A Stick

He’s pulling on the stitches at the seams of a piece of music he hasn’t slipped into in a good long while – he’d thought it would be like a hot soak, but this was like a fat man zipped up in an envelope of liquid nitrogen.

It looks like the guy on the horn is weak-kneed with an arching back, but this is the force of the blow, after the twenty four hours of suck he has gone through before. Electric zips out of that instruments and the teeth along the spine of the moment grind open.

Pete rocks with a beat box, and he adds some new influence to sauce the source that Nu-Bird is playing over Phat Manx’s vibe.

The room melts regularly here, time clicking into an easy disintegration where narrative falls apart and movement becomes a held breath.

Tuning up. Tuning in.

Some click-heads were there to record, and a Fred-Head that had line up an interview was pointing a directional microphone around.

Bogie wet-lipped a joint and passed it on, and it angled and rolled around the room. A wand. The room was transforming.

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