Liveriadis enters another. Rob’s parents appear in the final room. The complete Sprouts lineup is mostly absent, yet the EP is not solitary in the usual singer-songwriter sense. Its rooms have doors.
The band name strengthens this domestic scale. Sprouts are small beginnings, living forms whose full shape has not yet been decided. They can emerge from gardens, kitchen windows, cracked concrete, forgotten potatoes, school experiments, and seeds that appeared to be inert until water reached them. The word carries growth without grandeur.
A sprout does not apologize for being smaller than a tree. It is not an incomplete tree waiting for permission to matter. Its tenderness, crookedness, vulnerability, and unreasonable optimism are already complete conditions. The music works similarly. These songs do not sound like demos reluctantly substituting for an expensive album. Their slightness is the shape through which they communicate.
The EP is nearly a Rob Remedios solo release, but “nearly” becomes its most important social word. A strict solo album would emphasize self-sufficiency. One Room to Another emphasizes permeability. Rob can construct most of the music privately while leaving particular doors open for people whose presence changes the emotional temperature.
That arrangement resembles actual domestic life more closely than the mythology of a band sealed together in a rehearsal room. People work alone, disappear into separate schedules, visit, contribute briefly, call from elsewhere, and remain part of one another’s lives without being continuously present. The official promise that more of the other Sprouts will appear next time is affectionate rather than defensive. Nobody has been fired from the garden. This particular growth simply leaned toward one window.
“Sometimes” begins with the album’s largest word disguised as a casual one. “Always” and “never” claim complete knowledge. “Sometimes” admits rhythm, exception, uncertainty, and change. Sometimes the feeling arrives. Sometimes it does not. Sometimes a room is shelter; sometimes it is confinement. Sometimes a song needs a band; sometimes a few acoustic chords and an overdubbed guitar line are enough.
The recording stumbles gently rather than marching toward authority. Acoustic guitar establishes a loose domestic floor while a small lead line wanders above it, not quite decorating the chords and not quite escaping them. The performance feels close to the moment when the song was still being learned by the person writing it.
This is difficult to fake convincingly. Musicians can deliberately simplify arrangements, degrade recording quality, and leave mistakes intact, but manufactured casualness usually reveals itself through how carefully the supposed accidents have been framed. “Sometimes” feels different because it does not present imperfection as a badge. The song simply has no reason to pretend it took longer to become itself.
At just over three minutes, it is the longest track, which makes its patience almost comic within an EP where most songs barely cross two. The music sits down before introducing itself. It does not appear anxious about whether the listener has understood the genre, hook, or point quickly enough.
Australian guitar pop has developed an especially rich relationship with this kind of unforced scale. The Go-Betweens, the Cannanes, the Clean’s influence crossing the Tasman, the Lucksmiths, Twerps, Dick Diver, the Ocean Party, Chook Race, and many smaller bands have demonstrated that a song can be emotionally exact without being sonically enlarged. The ordinary street, shared house, afternoon, telephone call, local train, badly behaved heart, and slightly out-of-tune guitar can carry enough world.
The danger is that “slacker” becomes a flattering label applied to music whose labor has been hidden. A relaxed song still has to be written, remembered, recorded, edited, sequenced, titled, uploaded, copied onto tape, packaged, and sent. Casualness is often the sound of someone working hard enough that the work no longer blocks the listener’s view.
“Black Leather Jacket” introduces a garment whose cultural symbolism is wildly larger than its physical function. A black leather jacket can announce punk, motorcycle danger, rock-and-roll history, sexual confidence, rebellion, masculinity, glamour, protection, membership, or the purchase of an identity that the wearer hopes will eventually become natural.
On this record, the jacket cannot remain monumental. The music shambles along too modestly to support a full costume drama. Tom Marinelli joins Rob in the room, playing and singing, and the title’s hard surface is softened by friendship. Leather may project invulnerability, but two slightly crooked voices reveal bodies inside it.
This is one of the EP’s recurring pleasures. Titles introduce objects associated with drama, then the recordings bring them back to household scale. A black leather jacket is not necessarily worn while leaning against a motorcycle beneath neon. It may hang over a kitchen chair, collect dust through summer, smell faintly of rain and old rooms, or accompany somebody to an afternoon show where only twelve people arrive.
Punk clothing becomes most meaningful after it stops functioning purely as announcement. Badges fall off. Sleeves crease. Repairs appear. The jacket accumulates weather, work, travel, sweat, and whatever the person was doing after the original pose could no longer be maintained. It becomes less iconic and more intimate.
The song’s rough purposefulness mirrors that worn surface. It moves forward, but nothing is polished until it loses contact with touch. Tom’s appearance makes the room temporarily larger, and the Sprouts become plural again through sound rather than branding.
“Up There for Thinking” turns an old bodily expression into a small philosophy. The phrase is usually accompanied by pointing toward the head, implying that the brain’s purpose is obvious and that somebody has failed to use it. “Use your head. It’s up there for thinking.”
The song makes the phrase sound less like advice than amazement that thought has been placed above the rest of the body. The head sits on top, looking outward, imagining that elevation grants authority. Below it, stomach, lungs, heart, nerves, legs, skin, and hands continue making decisions that thought later claims to have supervised.
Rob’s more frantic delivery gives thinking a physical problem. Thought is not serene contemplation conducted in a silent chamber. It trips over itself, repeats, changes direction, and produces new questions before the earlier ones have been answered. The music has some of Chris Knox’s wonderful ability to make a private mental loop feel simultaneously funny, urgent, and perfectly singable.
The title can also be heard as affectionate criticism of overthinking. The brain may be up there for thinking, but nothing says it knows when to stop. A room can be crossed in seconds while the mind constructs twelve possible reasons for entering it, five consequences of leaving, and a historical argument about whether doors were a mistake.
Home recording is useful to overthinkers because it permits endless revision, yet it can also become a trap. Every part can be replayed, judged, replaced, thickened, cleaned, or abandoned. The Sprouts protect the songs from this fate by preserving the early shape. The recording ends before thought develops enough administrative power to cancel the feeling that started it.
“Demons” gives the EP its heaviest title and invites Matthew Liveriadis into the room. Demons can be theological beings, compulsions, memories, fears, addictions, inherited patterns, shame, or simply the exaggerated name given to whatever keeps returning after being told to leave.
The song’s electric guitar provides greater density than the surrounding tracks, but it never becomes genuinely monstrous. These are domestic demons. They know where the cups are kept. They sit on furniture, follow a person between rooms, interrupt sleep, and learn to imitate the voice through which the mind speaks to itself.
Calling a problem a demon can create useful distance. The person is not identical to the thing attacking, tempting, or exhausting them. Yet the metaphor can also avoid responsibility by treating human behavior as possession. The song does not settle that distinction because its brevity leaves the creatures moving at the edge of the recording.
Matthew Liveriadis’s presence is appropriate. A demon becomes more manageable when another person can hear it, play alongside it, or at least confirm that the strange noise is not coming entirely from inside one head. Friendship does not exorcise every problem. Sometimes it provides another amplifier.
The transition from “Demons” into “Pash” is especially good because it moves from spiritual torment to a colloquial Australian word for kissing with enthusiastic intensity. A pash is bodily, adolescent, slightly embarrassing, and far too immediate for theological abstraction. Demons may live inside the mind; a pash interrupts thinking completely.
Kate Ceberano’s original was gleaming late-1990s pop, written with Mark Goldenberg and large enough to become a major Australian hit. The Sprouts reduce it to the dimensions of their own room, but reduction does not mean parody. The cover recognizes that a strong pop song can survive being moved out of its original architecture.
This is one of the great pleasures of homemade cover versions. Production values, historical period, star persona, radio context, and commercial scale are removed, revealing what the song can do with fewer resources. The melody and desire have to walk home without their official clothing.
