Still hear it. Try again. Nope, that didn’t work. I can still hear it. Try something else. No, no – that’s worse!

Oh, hi. Yeah, still working on mastering, but there’s this bloody tick-tick-tick that’s coming up through the floorboards or from behind the drywall (not that we have drywall) and it’s seeping into the works somehow. Sounds like a freaking metronome, and god knows we don’t use one of those. (I prefer to call it free-time rhythm, rubato, whatever.) Never realized how damned noisy this old mill was until I started trying to assemble an album within its dank, condemned brick walls. A word of advice: never master your own album! Hire some fucker. And here’s some more advice, free of charge: don’t live in a squat house (even if it was once a working hammer mill). You heard it here first. I think it’s all this squatting that’s wrecking my back. But anyway…

Our dear friend, mad scientist Mitch Macaphee, is getting settled into his old digs, up by the belfry. (Run for your life, Mitch! We don’t have a belfry!) Once we got his gear all packed away and his mad science experiments reconstructed to his satisfaction (there was the one with the bishop’s head transposed onto the body of a ginseng root…. not sure I want to know how that comes out), Mitch was ready to start ordering the help around. He started with Marvin (my personal robot assistant), which was a good choice, because that gave him the opportunity to see just how screwed around our mechanical friend’s mind had become since last Mitch saw him. I think there was a certain amount of shock involved. (Marvin isn’t properly grounded. I’ve talked to him about this a number of times.) Hopefully Mitch can work through Marvin’s serial issues. (No fruit loop jokes here – I can spell, even if you can’t.)

Got to tell you, though – this ticking is driving me mad! Maybe it’s because I’m so easily distracted. Not a natural mastering engineer, you know (not that anyone is), and I’ve been over this material a whole lot of times. Anyway, my tiny mind wanders at the smallest instigation, and before I know it another week has passed without product. Matt and John both know it’s my fault for signing on with Loathsome Prick Records – a label too cheap to pay for mastering. It’s getting so that the only one talking to me around this lousy place is Big Zamboola, and his conversation tends toward the tedious, to put the matter delicately. (Always going on about gravitation. I guess planets have kind of a rivalry going on that point – a “mine’s stronger than yours” sort of thing.) I mean, even the man-sized tuber is pissed off at me! (Not enough plant food in the watering can.) And the Lincolns prefer Booth, frankly.

So anyway – got to get back to it. Bloody ticking. Sounds strangely familiar. Not unlike the sound made by a certain variety of … of…. of…. explosive device. Mitch! We need to take one more look through that steamer trunk! And I mean NOW!

Okay, just leave it over there. Yeah, there – on top of the steamer trunk. The larger steamer trunk… the one with all the chains and locks wrapped ’round it. That’s it. Thanks, buddy….

Sheesh, these mad scientists don’t exactly travel light. I’ve never seen so much bloody luggage… not since that one time Imelda Marcos stopped by our lean-to in Sri Lanka to say hi on her way back from Italy. (I’ve still got a pair of espadrilles to serve as a memento. Could never bring myself to wear them – hot pink doesn’t suit me, generally speaking.) Every time Mitch Macaphee goes on one of these quasi-scientific junkets, he comes back with a boat load of stuff. W.T.F., even when he comes back in a plane, he’s got a boat load. Usually it’s a random amalgamation of electronic equipment, volatile chemicals, exotic materials of every color and description. Just freaky, frankly…. but that’s our Mitch, and he’s back (with a vengeance).

No, that’s not a figure of speech. Let me tell you something (young lady)… I have been around musicians most of my life, and they are, by and large, a touchy lot, usually liable to hold a grudge if you give them ample cause. But they don’t hold a candle to scientists. (And if I were you, I wouldn’t either… because their clothes may be covered in some kind of explosive residue from a recent experiment – don’t take the chance!) When scientists step on each other’s toes, steal each other’s sandwiches, put their fingers in each other’s soup, etc., there is truly hell to pay. And from what I understand, our own Mitch Macaphee experienced some kind of unpleasantness whilst in Buenos Aires… the kind of unpleasantness that makes you grind your teeth at night… and dream about the invention of deadly vapors, untraceable by forensic instruments.

Now I can see where Marvin (my personal robot assistant) gets it from. He is, after all, a creation of Mitch Macaphee – Mitch’s eighth experiment, as it happens – and he has proven himself capable of some pretty remarkably nasty vendettas, especially just lately. This thing about the Canadian Space Robot Known as Dextre (or “CanSpRoKAD” as the tabloids might one day call him) is some of the most over-the-top behavior I have ever seen from our metallic friend. (And lest you forget, this is the robot who, several years ago, danced with Morlocks somewhere near the center of the earth – look it up.) His father/inventor Mitch, however, has got him beat. I mean, I walked away from my mastering console to prepare a welcome home feast for the guy, and what did he do but brood his way through the whole first course (mashed potatoes), dreaming of revenge. But why? And against whom? And why is he wearing my espadrilles? (Frankly, they make him look short.)

