recorded under the stars in the small room in the eye of the spittoon over days before the lictors dared to run us in while hammering out our swage block bolt heads, lacking cloches, but reasoning a heritable sever point in the pitchblende and yelling “hot iron” and “shoot it,” clamping it off and sending it down the hall to Shu for assuasive rescue. These are cuffs self-immolated out of necessity that give no place; bide no denny.
all sounds were written as they were being performed/recorded
released August 8, 2017
all rights reserved