The Sprouts roughen “Pash” into noise-pop, making romantic urgency sound less like a carefully presented fantasy and more like a thought that has knocked over furniture. The original’s confident pop surface becomes a small electrical commotion. Desire has changed rooms and begun behaving according to the acoustics available there.
Covering a nationally familiar hit also collapses supposedly separate musical worlds. Mainstream pop and underground cassette culture are often treated as opposing moral systems. One is polished, commercial, broad, and professionally managed; the other is intimate, marginal, imperfect, and self-released. A song does not care about this distinction as much as listeners do. It crosses the hallway when invited.
The title One Room to Another becomes literal here. A song written and recorded in a professional late-1990s pop environment travels across twenty-seven years into a Melbourne home recording. Kate Ceberano’s room does not disappear. Its shape remains faintly audible inside the Sprouts’ smaller one.
“I’m Feeling Good” closes with Rob’s mother and father answering him. The arrangement uses one of pop music’s oldest social devices: call and response. A lead voice makes a statement, and the group confirms, challenges, repeats, or transforms it. Here the chorus is not an anonymous studio choir or band arranged to sound communal. It is family.
“I’m feeling good,” Rob sings. “He’s feeling good,” his parents answer. “When we’re together.” “When you’re together.” The pronouns shift the song’s emotional position. Rob speaks from inside the feeling; his parents observe and confirm it. “I” becomes “he.” “We” becomes “you.” One experience occupies several viewpoints without becoming less shared.
There is something quietly moving about parents singing their adult child’s emotional condition back to him. Early in life, parents narrate feelings before children possess the language to do so: you’re tired, you’re hungry, you’re frightened, you’re excited. Later, the grown child sings “I’m feeling good,” and the parents answer as witnesses rather than interpreters.
The cameo also completes a family thread from Eat Your Greens, where Vivienne Remedios added vocals to “I See You There.” Singing with parents is not treated as a novelty stunt or sentimental grand finale. It belongs naturally within the Sprouts’ idea of music as something homegrown, available, and socially useful.
Popular music inherited a great mythology of escape from parents. The teenager closes the bedroom door, turns up the record, forms a band, changes clothing, and uses sound to construct a self beyond the family’s authority. That escape can be necessary. Yet adulthood sometimes permits another movement: the door opens again, and family members enter the music as people rather than merely figures to resist.
The song’s happiness is persuasive because the recording does not force it into euphoria. Feeling good is allowed to be small, temporary, and connected to togetherness. It does not require triumph over enemies, professional success, romantic completion, spiritual revelation, or personal reinvention. Somebody sings, two loved people answer, and the statement becomes true for the duration of the exchange.
This closing track reveals why the EP is not really a solo record despite Rob performing most of it. Solitude built the rooms, but relationship gives them different uses. Tom makes one room a friendship. Matthew makes another a shared confrontation with demons. Kate Ceberano enters as cultural memory through a cover song. Mum and Dad turn the final room into a family gathering.
The absent band members matter too. Innez Tulloch and Matthew Ford remain part of the named Sprouts even when they are not heard. Absence within friendship does not always indicate rupture. People can remain connected while work, health, geography, projects, care, and time pull them into other rooms.
The official message, “More of the other sprouts on the next release. Promise,” understands that listeners may worry about lineup changes, but answers with the tone of somebody reassuring friends rather than managing a crisis. The promise is followed by “Rob xo,” converting the release notes into correspondence.
The cassette edition extends this intimacy. Fifteen minutes of music on fifteen tapes for fifteen dollars is less a commercial strategy than a number game made physical. The run is so small that every copy resembles a message rather than inventory. There are not enough tapes to create a market, only enough to establish a tiny population.
Cassette is especially appropriate for music moving between rooms. The format was historically portable, recordable, duplicable, erasable, and intimate. Mixtapes traveled between friends, bedrooms, cars, kitchens, rehearsal spaces, and postal systems. Unlike vinyl, cassette did not demand that the listener treat every object as an immaculate collectible. It expected handling.
The fifteen copies sold out, but scarcity does not feel weaponized here. The edition is small because the gesture is small. This is not a luxury artifact whose price depends upon excluding people. The digital files remain available for six Australian dollars, while the physical object marks a brief handmade event.
Dusty Anastassiou’s artwork understands all of this. The image is crowded but not crowded by hierarchy. No single creature controls the landscape. Tiny eyes, houses, wires, faces, birds, and objects occupy separate zones while sharing weather. The world resembles a collection of rooms whose walls have been removed.
The large black sky may initially appear threatening, but it is full of activity. Blue shapes, red marks, white flecks, a yellow streak, and scattered eyes drift across it. Darkness is not empty. It is another populated room whose floor happens to be atmosphere.
The telephone poles on the left create one of the image’s only recognizable systems. Wires connect points across the landscape, carrying messages or power between structures that would otherwise remain isolated. They are the visual equivalent of the recording process. A voice leaves one room as vibration, becomes electrical information, and enters another room as sound.
One pale building in the distance seems almost ordinary, while the foreground house-creature looks thoroughly alive. Architecture has developed eyes and legs because homes absorb the life occurring inside them. A room where people repeatedly sing, argue, sleep, worry, eat, and listen eventually becomes impossible to imagine as neutral space.
The title’s movement may also describe growing older. Childhood consists partly of being carried from room to room by other people. Adulthood brings the ability to choose rooms, leave homes, build new domestic arrangements, and return to earlier rooms as a visitor. Parents age. Bandmates form new projects. Friends move. The architecture remains still while relationships change position within it.
Music offers a strange resistance to this movement. A recording keeps everyone in the room where the performance occurred. Rob’s parents will always answer at the same instant. Tom will enter “Black Leather Jacket” after the same opening. Matthew will return inside “Demons.” The Sprouts can move into future rooms while these versions remain behind, singing.
The EP’s low fidelity contributes to that preservation. Highly polished recording often tries to remove the room, replacing local acoustics with a controlled space that can compete across playback systems. One Room to Another lets domestic scale remain audible. The instruments do not appear larger than the people producing them.
This is not poverty worship. Better equipment does not automatically remove honesty, and rough equipment does not automatically create it. The value lies in matching the method to the emotional scale. These songs do not require expensive separation because their social meaning depends upon hearing that they could happen nearby.
The phrase “songs for beginners, sent from my room to yours” appeared in the group’s own announcement and could serve as the EP’s hidden manifesto. “For beginners” does not mean technically remedial or artistically lesser. It describes music that preserves beginning as a condition.
A beginner does not yet know which mistakes should be hidden. The beginner may play too softly, repeat the obvious part, choose a chord because it feels good rather than sophisticated, or invite parents to sing because they happen to be available. Expertise can deepen these instincts, but it can also train them away.
The Sprouts are not actually beginners. Their members carry histories through Chook Race, The Small Intestines, Thigh Master, Dippers, Permits, Tenth Court, and other corners of Australian independent music. The beginner quality is chosen, or perhaps protected. Experience is used to prevent experience from strangling simplicity.
That is why the EP feels casual without feeling careless. The songs know enough to stop. None is inflated toward an imagined requirement for importance. The complete sequence ends before fifteen minutes, shorter than one side of many LPs, yet its six rooms contain acoustic solitude, a leather-jacket friendship, anxious thought, electric demons, borrowed pop desire, and family affirmation.
The title does not identify a final destination. It is not “From This Room to the Better Room.” Movement itself is enough. Each room alters what the song can become, and every listener adds another.
The cassette leaves Rob’s room.
It enters the post.
It crosses cities, houses, headphones, laptops, speakers, kitchens, and bedrooms.
Somewhere, somebody presses play.
Mum and Dad answer again.