Well, I don’t expect you to answer all of these questions for me sitting in front of your computer monitor. Just print the blog off, take it into the next room, and work on these important questions over the next week. I’ll look forward to hearing your responses….

I think we need more compression on the mids. No, more than that – I can still hear my voice. What do you mean I’m paranoid? Does everybody think that??

Whoops – didn’t think anyone was listening. (See… I’m not paranoid!) That’s right, I’m here at my lonely console, cloth-eared, putting the finishing touches on Big Green’s new album. (Not so new anymore, actually, but…. don’t say that to the vultures at our corporate label.) Just twiddling a knob here and there, virtually speaking. Pressing the “good” button, as it were. Then it’s just a question of running order, album art, and…. oh yeah, a name. What the hell should we call the freaking thing, anyway? That’s usually the easy part. I mean, Matt can think of album names all day long. (I just follow him around with a bucket.) Trouble is, around this place, you can’t even hear yourself think.

Vas is loss? The place sounds like a bloody machine shop, that’s vas… I mean, what. No, I’m not talking about the album. That sounds more like a bottling plant. The machine shop-type sound is coming from that nasty piece of work I call Marvin (my personal robot assistant). Oh, yes… he has taken his paranoia up to a whole new level. I told you about his obsession with the Canadian space robot “Dextre”, currently being deployed from the international space station. Well, it’s getting worse. It started out with some off-hand comments, a derisive “squx” here and there, that sort of thing. Then it got uglier. How ugly? Well…. he found himself some second-hand sheet iron, not sure where. (Check your backyards… or forget that, check your cars.) He then built himself a full-sized replica of Dextre. (Pretty good one, too. Almost proud.)

Yeah, well… I do feel a kind of pride about Marvin. He is, after all, the only personal robot assistant I’ve ever worked with, and if I do say so myself, I’ve brought him along rather well. Except for the “being insane” part. And hey, that’s a sickness – just ask my doctor. The upshot is, he can’t help it. So when he does something like build a replica of a space robot, then starts whamming away at it with a sledgehammer, then steals a welder’s torch from the auto repair shop up the road and blasts big molten holes through its frame… it’s…. not…. my …. fault…. (Don’t know how else to say it.) Matt says I should just “pull his power pack” for a week or two, but that’s the easy way out. What would anyone learn from that experience, right? The man-sized tuber, the two Lincolns, and Big Zamboola all agree… this is potentially a teachable moment. We could all come out of this having grown. (Though if Zamboola grows any bigger, he’s going to have to go back in orbit.)

Anyway, what I was trying to convey over the last three paragraphs is that, yes, we are working on the album, albeit slowly. Distractions, distractions… when will they ever cease? Wait a minute…. excuse me… Marvin! Marvin! PUT THAT FLAMETHROWER BACK WHERE IT BELONGS!!

All right, all right, I’m coming. Keep your shirt on. Not wearing a shirt? Fine – keep your pants on. Wait, wait…. don’t tell me… don’t leave me with that image…

Oh, yeah… Hello, friends. Back at the mill again. We survived our little rumble at the rustic local tavern. Hate to tell you how. Suffice to say that it took guile and skill… and a willingness to give in, just a little. Okay… more than a little. Some might call it a total climb-down. We handed back to the bartender the overalls, straw hat, and flannel shirt we’d stolen off of his scarecrow to make Marvin (my personal robot assistant) more presentable. It was a humbling moment, to be sure, but w.t.f., friends, they had pitch forks and broken bottles! We had to think of something, and while ordinarily I’d be the last one to raise the white flag in a fight (reason: I’m usually the first one out the door), I had to think of our fans, our mastering project (still underway!), our corporate overlords, expecting product. Hey – they can’t get it from a corpse, right?

So, back to the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill we went. Back to our comfortable… well, meanly comfortable retreat from a brutish world. Back to the serial responsibilities of a virtual pop group, first amongst which is getting down to some serious virtual work. How much time did we lose on distractions? Too much, damnit. And while we were out carousing, we missed a somewhat important message from Mitch Macaphee, inventor of Marvin, creator of the holographic siege pump (among other things). Seems like he’s had enough of Buenos Aires, had his fill of Rio by the sea-o, and he’s ready to come back and lend us a hand. Lord know we could use it, what with this daunting mastering project looming down upon us. Hour after hour of grueling work. (And that’s just the part when we’re making the gruel. Making the record is even harder!)