Li Yan Jun - 2007 - The Dame of Undertone

 

FMG Music – None

The cover surrounds a small, shadowed photograph with an enormous quantity of white space. Li Yanjun sits in a green dress beside a dark piano, her face turned partly toward the camera while a bright rectangular window or studio light glows behind her. Gray ornamental lines rise and curl around the portrait like wrought iron, perfume packaging, hotel decoration, or the crest of an imaginary nightclub. Several logos certify the object’s technological purpose: FMG Music, Home Theater, and “The Queen of HiFi Music.” The singer occupies only a fraction of the available square, but everything surrounding her has been designed to direct the eye and, by implication, the loudspeaker toward that body.
This is not cover art pretending that recording technology does not exist. It advertises recording as one of the pleasures. The album is simultaneously a vocal performance, a collection of familiar songs, and a device for examining a stereo system. Can the listener locate Li between the speakers? Does her voice possess believable height and weight? Can the piano remain large without swallowing her? Does the bass sound deep or merely inflated? Can percussion appear behind the singer rather than pasted onto the same flat surface? The record invites emotional listening and equipment inspection to sit at the same little table.
The Chinese title 发烧LEE contains a joke that English cannot preserve neatly. Fāshāo means to have a fever, but “fever discs” are also recordings made and marketed for intense audiophile listening. Li is feverish, the listener is feverishly devoted to sound, and the recording is supposed to make expensive equipment demonstrate why it was purchased. The pun turns illness into discernment. One becomes sick with listening and attempts to treat the condition by acquiring greater clarity.
“The Dame of Undertone” is stranger and more evocative. A dame can be a formally honored woman, an imposing theatrical personality, or an old-fashioned term for a woman whose presence commands the room. An undertone is a lower resonance, a subdued color, or a meaning that operates beneath what is explicitly said. Li’s contralto voice supplies the first meaning. The thirteen songs supply the others.
This is a covers album, but the phrase can imply less imagination than the record contains. These songs were not gathered from one period, nation, or social function. The sequence moves through Cui Jian’s Chinese rock, pre-revolutionary Shanghai popular song, Taiwanese and Mandarin balladry, American country, British pop, Elvis Presley, Latin bolero, and songs so culturally familiar that many listeners encounter them as communal property rather than authored objects. Li does not merely sing thirteen standards. She walks through several different histories of modern popular music while carrying the same low voice into each one.
The opening “一块红布,” “A Piece of Red Cloth,” establishes immediately that the album will not remain inside polite lounge jazz. Cui Jian’s song is built around a red cloth covering the narrator’s eyes, an image that can be heard as erotic surrender, political blindness, ideological seduction, dependence, or the dangerous comfort of allowing another force to determine what can be seen. Its power comes from never sealing those meanings apart.
Li’s performance changes the physical relationship. Cui Jian’s voice often carries abrasion, confrontation, and the sense that the singer is discovering resistance while pushing against the song. Li lowers the temperature and brings the red cloth closer to the skin. Blindness becomes intimate. The person tying the cloth may be lover, authority, memory, or the song itself. The listener is not shouted into recognizing the metaphor. The metaphor leans close enough to breathe upon the microphone.
This is the first important undertone. Audiophile production is commonly associated with sonic transparency, the fantasy that improved equipment removes veils between recording and listener. The album begins with a song about having vision covered. The system reveals every detail of a performance concerning the decision not to see.
The track’s uncertain position in later digital editions adds an accidental continuation. Some streaming versions begin with “夜上海,” while the physical album retains “A Piece of Red Cloth.” A song about concealment becomes the song most easily made invisible by catalog variation. The archive preserves the cloth.
“夜上海,” “Night Shanghai,” enters a different mythology. The song belongs to the great tradition of Shanghai popular music, where jazz instrumentation, Chinese melody, nightclub sophistication, cinema, colonial modernity, dance culture, and urban melancholy became inseparable. “Night Shanghai” does not describe one neutral city after sunset. It describes a city already performing itself.
Li’s version arrives decades after the nightclub world associated with the song had become historical image. By 2007, Shanghai had again become a global symbol of speed, commerce, towers, luxury, and transformation. Singing the older song in a high-definition studio does not simply recreate nostalgia. It places two forms of modernity inside one recording: the smoky dance-hall imagination and the digitally polished Chinese home-theater era.
The low voice prevents the song from becoming bright museum restoration. Li sounds less like a tour guide reopening a glamorous past than someone who already knows what happens after the lights are switched off. Every nightlife district produces a daytime remainder: empty rooms, cleaning staff, cables, tired musicians, discarded bottles, debts, and people returning home after spending the evening manufacturing escape for others.
“花房姑娘,” “Girl in the Flower Room,” returns to Cui Jian. The song’s original mixture of attraction, distance, youthful idealism, and rock directness becomes more ambiguous when sung by a woman. The “girl” can remain an addressed beloved, but Li’s presence also allows identification, memory, and self-division to enter. She may be singing toward the girl, as the girl, or toward an earlier self enclosed within somebody else’s romantic image.
A flower room is both shelter and cultivated enclosure. Flowers are protected so that they can bloom according to human intention. Temperature, water, light, and space are managed. The girl is surrounded by beauty, yet the room may also prevent contact with harsher weather. Jazz arrangement adds another layer of cultivation to a song associated with Chinese rock’s breakthrough force. The question becomes whether refinement liberates hidden aspects of the composition or places another greenhouse around it.
Li avoids treating rock as raw material requiring improvement. The voice retains enough grain and rhythmic independence to remember that these songs originally carried bodies, stages, public change, and social friction. The instrumentation may be immaculate, but the songs are not disinfected.
“月亮代表我的心,” “The Moon Represents My Heart,” is so familiar that interpretation must pass through accumulated memory before reaching the melody itself. It has been sung at weddings, karaoke gatherings, concerts, restaurants, television programs, family occasions, and private moments in which borrowed words were easier than original confession. The moon has represented so many hearts that it risks becoming public infrastructure.
Li’s lower register restores weight to the symbol. The moon is not merely a pale romantic ornament suspended above the lovers. It governs tides, marks recurring time, disappears without ceasing to exist, and reflects rather than produces the light by which it is seen. To say that the moon represents the heart is to choose an object that changes visibly while remaining physically whole.
Audiophile treatment makes the intimate declaration oddly architectural. The breath is enlarged. Small consonants become events. The singer appears at nearly human scale between speakers, transforming a song known by millions into the temporary illusion that one person is singing it within one room. Reproduction creates privacy from mass familiarity.
“恰似你的温柔,” “Just Like Your Tenderness,” is particularly suited to Li because tenderness does not require a high, fragile voice. Low voices can be tender without becoming delicate. They suggest warmth carried through matter, affection that has survived experience rather than remaining protected from it.
The arrangement’s restraint is central. Audiophile albums sometimes confuse space with emptiness, removing so much musical friction that every instrument resembles furniture displayed in a showroom. Here the open room allows Li’s timing to matter. She can enter slightly behind a phrase, let one vowel darken, or allow the final word to settle rather than immediately clearing space for the next demonstration of fidelity.
Tenderness is also an undertone because it rarely announces itself with the authority of drama. It appears through adjustment: one musician lowers volume because the singer has become quiet; a bass note is allowed to decay; accompaniment leaves a breath uncovered. The production’s greatest achievement is not showing how much sound the system can reproduce. It is showing how little sound can carry the relationship.
“Love Me Tender” makes the connection explicit by moving from a Mandarin tenderness song into an English one. Elvis Presley’s recording has accumulated its own enormous cultural shadow, but Li does not need to imitate his Southern phrasing or iconic vulnerability. The song’s melody had already traveled through an older Civil War-era tune before becoming attached to Elvis, and every later singer inherits a work whose apparent simplicity conceals repeated migration.
Li’s English is important less as proof of linguistic versatility than as another change in physical behavior. Different languages position vowels and consonants differently in the mouth. English causes her low voice to curve around another set of edges. The hi-fi microphone records not an abstract international accent but the material event of one singer carrying a foreign standard through her own learned pronunciation.
The album’s East-meets-West marketing can easily become cliché. “Love Me Tender” is stronger when heard not as two civilizations shaking hands but as one song entering another working voice. Cultural exchange does not occur between enormous maps. It occurs when a particular person decides how to sing one syllable.
“再回首,” “Looking Back Again,” occupies the emotional middle of the album. Looking back can be nostalgia, regret, comparison, gratitude, or the involuntary return of something the present has not successfully absorbed. The word “again” matters because memory rarely performs one final review. It circles.
A covers album is entirely constructed from looking back, yet each performance occurs in the present. Li is not restoring original recordings. She is asking what remains available once a song has passed through other voices, technologies, political eras, private lives, and listening habits. The answer cannot be identical to the source because recognition itself has altered the material.
This is where the album’s polished sound becomes philosophically interesting. High fidelity promises preservation, but no recording preserves experience whole. It preserves one performance through a chain of microphones, electronics, mixing decisions, mastering, manufacturing, playback equipment, room acoustics, and hearing. Looking back with greater resolution does not reduce this distance. It allows the distance to be heard more beautifully.
“Take Me Home, Country Roads” appears to offer the album’s simplest journey outward, but “home” becomes complicated when a globally circulated American song is sung by a Beijing-based Chinese jazz vocalist for a domestic audiophile market. West Virginia in the lyric is both a real geography and an internationally portable idea of belonging.
Many listeners have sung the chorus without visiting the state or possessing any personal relationship to its mountains. The song’s home becomes an emotional technology available to anybody who has experienced distance. This portability does not erase the original geography, but it demonstrates that songs can create adopted homelands.