Yeah, well… between you and me, Mitch isn’t coming back a moment too soon. As you know, Marvin has been acting a bit strangely, on and off. (I think Matt noticed it first, when he saw Marvin using the man-sized tuber as a coffee table…. I mean… he doesn’t even like coffee!) I just may be possible that, in the midst of that rumble, Marvin might have had a diode or a circuit board knocked loose. No, he’s not doing the same weird stuff as before. He’s actually developed a morbid obsession about that new Canadian robot they’ve hung out on a pole from the International Space Station. Marvin keeps watching YouTube videos of the “Dextre” critter, trying to figure out how fitting him out with “hands” would bring him power. (Perhaps those hands might give him the power to manipulate the space station, then use its power to, dare I say it? Rule…. the world!) This is the kind of thinking that’s going down here at the hammer mill. And frankly, it worries me.

So Mitch, god damn it, get your sorry Ph.D. back here and start working on this wacked-out invention of yours before he rips YouTube a new one. We’ve got an album to finish here… still….

Damn it, tubey! Get your roots off my neck! This bloody floor is covered with glass shards and god knows what else. Let me up, will you?

Good goddamn thing for PDAs, otherwise there’d be no way in hell I could post this week. Freaking hell, were under siege here in The Straw Horse, a local public house we stumbled into last week. Oh, sure…. I know what you’re going to say. “Joe,” you’ll tell me, “aren’t you guys just a little old for barroom brawls?” And the answer to that is, of course, yes. But before you ask a follow-up, let me just explain that this brawl was a.) not my idea, b.) the result of circumstances entirely beyond my control, and c.) started by Marvin (my personal robot assistant) in an uncharacteristic fit of passion. Whoa, hold on… can’t type… here comes another bottle…

Fuck, that was close. Sorry for the interruption. Where was I? Ah, yes. Marvin. Of course, as you remember (just scroll down to last week’s column), was encouraged (by myself and others) to pull on a ludicrous scarecrow get-up in hopes that that would keep us from being ejected from yet another tavern, most of which up here still refuse to serve robots. (Yes, I’m ashamed to say that this is true. There’s a kind of lucite ceiling here in upstate New York… people don’t like to admit it, but there you are.) Well, the cheap disguise worked, after a fashion, and we did manage to purchase a round of libations before the trouble began. (Not sure you want the kids to hear the rest of this… I’ll just pause a minute while you put them to bed. Good night, Mary! Sleep tight, Chucky!)

Now, it seems as though the proprietor of the establishment took a certain amount of pride in the autumnal display he maintains (seemingly year ’round) out in his front yard. And it appears that, in preparing the decorative scarecrow, he employed some of his own discarded clothing to add a certain verisimilitude. As he set up the drinks we ordered (including a white Russian for Marvin), he took notice of the distinctive laundry mark on Marvin’s collar… a mark that he himself had made. Marvin, convinced the clothing was his own, made no effort to conceal the mark. And… well, you can probably guess the next thing that was said. (Clue: it starts with “HEY, Wait a minute….!!”) As a matter of fact, you can probably imagine the entire body of dialogue, as well as the obscene gestures, grunts, and various violent acts that ensued after this unfortunate discovery. (Fact is, I’ve been introduced to some words I’ve never heard before… and if I survive this encounter, I will surely use them.)

So, crikey, here I am on the barroom floor, scrambling for purchase, dodging broken glass, and praying for deliverance. (And I don’t mean the movie, Chucky. So just go back to bed, now – there’s a good little chap.)

Hmmm. I think we need to circle back that way. You see that church over there? We should hang a left right there. Right, I said left. Right, you heard me. Left. RIGHT, LEFT!!

I need a freaking chauffeur, and that’s a fact, friends. Damn this poverty! Damn our puny residuals checks! Damn you, Marvin (my personal robot assistant), you’ve missed that turn again! Kick the thing in reverse and get us back to where we were a minute ago – we’re going to start again. Jeeeezuz! All I want is a couple of beers… is that so much to ask? Day after day in that drafty abandoned hammer mill, little to distract us besides the gnawing of termites and the steady drip-drip-drip from the rafters when it rains. (Even when it doesn’t rain, in fact. That may be a plumbing issue… What do you think, man-sized tuber?) Just needed to break out of that joint, get some fresh air. So what the hell – we borrowed the neighbor’s car and started searching for a convenient night spot wherein to imbibe some stimulating libations. And maybe have a drink, what the hell.

We put Marvin behind the wheel. Our first mistake. Though, perhaps, it would be more accurate to say our first mistake was asking Marvin to accompany us at all. Not that he’s bad company, you understand (in addition to being a bad driver), but he always insists on bringing Big Zamboola along. And if Zamboola goes, well then tubey has to go, too. Then the Lincolns get all interested. Anyway, pretty soon you’ve got a whole carload of freaks and you won’t be allowed in anywhere (or, at least, anywhere you would want to be allowed into). So you drive from place to place, turned away at the door again and again, and pretty soon anti-Lincoln starts getting fussy, then the man-sized tuber wants a glass of water, and so on. Hoo-boy.