Li’s interpretation belongs to a long history of American country and folk songs traveling through Asian popular music. The appeal is not mysterious. Country music offers direct melody, travel, separation, family, landscape, and voices shaped to imply ordinary sincerity. Those materials survive translation because industrial modernity has produced movement and homesickness far beyond the United States.
The audiophile recording introduces another home: the listening room. “Take me home” plays inside a system specifically designed to transform domestic space into an idealized performance location. The listener may never enter West Virginia, but the road is reconstructed between two speakers.
“外面的世界,” “The Outside World,” responds almost perfectly. After a song asking to be taken home, Li sings about what lies beyond the familiar enclosure. The album’s sequence recognizes that home and outside are not enemies. Each gives the other meaning.
The outside world promises freedom because it has not yet acquired the routines of the room one wishes to leave. It also contains loneliness, labor, error, and the discovery that the self taken outside remains the self that wanted escape. The song carries the emotional weather of departure without pretending travel automatically produces transformation.
Li’s career makes this selection especially suggestive. Available biographies place her in Beijing clubs, festivals, concerts, diplomatic cultural events, and performances before international dignitaries. A working singer repeatedly moves between rooms designed for very different audiences. The outside world is not one destination. It is a succession of stages upon which the same voice must learn another social temperature.
“Yesterday” is perhaps the most audaciously ordinary selection. Few songs have been covered so extensively or absorbed so completely into global popular consciousness. To record it again risks producing nothing beyond technical competence. That risk is part of the track’s value on an audiophile album.
A familiar song is an effective test because the listener already possesses an internal model. Tiny alterations become visible. How close is the voice? How dark is the vowel in “yesterday”? Does the arrangement respect the melody or smother it beneath good taste? Can a singer make loss feel present after the composition has been used as background music for decades?
Li does not need to persuade us that “Yesterday” is a newly discovered masterpiece. She treats it as a durable vessel. The song’s simplicity accepts her lower center of gravity, and the English lyric becomes another form of looking back after “再回首.” Yesterday and looking back are neighbors who speak different languages.
The placement also creates a hidden historical loop. British pop absorbed American rock and roll, skiffle, blues, country, and earlier popular song, then returned a transformed version to the world. Li receives that circulation in China and sends it outward again through a recording marketed partly with English text. No song on the album belongs to one uncontaminated nation.
“新长征路上的摇滚,” “Rock ’n’ Roll on the New Long March,” is the album’s most politically charged transformation. Cui Jian’s title joined revolutionary historical language to rock music, creating a phrase that could carry excitement, irony, generational distance, national memory, and the search for a new route through a rapidly changing China.
Placed inside a smooth jazz-oriented audiophile collection, the song risks appearing domesticated. The revolutionary march has entered the listening room. Rock rebellion has become material for speaker placement and vocal evaluation. Yet domestication is not the only thing occurring. Li had sung in a rock band before establishing herself as a jazz vocalist, so the performance reconnects two portions of her own musical history.
Her voice does not approach rock from a tourist’s distance. It remembers that low-register jazz and rock can share bodily authority, rhythmic looseness, blues inheritance, and the ability to turn a familiar phrase until another implication appears. The arrangement does not need to imitate Cui Jian’s attack because the undertone remains embedded in the title.
The “new Long March” is always in danger of becoming branding, a heroic historical form applied to whichever contemporary project seeks legitimacy. Jazz quietly changes the marching body. Marching requires synchronized forward movement. Jazz permits delay, swing, hesitation, and individual phrasing within collective time. Li places another gait inside the march.
“My Heart Has Only You, Not Him” carries one of the album’s richest migrations. The melody began as Carlos Eleta Almarán’s Panamanian bolero “Historia de un Amor,” a song of devastating loss. Its Chinese adaptation changes the lyrical position into a declaration of exclusive love: there is only you in my heart, not him. The emotional architecture travels while the story inhabiting it is renovated.
Bolero is ideal for Li’s voice because it combines restraint with smoldering intensity. The music does not need to shout desire. Repetition, harmonic return, and a carefully delayed phrase can make devotion feel obsessive without breaking the room’s surface.
The track also fulfills the album’s promise of East-West encounter more honestly than the marketing slogan does. A Latin American composition enters Chinese popular culture, acquires new words, becomes familiar through generations of singers, and is then interpreted through a jazz-inflected audiophile arrangement. There is no pure East on one side and pure West on the other. There is a chain of musicians, translators, listeners, and industries carrying the song between them.
Its title contains another undertone. “Only you, not him” sounds absolute, but the absent third person remains present because the singer must name his exclusion. The rival has been removed from the heart but preserved in the sentence. Romantic certainty contains the ghost it denies.
“南屏晚钟,” “Evening Bell at Nanping,” closes with distance becoming sound. A bell is heard without requiring visual contact. Its vibration crosses air, landscape, architecture, weather, and human activity before reaching the listener. The source can remain hidden while the tone makes location emotionally present.
This makes it an ideal final piece for a hi-fi record. Bells expose a playback system mercilessly. Their attack is brief, their harmonic structure is complex, and their decay should continue naturally into surrounding space. Reproduce the beginning without the fading body and the bell becomes a metal sample. Reproduce the decay convincingly and the listening room seems to acquire another depth.
The song itself is about searching and hearing, entering a forest, failing to find the desired person, and encountering the evening bell as a distant answer that is not truly an answer. Sound gives direction while preserving absence.
The album ends here rather than with one of its English-language standards or Cui Jian songs because the bell gathers the entire project into one image. Li’s voice travels from a recording room through a disc, amplifier, cables, loudspeakers, air, and the listener’s body. The person who produced it is absent, yet an intimate presence has been manufactured from vibration.
That manufactured intimacy is the central pleasure and central illusion of The Dame of Undertone. Audiophile culture often describes reproduction through the fantasy that the singer is “in the room.” But Li is not in the room. A carefully created phantom occupies a position between the speakers. The more convincing the phantom becomes, the easier it is to forget the enormous technical, musical, industrial, and cultural chain required to place it there.
The album’s production notes reportedly demanded realistic proportions between singer and instruments. This concern with “mouth size” can sound comical until one hears badly reproduced vocals enlarged into disembodied giants. Human-scale imaging is an ethical aesthetic in miniature. The singer should not become a huge decorative head floating above tiny musicians. Everyone must occupy believable space.
The arrangements follow that principle. Instrumental technique is present, but display is controlled. The musicians are asked to create atmosphere and texture without turning each song into a showroom battle for attention. This is still a demonstration record, but what it demonstrates is cooperation.
There is a class performance embedded in the packaging. White space, silver ornament, wine-dark atmosphere, green dress, piano, “dame,” home theater, DSD and DTS editions, and the language of mature sensuality all construct a cultivated listener. The imagined owner does not merely enjoy songs. He or she possesses the discernment and equipment required to hear refinement.
This can appear artificial, especially beside the political and social histories of Cui Jian’s material. Yet artificiality is part of every listening culture. Punk has its damaged photocopies, hand lettering, cheap recordings, and clothing codes. Metal has its darkness, logos, mythology, and specialized production values. Audiophile culture has white gloves, gold discs, woody rooms, female voices, visible microphones, and words such as warmth, transparency, air, and presence. Every subculture decorates its way of listening until taste becomes visible.
Li’s album becomes most interesting when it exceeds the showroom. Her voice is not a neutral sample selected to reveal tweeter response. It carries an earlier rock identity, Beijing performance experience, Mandarin diction, English phrasing, contralto weight, and the accumulated memories attached to these songs. The better the system reveals detail, the less possible it becomes to pretend the detail has no history.
The English subtitle accidentally captures this. Undertone is not simply low pitch. It is what remains audible beneath the official presentation. Beneath the luxury packaging is a former rock vocalist. Beneath the standards are migration, revolution, urban memory, political metaphor, colonial-era cosmopolitanism, translation, and homesickness. Beneath the promise of perfect reproduction is the knowledge that every reproduction changes what it carries.
The cover photograph’s small size becomes meaningful. Li does not fill the square because the recording is designed to make her expand elsewhere. The physical image remains contained while the voice grows to human scale in another room.
Around her, the gray ornaments resemble a crown, chandelier, loudspeaker grille, or stylized waveform. The white background appears empty, but it is actually reserved space, the graphic equivalent of the silence required for imaging. Nothing crowds the singer because every listener is expected to supply a room.
The album may look like a specialized Chinese hi-fi curiosity, but its song selection creates a remarkably broad map. Cui Jian stands beside Zhou Xuan’s Shanghai lineage. Taiwanese balladry meets Elvis and the Beatles. John Denver’s imagined home meets Qi Qin’s outside world. Panamanian bolero becomes Chinese declaration. Nanping’s distant bell closes a recording sold partly as home-theater demonstration.
The record does not argue that these traditions are identical. It demonstrates that one voice can pass among them without erasing the route. Li remains recognizable because interpretation is not impersonation. She does not become Teresa Teng, Cui Jian, Elvis Presley, John Denver, or Paul McCartney. Their songs enter her register and discover another floor beneath themselves.
That lower floor is the undertone. It is where familiar music stores the meanings that ordinary hearing has learned to skip.
Place the speakers carefully.
Turn off whatever is making noise in the next room.
The red cloth descends.
Shanghai lights appear.
Country roads lead outward and home.
A bell begins somewhere beyond sight.
Li Yanjun sits inside the small photograph, while her voice leaves it.
Readers with the original booklet, complete musician credits, DSD or DTS pressings, or knowledge of the Muse Sound ensemble are warmly invited to help reconstruct the session. This is exactly the kind of record whose technical and cultural history may be hiding in tiny print while the singer receives the entire front cover.

François Carrier / Michel Lambert / Jean-Jacques Avenel - 2008 - Within

Leo Records – CD LR 512

 Three names appear in dark red at the top of a pale, fibrous square. Beneath them floats a narrow black form resembling an eye, leaf, boat, seed, mouth, wound, or crowd seen from an impossible height. Its interior is filled with hundreds of tiny marks, each almost writing but too small to read. WITHIN appears below in large white letters, clearer than anything else on the cover, as though the album’s one immediately legible object is a direction pointing inward.

The central shape refuses to explain what possesses an inside and what remains outside it. If it is an eye, the marks may be images gathered behind the lid. If it is a mouth, they may be words waiting to escape. If it is a boat, they are passengers. If it is a seed, each mark contains another possible organism. If it is a crowd, the surrounding gray field may represent the distance that makes individuals appear as texture.
Within is an unusually precise title for freely improvised music. The musicians do not begin with a composition that tells them where they are going, yet freedom does not mean that they operate without limits. Each player is inside a body, instrument, history, acoustic room, moment, and relationship with the other two. The music develops from within those conditions rather than attempting to transcend them.
Improvisation is sometimes described through the romance of unrestricted possibility. Anything can happen. But anything cannot happen. François Carrier cannot play a note he has not physically imagined or learned how to produce. Michel Lambert cannot strike every part of the drum kit simultaneously with equal intention. Jean-Jacques Avenel cannot erase the dimensions of the bass, the tension of its strings, the resistance of wood, or the particular instrument supplied by the festival. The musicians are free precisely because they understand what they are inside.
The trio format exposes this relationship cleanly. Saxophone, bass, and drums form one of jazz’s most open structures because no piano or guitar continuously announces harmony. Yet the absence of a chordal instrument does not remove harmony. It distributes harmonic implication among melody, resonance, overtones, bass motion, memory, and whatever tonal center the musicians briefly permit to appear.
Carrier and Lambert already possessed years of shared language. Their familiarity could have become a closed circuit in which the guest bassist merely supplied weight beneath a conversation whose habits had already solidified. Avenel prevents that immediately, not by fighting the partnership but by entering so completely that the duo’s established interior develops another dimension.
A great improvising guest does not simply adapt to the hosts. He makes their previous understanding newly uncertain. Carrier must hear Lambert through Avenel’s bass. Lambert must decide whether a pulse suggested by Avenel is a foundation, temptation, joke, or temporary surface. Avenel must locate the difference between supporting Carrier’s line and creating an independent route that happens to cross it.
“Moment” begins with Carrier alone, establishing not a theme but a quality of attention. His phrases seem centered while refusing to settle. A tone may lean toward melody, pause as though remembering a song, then turn away before recognition can close around it. He is not avoiding beauty. He is protecting beauty from becoming an obligation.
Carrier’s sound can be warm enough to invite the listener into music that remains structurally unpredictable. This is an important distinction. Free improvisation is often made theatrically difficult, as though alienating the audience proves that the musicians have escaped convention. Carrier does not confuse hospitality with simplification. The door is open, but the room beyond it has no obvious floor plan.
The saxophone’s opening solitude also changes the meaning of the trio’s entrance. Bass and drums do not arrive to accompany a finished statement. They reveal that the apparently solitary line had already contained spaces for other people. The music becomes social retroactively.
Lambert rarely behaves like a drummer waiting to identify the correct beat. He plays time as a substance that can be stretched, thickened, scattered, or temporarily hidden. Cymbals may place light around Carrier’s phrase without measuring it. A drum attack may redirect the saxophone before any pattern has been established. Repetition can occur, but Lambert does not become trapped inside the repetition merely because it has begun working.
This gives the trio an unusual balance between momentum and suspension. The music can move rapidly without appearing headed toward a destination. It can become quiet without feeling paused. Motion is generated through relation rather than through a predetermined rhythmic vehicle.
Avenel enters with the enormous advantage of a bassist who understands that low frequency is not synonymous with background. His tone possesses physical authority, but authority does not become domination. He can establish ground and then remove it, leaving the others to discover whether they had mistaken temporary support for permanent structure.
The slightly distant recording of his bass creates an accidental but productive perspective. Carrier’s saxophone and Lambert’s percussion often appear closer to the listener, while Avenel seems to occupy a deeper section of the room. His bass is not always outlined with studio clarity, but its pressure remains. He resembles architecture partially hidden by darkness: edges become uncertain while mass becomes undeniable.
That distance also reinforces the title. The bass appears to come from within the recording rather than sitting neatly upon its surface. One listens into the sound to find him. This active search makes every recovered pluck, scrape, resonant body, and sudden run feel more important than a perfectly isolated signal might have.
“Moment” is not named “The Moment.” The missing article prevents it from becoming one privileged event around which all others must organize themselves. It is moment as material, a temporary condition emerging from countless smaller decisions. Carrier breathes, Lambert shifts weight, Avenel touches a string, and a relation exists for an instant before another replaces it.
Improvised music makes this continual disappearance audible. A composed theme may return, allowing the listener to compare its appearances and experience recurrence as structure. Here an event may occur once and vanish. The musicians cannot recover it exactly because they have already been changed by hearing it.
Recording complicates this disappearance. The concert was unrepeatable, yet the CD allows its moments to return identically. The musicians improvised without knowing the exact future of the performance, while every later listener can learn that future through replay. Spontaneity becomes fixed evidence.
This is one reason recorded improvisation remains so fascinating. The first listening and the tenth listening are not encounters with the same kind of object. Initially, the listener shares something of the musicians’ uncertainty. Later, familiarity creates memory, expectation, favorite passages, and an almost compositional sense of inevitability around actions that were never planned to recur.
The second piece, “Core,” occupies more than forty minutes and nearly the entire conceptual center of the album. A core may be the interior of a fruit, planet, body, reactor, argument, group, or problem. It is what remains after outer material has been removed, but also what may be least directly accessible.
Carrier and Lambert could be described as the established core, with Avenel entering from outside. The performance overturns that arrangement. Avenel’s bass becomes so structurally important that the trio produces a new core which did not exist before the concert began.
The length matters because forty minutes allows improvisation to pass through states that shorter pieces would have to present as separate compositions. Energy can gather, exhaust itself, redirect, thin out, and return in altered form without the musicians needing to announce that one section has ended and another begun.
“Core” does not justify its duration through constant intensity. That would create another kind of monotony. Instead, the musicians vary density, focus, timbre, and role. At one point a pulse may appear stable enough to resemble an agreement. Carrier can accept it, ignore it, circle it, or introduce a phrase whose internal shape makes the pulse sound different without actually changing it.
This tension between pulse and freedom is one of jazz’s deepest conversations. Pulse can unite musicians, dancers, and listeners through shared bodily expectation. It can also become a form of authority, instructing every event where to stand. Free improvisers do not need to abolish pulse. They can treat it as one participant among others.
Lambert excels at this ambiguity. He can generate forward force without placing the music inside a cage of counted measures. His drumming often seems to contain several possible meters at once, allowing Carrier and Avenel to choose which current they wish to enter. The beat becomes a river delta rather than a railway.
Avenel’s long bass feature changes the scale of listening. Extended bass solos can expose a strange social habit within jazz: audiences may admire the instrument while unconsciously treating its independence as an interruption before the horn returns. Avenel refuses that secondary status. The bass does not ask permission to become narrative.
His solo has weight, motion, and enough internal variation to make accompaniment feel unnecessary, yet Lambert’s percussion deepens rather than crowds it. The two musicians create a world where resonance and attack continually exchange functions. A plucked string can become percussion; a drum can become a resonating chamber.
Carrier’s eventual interruption is one of the performance’s most human gestures. Respectful improvisation does not require everybody to wait politely for clearly marked solo boundaries. He enters with a biting phrase, not to reclaim leadership but to test whether the bass’s developing interior has room for another body.
The intervention could be read as impatience, excitement, humor, provocation, or trust. Carrier knows Avenel’s construction is strong enough to survive contact. The saxophone does not close the bass solo. It opens a side passage inside it.
The sanza or kalimba passage introduces another conception of the low-register musician. Avenel had studied African instruments deeply enough that their appearance was not ornamental proof of cultural breadth. The small metal tongues produce a bright, cyclical sound worlds away from the double bass’s wooden mass, yet both instruments organize music through plucked vibration and resonating bodies.
The sanza changes the trio’s apparent geography. Its repeating figures can suggest a stable pattern, but the pattern is alive with minute variations in touch, decay, and emphasis. Lambert responds without treating it as an exotic object requiring imitation. Carrier can enter its field while allowing its distinct logic to remain.
This moment also reveals how misleading the word “free” can be. A sanza pattern may sound more repetitive than the surrounding free jazz, yet repetition does not necessarily mean restriction. Cyclical music can produce freedom through the endless possibilities of placement inside return. The loop is not a prison when every recurrence offers another angle of entry.
Avenel’s association with Steve Lacy matters here, not because Within resembles a Lacy recording, but because Lacy’s world demanded a particular balance of precision, patience, humor, and openness. Lacy could treat a short melodic cell as material worthy of years of examination. Avenel learned how to remain inside a musical idea without exhausting its life through overstatement.
Carrier brings a different kind of lyricism. His phrases can be emotionally direct while remaining structurally evasive. He may produce a line whose warmth suggests resolution, then let its final tone point into another question. This prevents lyricism from becoming reassurance.
Warmth in free jazz is sometimes treated as a compromise, as though abstraction must remain cold to prove its seriousness. Carrier demonstrates that welcome and uncertainty can coexist. A listener can be invited without being given a map.
“Core” repeatedly becomes fierce, but its fiercest passages are not wars among competing soloists. Intensity emerges from alignment. The musicians hear an opening at roughly the same time and pour energy into it from different positions. Saxophone, bass, and drums remain distinct, yet the distinction no longer prevents them from behaving like one large organism.
Collective improvisation reaches its most exciting state when nobody can be identified as merely causing or responding. Carrier may appear to initiate a change, but perhaps Lambert’s previous cymbal texture created the pressure that made the phrase possible. Avenel may alter the bass motion, but perhaps he is answering something in Carrier’s breath rather than his notes. Cause becomes distributed.
This is what conversation ideally promises but rarely achieves. Ordinary conversation is filled with waiting to speak, defending positions, rehearsing answers, missing tone, and treating another person’s sentence as raw material for one’s own performance. These musicians listen in a way that changes what they are prepared to say.
Listening is not passivity here. Lambert can answer Carrier by contradicting him. Avenel can refuse a suggested direction. Carrier can cut across a bass passage. The health of the conversation lies not in constant agreement but in the confidence that disagreement will produce more music rather than terminate relation.
The album’s cover shape can now be seen as this collective body. Hundreds of tiny marks fill one enclosed form, each distinct enough to create texture but too intertwined to read separately. From a distance they become one object. Close inspection reveals that oneness is made from irreducible multiplicity.
The form resembles an eye because listening has become another kind of sight. The trio cannot see where the music is going, but each player perceives movement through sound. The eye is filled not with an image but with nearly written marks, suggesting that perception and language have not yet separated.
It resembles a seed because the concert contains possible futures. Carrier and Lambert would continue carrying this improvisational partnership across countries and collaborators. Avenel’s presence would remain a singular branch, a meeting preserved because Carrier brought recording equipment and believed the night might contain something worth keeping.
That practical act deserves attention. Live improvisation depends upon extreme presence, yet documenting it requires anticipation. Microphones must be placed, levels chosen, equipment transported, storage prepared, and permission secured before anybody can know whether the music will justify the effort.
The imperfect bass balance is evidence of that vulnerability. Carrier was not operating inside an ideal studio with unlimited correction. The festival supplied an instrument and a room; microphones captured what they could; the musicians played. The resulting sonic limitations are not proof that circumstances failed. They show the circumstances within which success had to be invented.
“Experience,” the final piece, lasts under eight minutes after the vast interior of “Core.” Its title completes a subtle progression: Moment, Core, Experience. First there is an event in time. Then the musicians enter its center. Finally, what happened becomes experience, something carried forward by players and listeners after the sound has ended.
Experience is not identical to memory. Memory preserves or reconstructs what occurred. Experience changes the organism that remembers. A musician who has played with another person cannot return completely to the condition before hearing that person’s decisions.
The last piece therefore feels less like an encore than a compressed afterlife. The trio has already discovered its common language during the long central passage. “Experience” can move with the knowledge produced there, even though no formal theme has been established for them to reprise.
Shortness acquires power after forty minutes. Every gesture appears aware that the concert’s available time is narrowing. This does not force the players toward a grand conclusion. Improvised music rarely benefits from pretending that an hour of uncertainty has secretly been moving toward one final chord.
Instead, the ending establishes a boundary after the fact. The musicians stop, and everything before the stop becomes the piece. Silence converts activity into form.
Within may also describe the listener’s changing position during the album. At first, we stand outside the trio examining how three musicians relate. Gradually, distinctions become less administrative. We stop tracking leader, rhythm section, guest, solo, accompaniment, and begin hearing one field of decisions.
This does not erase identity. Carrier’s reed remains different from Avenel’s string and Lambert’s skins and metal. The musicians do not merge into anonymous texture. True collectivity requires that difference remain audible. Otherwise unity is achieved by elimination.
The record is political in this quiet sense. It presents no program, protest, or social theory, but it demonstrates a temporary society built through attention. Leadership moves. Support becomes initiative. Interruption becomes contribution. An invited outsider changes the core. Nobody needs to become less himself for the group to become more than three individuals.
The title’s inward direction can also be psychological. Improvisation reveals decisions before a performer has time to turn them into a public story about himself. Habit, fear, confidence, curiosity, generosity, and aggression enter the sound faster than verbal self-description can supervise them.
But music never grants transparent access to another person’s interior. We do not hear Carrier’s mind, Lambert’s private emotions, or Avenel’s complete history. We hear actions shaped by those hidden realities. Within remains inaccessible even while it produces audible consequences.
That mystery protects the musicians from becoming symbols of their instruments. Carrier is not simply the lyrical voice, Lambert the restless timekeeper, and Avenel the grounding elder. Each role changes throughout the performance. The saxophone can become percussion. Drums can become atmosphere. Bass can become melody, rhythm, architecture, or tiny metallic cycle.
Leo Records has long provided a home for performances whose value lies partly in refusing the standardized dimensions through which jazz is marketed. A forty-minute collective improvisation with no composition credit, no conventional tune sequence, and imperfectly balanced live sound is a difficult commercial proposition. It is also exactly the kind of event a record label can save from disappearance.
The CD becomes a container marked WITHIN. Its plastic and aluminum hold one hour in Calgary, three bodies, an audience, a supplied bass, Carrier’s microphones, and thousands of decisions nobody could reproduce by instruction.
The central black shape on the cover never opens. Perhaps it does not need to. Within is not a locked interior waiting to be decoded. It is the act of entering.
Carrier breathes into the reed.
Lambert unsettles the clock.
Avenel pulls a large wooden body toward speech.
Three people listen until the room grows another room within it.

Sword Heaven & 16 Bitch Pile-Up - 2004 - Come Here, Sandy

 

Gameboy Records – GB64

This split is an unusual early document of two groups discovering how much bodily force could be produced without treating noise as a shapeless wall. Sword Heaven and 16 Bitch Pile-Up both work with abrasion, repetition, damaged electronics, percussion, and voices pushed beyond ordinary speech, but organize those materials according to nearly opposite instincts. Sword Heaven builds a crude ceremonial machine and tightens its bolts until the structure begins to gallop. 16 Bitch Pile-Up enters as a shifting collective body, less concerned with forward motion than with making the room unstable. Come Here, Sandy plays less like two unrelated sides sharing vinyl than a study in competing methods of possession: rhythm taking command on one side, dispersed physical action overtaking space on the other.

This is early Sword Heaven, recorded before the group settled into the focused Aaron Hibbs and Mark Van Fleet duo configuration that defined much of its later reputation. “We of the Fucking Mountains” already contains the essential grammar: percussion treated not as accompaniment but as an order shouted repeatedly at the nervous system, metallic sound dragged into the rhythm until the distinction between instrument and wreckage becomes useless. The piece does not develop through conventional sections. It accumulates authority. Every repetition makes the next blow less avoidable, while the voice arrives as another damaged surface rather than a narrator above the action. The title suggests a declaration from some imaginary tribe, but the music refuses the dignity usually attached to ritual. This is ceremony conducted in a basement with scavenged metal, malfunctioning amplification, sweat, and the possibility that something tied together minutes earlier may come apart mid-performance.

“7minus1times3” stretches that method into a longer and more disorienting ordeal. Its title resembles an equation stripped of practical purpose, which suits music that uses repetition while denying the certainty promised by counting. Sword Heaven’s pulse is emphatic, yet the surrounding electronics keep chewing at its edges. The rhythm does not create safety; it becomes the thing one cannot escape. As the performance thickens, drumming, scraping, distortion, and vocal strain begin to behave like parts of one oversized organism. There is a genuine trance here, but it is not decorative psychedelia. It is concentration by pressure. The listener is held against a repeating event long enough for small changes in force, density, and timing to become enormous. Sword Heaven demonstrates that a primitive beat can be psychologically complicated when every return carries more weight than the last.

The 16 Bitch Pile-Up side, recorded live at BLD on March 25, 2004, immediately changes the geometry. Where Sword Heaven establishes a center and hammers everything toward it, 16 Bitch Pile-Up multiplies centers until there is nowhere stable to stand. Contact-miked objects, electronics, impacts, cries, feedback, and whatever else could be activated in the room become a social form of noise: several people listening, interrupting, provoking, and leaving openings for one another without reducing the performance to polite exchange. The music feels loose and alert. Sounds appear from different distances, some close enough to resemble an object striking beside the listener, others reduced to thin electrical traces at the far end of the space. Because it is a live recording, the room is not incidental ambience. It is one of the instruments, a container whose walls help define the pressure.

What makes 16 Bitch Pile-Up compelling is the absence of an obvious hierarchy. Harsh noise often inherits the heroic silhouette of the solitary operator controlling a table of equipment. This group disrupts that silhouette. No single gesture can permanently claim the foreground because another scrape, shriek, thump, oscillation, or sudden pocket of near-emptiness alters the balance. The result is not merely chaotic. It is unstable cooperation, a pile-up in the most exact sense: bodies and signals converging, separating, then colliding again. Even the abrasive humor of the band name becomes part of the method. It refuses the expectation that women in experimental music should make their presence tasteful, legible, or reassuring. The performance does not ask permission to occupy the room, and it does not offer virtuosity in a form that can be comfortably admired from a distance.

Placed together, the two sides reveal an important feature of the American noise underground of the early 2000s. This music was not only a collection of extreme sounds. It was a network of handmade objects, small labels, improvised venues, touring friendships, shared bills, duplicated recordings, and physical techniques learned by watching what others dared to do. The handmade cover belongs to that ecology. Its pale vacation-image atmosphere, complete with palm tree and the coaxing title Come Here, Sandy, gives the record a deceptive surface. Nothing inside resembles leisure. Noise artists understood that menace becomes more vivid when packaged through humor, domesticity, cheap beauty, or an image carrying no official burden of seriousness. The cover opens a paper doorway onto a beach, and the record fills it with rusted machinery and human alarm.

The split’s deepest pleasure lies in hearing two answers to the question: how can sound alter the behavior of bodies in a room? Sword Heaven answers with synchronization, using the beat to pull listeners into a shared physical clock and then accelerating it toward panic. 16 Bitch Pile-Up answers with decentralization, surrounding the listener with actions that cannot be reduced to a single source or command. One side marches into the mountain; the other turns the building into a nervous system. Both reject noise as background texture. They make it an event with social consequences, something that changes posture, attention, breathing, and awareness of nearby bodies.

Come Here, Sandy remains valuable because it catches these groups while discovery is still audible. The techniques are forceful but not standardized, and the recording retains the danger of people testing how far their materials, equipment, and collective concentration can be pushed. Anyone who saw either group during this period, knows what BLD was like, or owns a differently assembled handmade sleeve may be able to add details that the record leaves scattered around its edges.

16 Bitch Pile-Up - 2004 - They Went Extinct Because They Became Invisible CDr

Gameboy Records – GB63

 They Went Extinct Because They Became Invisible is a title large enough to contain a civilization’s disappearance, yet its strangest word may be “because.” Extinction is usually explained through catastrophe, competition, starvation, or environmental collapse. Here, invisibility itself becomes fatal. A creature ceases to be perceived, then ceases to be protected, remembered, or considered alive. That proposition fits 16 Bitch Pile-Up particularly well. Their music emerged from an underground where extraordinary physical performances could exist almost entirely outside the cultural mechanisms that certify importance. Small CDr editions, hand-assembled packaging, temporary venues, unstable equipment, and firsthand memories were not peripheral details surrounding the work. They were its habitat. The album sounds less like a message sent toward posterity than evidence that five people once occupied a room so completely that the room temporarily became another species.

Compared with the shared territory of Come Here, Sandy, this release offers enough duration for 16 Bitch Pile-Up’s internal logic to become clearer. Their improvisation is not a democratic soup in which every sound dissolves into an indistinguishable mass. Individual actions retain their shape, but no action is permitted to rule for long. Feedback rises as a temporary architecture; scraped or struck metal opens a wound in it; a voice enters without becoming a conventional lead; turntables and keyboards lose their familiar identities and behave as generators of unstable matter. The group does not construct a wall. It creates a population. Sounds crowd together, separate, reproduce, become threatened, and vanish before the listener can decide what they were.

“Falconcrest” begins with a title carrying peculiar cultural debris. It resembles the name of a forgotten estate, television dynasty, fantasy settlement, or suburban development promising a view that no longer exists. The music undermines any such stability. Rather than introducing the record with a clear statement, the piece establishes a field in which attention must keep moving. Small disturbances acquire disproportionate importance because there is no dependable beat or melody telling the ear what counts as foreground. A distant electrical whine may become as consequential as a violent collision. The group’s control lies not in polishing those contrasts but in allowing them to remain dangerous. Silence and near-silence are not relief; they are exposed floorboards.

“Half-Life” sharpens the album’s fascination with things that persist while disappearing. A half-life measures decay without promising a clean ending. Something remains, but less of it remains with every interval. The performance can be heard in those terms: gestures leave residue, and each residue influences what can happen next. A burst of noise may end, yet the room seems permanently altered by having contained it. This is one reason the recording feels more psychologically complicated than simple escalation. The group can increase intensity without merely becoming louder, or reduce activity without returning to neutrality. Every passage carries contamination from the one before it. Memory becomes another instrument, played inside the listener.

The third title appears to invoke Madalyn Murray O’Hair, the fiercely public atheist activist, although her name is rendered differently on the release. Whether the variation is accidental, playful, or simply another mutation produced by underground transmission, it suits an album concerned with unstable visibility. O’Hair became a cultural symbol whose public image frequently overwhelmed the complicated person beneath it, then disappeared with members of her family before the truth of their murders emerged years later. The title therefore brings together notoriety and erasure, two forces that are not opposites as often as we imagine. A person can be made hyper-visible as an emblem while becoming invisible as a human being. 16 Bitch Pile-Up’s music resists that reduction. No performer remains only a role, and no sound stays fixed long enough to become an easy emblem of aggression, femininity, chaos, or noise.

This matters because an all-woman experimental group can be trapped by the language used to praise it. Discussion may become so fascinated by gender that the actual musical intelligence disappears. Yet ignoring gender completely would also miss part of the force. 16 Bitch Pile-Up entered a noise culture often represented through solitary men bent over electronics and replaced that familiar silhouette with a visibly collective practice. They did not merely demonstrate that women could reproduce an existing harsh-noise vocabulary. They altered the social picture of where authority might reside. Five people could generate pressure without arranging themselves behind a single commander, instrumental virtuoso, or heroic suffering body. Their strength comes from coordination that never hardens into obedience.

“Atlantis,” the longest piece, ends the CDr beneath another vanished civilization. Atlantis remains culturally immortal precisely because it cannot be found. Its invisibility creates endless retellings, each rebuilding a city that may never have existed. The performance similarly refuses to provide a final stable object. It accumulates traces rather than delivering a monument. Sounds seem uncovered, buried again, and replaced by other possible ruins. The group’s extended duration allows density to breathe: not peaceful breathing, but the uneven respiration of something enormous beneath water. By the conclusion, the album has not explained its title. It has enacted it, repeatedly producing forms that become most vivid at the instant they disappear.

The CDr format deepens this theme. Recordable discs once offered an inexpensive bridge between private documentation and public release, but they were also fragile, inconsistently duplicated, and easy to lose inside collections. Their silver surfaces promised digital permanence while remaining vulnerable to scratches, failing dyes, obsolete drives, and simple neglect. Gameboy GB63 survives because copies continued to be handled, copied, identified, and shared. Preservation reverses the title’s equation: what becomes visible may avoid extinction. Yet the survival is never complete. The original rooms, bodies, equipment arrangements, and social atmosphere cannot be reconstructed from audio alone. The recording preserves an opening rather than the whole event.

That incompleteness is part of the album’s power. They Went Extinct Because They Became Invisible does not arrive as a neatly resolved historical statement. It remains an active fragment from a network whose participants may remember different lineups, venues, handmade editions, and methods. Anyone who saw the five-person group, received this CDr directly, or knows more about the April 2004 BLD Studios recording can help restore details without pretending the mystery should be eliminated. Some music survives through definitive editions and official histories. This survives through accumulated acts of attention, each listener briefly making the invisible population audible again.

16 Bitch Pile-Up - 2005 - Live On KFJC 07-09-2005

 

Not On Label – None

A radio studio is a peculiar room for noise. In an ordinary venue, sound announces itself through air pressure, vibrating floors, overloaded speakers, bodies moving away from or toward the source, and the shared knowledge that the performers are physically present. A broadcast removes much of that evidence. The musicians enter one sealed location, microphones convert their actions into electrical information, and the result escapes through a transmitter to appear inside cars, kitchens, bedrooms, workshops, and radios whose owners may have no idea what has just entered their day. This July 2005 KFJC session therefore offers 16 Bitch Pile-Up an ideal medium. Their music was already concerned with unseen actions, unstable communication, and sounds whose causes could not easily be identified. Radio makes the group literally invisible while allowing its disturbance to spread.

The performance lasts less than twenty minutes, but it contains none of the compactness associated with a short song or carefully edited miniature. It begins as an environment that has already been activated. Sounds arrive from several directions without presenting a leader, central riff, or explanatory opening gesture. Metal seems to be handled, struck, pulled, or dragged; electronics swell and withdraw; voices hover between breath, alarm, laughter, and damaged language. Nothing remains isolated long enough to become a featured instrument. Every action changes the pressure around the others, and the group’s identity appears not in any particular timbre but in the speed with which several people can convert interruption into collective form.

The studio setting alters that form. A venue recording usually includes evidence of an audience, even when the crowd is quiet: room reflections, movement, applause, and the acoustic depth produced by bodies occupying space. Here, the microphones bring the activity much closer. Small textures become enormous while supposedly dramatic actions can vanish behind the density. The listener receives no dependable visual clue about scale. A thin scrape may come from a tiny object held against a microphone or a large sheet of metal across the room. A low eruption might be feedback, an amplified surface, a damaged keyboard signal, or several sources merging. This uncertainty is not a deficiency in the recording. It is the composition’s central freedom. The ear must abandon identification and attend instead to pressure, distance, duration, and behavioral change.

16 Bitch Pile-Up’s improvisation works because the players do not merely add sounds. They alter one another’s permissions. A sustained electronic tone creates a temporary ceiling beneath which shorter actions can move; a sudden impact breaks that ceiling and forces the whole performance to reorganize; a vocal sound introduces the presence of a body but refuses the stability of a singer standing at the front. Even moments that resemble disorder reveal an active social intelligence. Someone must decide whether to reinforce a gesture, oppose it, wait, or leave it exposed. The music’s aggression is inseparable from listening. Without attention among the participants, the performance would become simple congestion. Instead, it repeatedly forms small systems, overloads them, and begins again from the wreckage.

This is where the radio context becomes especially rich. Broadcasting is usually associated with control: regulated frequencies, timed programs, identification announcements, engineering standards, and a host responsible for preventing dead air. 16 Bitch Pile-Up temporarily inserts a radically different system into that framework. Their sound refuses fixed roles and predictable timing, yet it depends on the station’s disciplined technology to travel. Chaos rides inside infrastructure. The performance can be heard as a brief occupation of the frequency, not through slogans or confrontation, but by transmitting a form of cooperation that commercial radio would have difficulty recognizing as useful content.

There is also something quietly intimate about the result. Harsh sound often carries an image of confrontation, but radio eliminates the face-to-face challenge. The group cannot see who is listening, and the listener cannot watch the performers. What remains is a strange trust between strangers. Someone tuning across the dial on July 9, 2005 might have encountered these sounds without preparation and remained for ten seconds or for the entire performance. Someone else may have deliberately waited beside a recorder, preserving the broadcast so it could move beyond the original transmitter range and survive two decades later as a digital file. The same signal could be intrusion, entertainment, revelation, or an incomprehensible accident depending on where it landed.

The recording later became part of ADAD, but retaining it as a separate radio document preserves something the compilation context can soften. Here the date, station, and uninterrupted duration remain the frame. It is not merely another track within an album sequence. It is an event that occurred at a particular point in the group’s movement from Ohio into the California experimental underground. Their improvisational practice enters a broadcast institution, occupies its equipment for seventeen minutes and fifty-three seconds, then disappears back into ordinary programming. The archive catches the temporary opening.

Live on KFJC demonstrates that 16 Bitch Pile-Up did not require theatrical visibility to generate physical presence. Removed from the stage and transmitted as pure signal, the group becomes even harder to locate and therefore more expansive. Their metal, voices, electronics, and amplified debris pass through microphones, cables, mixing boards, transmitter, atmosphere, receiver, recorder, computer, and eventually another listener’s speakers. Each stage carries the performance farther from its original room while proving that the room existed. Anyone who heard the broadcast, attended other dates on this California trip, or knows who engineered and hosted the session could help restore the human details surrounding this fierce little tear in the airwaves.

16 Bitch Pile-Up - 2005 - Lord Hall

 

Obelisk Sounds – OBE008

Lord Hall compresses an entire room into the miniature architecture of a three-inch CDr. The title sounds grand, almost feudal: a named chamber, a ceremonial building, perhaps some imaginary nobleman’s residence. The object itself is the opposite of monumental. It is small enough to disappear inside a collection, easy to overlook beside a standard disc, and housed in artwork assembled from clipped text, photocopied imagery, fluorescent distortion, and scraps of web-page syntax. This contradiction suits 16 Bitch Pile-Up. Their performances could occupy a space with enormous physical authority, yet the evidence often survived through tiny handmade editions moving quietly between people. The hall is not constructed from stone. It is reconstructed whenever this fifteen-minute recording is played.

The performance took place at Skylab in Columbus on March 5, 2005, as part of Ryan von Boeckel’s “Top 100 of 2004,” an event whose delayed calendar already gives the recording a pleasantly crooked relationship with time. A retrospective list becomes a live gathering; one year spills into the next; an improvised performance is later fixed onto a recordable disc and given a title that reveals little about what happened. This is how an underground scene often remembers itself. History is not assembled in orderly annual chapters. It survives through shows, nicknames, mailing addresses, mislabeled catalog numbers, photographs, recordings, and the recollections of whoever happened to be standing near the equipment.

The single uninterrupted piece makes the group’s collective method especially apparent. There is no track sequence to provide resets, no titles dividing the performance into digestible episodes, and no studio arrangement pretending that each sound belongs permanently in a particular place. The music begins as an inhabited environment and continues by repeatedly changing the terms of habitation. Metal, voice, electronics, amplification, friction, and impact move through the room without settling into fixed instrumental jobs. A gesture may briefly organize everything around it, but another player can disturb that temporary order before it hardens into structure. The performance grows through these acts of construction and interference. It is less a composition travelling toward a destination than a room learning how many different rooms it can contain.

Because five people are involved, density alone would be easy. The more difficult achievement is maintaining permeability. Lord Hall does not merely stack one abrasive layer upon another until the sources disappear inside volume. Openings remain. Thin electrical sounds pass between heavier actions; vocal eruptions expose the body without turning anyone into a lead singer; scraping and impact establish rough surfaces that other sounds can occupy or abandon. The improvisation depends on knowing when not to fill every available second. Even its crowded passages contain small corridors through which attention can move. The listener is not confronted by a single solid wall but placed inside a building whose doors, floors, and staircases keep relocating.

This architectural quality distinguishes the release from the broadcast character of Live on KFJC. The radio session transformed the group into an invisible signal, spreading the performance beyond the room in which it originated. Lord Hall remains stubbornly attached to its location. Skylab is not simply a line in the credits. The room’s dimensions, microphone placement, reflective surfaces, audience position, and electrical limitations are embedded in the recording, even when they cannot be individually identified. Alex Conley’s recording and mastering preserve the event without forcing it into artificial clarity. Sounds arrive with different degrees of nearness, and the uncertain scale becomes part of the experience. A small amplified object can seem enormous; a large physical action can recede into the combined activity of the group.

The artwork extends this uncertainty. The cover’s overexposed child’s face is recognizable yet almost erased by brightness, with the features reduced to pale cavities and washes of pink and violet. The title and format appear inside mock HTML tags, as though the physical release were pretending to be a fragment of an unfinished website. On the insert, the musicians’ names are pasted over another violently altered face, followed by a street address, performance information, label credit, and a dead Hostrocket web address. Analog collage and early-internet language occupy the same paper. The design catches a moment when underground music travelled through both postal and digital systems, with neither replacing the other. A listener might discover the group through a show, receive a disc by mail, visit a crude website, trade with the label, and then carry the object into another network entirely.

The inclusion of the complete Columbus mailing address is especially telling. It makes the release feel less like sealed merchandise than an invitation into correspondence. This was a scene built from reachable people. The label insert even states a willingness to trade with do-it-yourself noisecore labels, turning the packaging into a small communications terminal. The release does not merely contain music; it explains how another person might enter the circulation around it. Two decades later, the defunct website and old address possess an archaeological charge, but at the time they were living pathways. Lord Hall was a door with postage attached.

The title ultimately feels less like the name of a composition than the temporary elevation of the room itself. For fifteen minutes, Skylab becomes Lord Hall because the people inside it reorganize ordinary space through sound. No landlord, institution, or official culture grants that status. It is declared through attention, volume, cooperation, and the willingness to let an improvised event matter enough to document. The three-inch disc then miniaturizes the hall without neutralizing it. Anyone who attended Ryan von Boeckel’s gathering, remembers this period of Skylab, knows whether OBE008 or OBE009 was the intended catalog number, or received a copy directly from Obelisk Sounds may hold another piece of the building’s missing floor plan.

16 Bitch Pile-Up - 2005 - No White Pants

Black Lakes – BLK004

“No white pants” sounds like practical advice delivered immediately before entering a place where clothing will not remain clean. It could be a household warning, a touring rule, a dress-code reversal, or a small prophecy of unavoidable contamination. In the hands of 16 Bitch Pile-Up, it becomes an excellent description of listening itself. Do not arrive expecting to preserve a spotless division between music and accident, instrument and object, control and collapse. This miniature CDr offers no protective distance. Its sounds smear, stain, and transfer their residue from one gesture to the next.

The cover makes the command even stranger. Everything is printed in a poisonous green, as though an old piece of heraldic pageantry has been photocopied through mold. A central human or puppet-like figure stands beneath two shields carrying the numbers one and six, while lions pose as if defending the dignity of a kingdom that has already gone chemically wrong. The group’s name appears on a banner below, converting “16 Bitch Pileup” into an unlikely royal house. It is grand symbolism made with cheap reproduction, a miniature court assembled from toner, distortion, and visual debris. The ridiculous authority of the image fits a group capable of making scavenged actions feel momentarily sovereign.

The three-inch CDr is important to that effect. Rather than presenting the music as a major statement surrounded by explanatory architecture, the format makes it resemble a concentrated specimen. The small disc appears almost toy-like beside a standard CD, yet the sound refuses miniaturization. This tension between object and impact belongs to the most compelling homemade noise releases. Their physical scale can be modest, their circulation tiny, and their packaging almost disposable, while the recorded event behaves as if it requires an entire building. No White Pants arrives as a little green token containing a much larger disturbance.

The performance is compelling because it never allows abrasion to become generic. 16 Bitch Pile-Up does not simply switch on a quantity of harsh sound and leave it running. The music remains full of separate pressures: thin electrical movements, rough impacts, distressed voices, scraping surfaces, feedback, low mechanical weight, and abrupt gaps through which the previous action continues to echo mentally. One texture may briefly appear to govern the piece, but another enters sideways and changes the balance. The group’s improvisation functions through repeated displacement. Whatever seems established is already becoming material for the next disruption.

This creates an unusual relationship between mess and precision. The music sounds physically untidy, but the players are clearly sensitive to density, timing, and contrast. Too much simultaneous activity would flatten everything into a single undifferentiated blur. Instead, sounds are allowed to remain differently shaped. A voice can expose the body without becoming a vocalist’s performance. A metallic strike can suggest rhythm without establishing a dependable beat. An electronic tone can hold the space together until another gesture bends or punctures it. The group keeps producing provisional structures, then damaging them before they begin to resemble compositions that could be comfortably repeated.

No White Pants consequently feels less like an expression of chaos than an argument against cleanliness. Cleanliness in music can mean many things: distinct instrumental roles, balanced frequencies, a stable foreground, recognizable development, or a mix that removes every trace of the room and the equipment. This recording values the opposite information. Friction is meaningful. Overlap is meaningful. A signal becoming difficult to identify is not a failure of documentation but an opening through which the listener must imagine physical causes. The music does not present isolated objects for inspection. It presents contact among objects, bodies, electricity, and air.

The title also brings humor into a form too often described only through extremity. There is something funny about reducing the danger of a 16 Bitch Pile-Up recording to a wardrobe instruction. Wear something darker. Expect stains. Do not bring ceremonial trousers into the blast radius. That humor does not weaken the music’s intensity; it prevents intensity from becoming self-important. The group can produce serious concentration without wrapping itself in solemnity. Their name, artwork, titles, and packaging repeatedly puncture the idea that experimental music must advertise intellectual gravity before anyone is permitted to hear complexity in it.

That quality separates this release from the more expansive atmosphere of They Went Extinct Because They Became Invisible and the location-specific force of Lord Hall. No White Pants behaves like a compact rulebook whose only rule is that nothing stays uncontaminated. The sounds enter one another, the handmade visual language corrupts borrowed symbols of authority, and the tiny disc contains an event far larger than its circumference. Even the release’s continued digital circulation adds another transfer: CDr to computer, compressed archive to another drive, private object to publicly reachable fragment. The stain keeps spreading.

There is no need to clean it up after the fact. The appeal lies in hearing five-way attention, material resistance, faulty elegance, and abrasive humor occupying the same space. No White Pants is not merely a lesser miniature between larger releases. Its scale concentrates the group’s thinking. It delivers a brief heraldic proclamation from a kingdom of bent metal, unstable voltage, communal decision, and clothing chosen with the consequences already understood. Anyone who received the original Black Lakes edition, knows how many copies were made, or remembers the circumstances behind that magnificent title may be able to add another green smudge to its history.