I’ll tell you, friends… prejudice is a terrible thing. To think that in this day and age a robot or an overgrown root vegetable or a shrunken planetoid could be refused entry to a public place. It’s disgusting, I tell you. It’s also bloody inconvenient. I mean, we’re out here in the sticks on a cold, cold night, looking for someplace to stop, when we might have had a friendly beer just a block away from our squathouse, had it not been for these persistent freaks we’ve surrounded ourselves with over the past few years. (Matt says they’re accumulating like barnacles on a rusting ship, but I wouldn’t go quite that far.) Still, you go to the pub with the entourage you’ve got, not the one you…. Hey… there’s a place up ahead. Marvin, pull over, man! Hmmmmm. The Straw Horse. Sounds like a nice place. And what luck – there’s a scarecrow in the front yard! Marvin – go get ‘im!

Sure, that straw hat is likely to hang down over Marvin’s eyes, but that’s okay. One of us will lead him to the door. Hey tubey – give Marvin a hand, will ya?

Hey… did you hear that? Those footsteps outside… the creak of a rusty metal door… the grating sound of a mailbox flag being lifted tentatively upright. That can only mean one thing – mail’s in!

What’s that you say, Marvin (my personal robot assistant)? No mail? *sigh* No one writes the colonel. Oh, well…. Marvin, check the Web mail. There are always good tidings in there…

Ah, now that’s better. Let’s just open the old digital mail bag and see what we’ve got here. Hmmmmm…. this looks like a good one. From a fellow named “Jordon Lex”…

Paris Hilton presentation! This photo is stunning! Only 1 day trial – get this Stunning presentation now!

Jordon Lex, Pornville, Texas

Well, thanks for writing, “Lex”. And thanks for the generous offer. Of course, I’m a little slow at answering my Web mail, so the 1-day trial is most certainly past. Very regrettable. Still, we’ll keep the Hilton in mind next time we’re in Paris. Though I should tell you, it’s a little rich for our blood. Truth be told, we live in an abandoned hammer mill and probably couldn’t afford a broom closet in the Paris Hilton. But thanks for thinking of us!

Here’s another one:

Dear Big Green…

Something’s wrong with your new record. I can’t hear the fucker. I mean, it doesn’t sound like anything. I hit the side of my CD player with a hammer, and that didn’t help at all. What’s up with this shit?

– Dirk Mahardy, Cleveland

Thanks for your message, Dirk. I’ve looked into this technical issue and I think I know what the problem is. You see, we haven’t released our new record yet, so what you’re attempting to listen to is a figment of your imagination. Now, our contract with Loathsome Prick Records indemnifies us against all liabilities associated with “figmental imaginagraphic mis-associations” or “flap-doodle” as it’s known in layman’s terms. (Are you a layman, Dirk? If so, use the latter term.)

Last but not least, a little missive from this alert listener in Madison, Wisconsin:

To whom it may concern,

This is the third time I have received a bill from Bogart’s Grocery for goods that I have never purchased. I’m not sure how I can prove a negative, but I have never been in your store, nor do I intend on ever going there in the future. Stop sending this bill or I will call the police.

– Margaret G. Spilling, Madison, WI

Ho, boy! We’re sure sorry for the inconvenience, Margaret! Sure wish we could do something about your little problem. Again, I am forced to refer you to our record contract, which clearly states that we cannot, as an organization, be held responsible for the deeds or misdeeds of organizations that have the same initials as “Big Green.” Much as we would like to give you satisfaction, I’m afraid all we can offer is a free mp3 download of your choice at http://www.big-green.net/mp3.htm. Best of luck!

Got a question that needs an answer? Drop us a line or leave a comment. Always good to hear from you. (Okay, Marvin… shut that pain-in-the-ass Web mail down… now!)

What’s the matter with me? I thought I put that thing away about an hour ago. My mind is becoming unhinged. (Did it have a hinge to begin with? And if so, what was it hinge-ing upon?)

Weighty questions indeed. That’s what you get here at the hammer mill… the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, that is… where you can find the answer to any question but one – how the hell can we stand living here? Now, don’t get me wrong. It isn’t because the place isn’t well appointed (in fact, you might even say that it’s dis-appointed) – this is part of its rustic charm. As someone who has spent much of his life in the lap (or some other anatomical area) of luxury, living in a squat house can be a refreshing change. (Especially on days when you’ve got running water.) No, no… I’m referring to the recent change in ownership, to wit, the unfortunate turn of events that resulted in our corporate label, Loathsome Prick Records, acquiring the title to this old wreck. And before I go on, let me just ‘splain you about something – they don’t see this as an investment property, okay? They see this as leverage.

Leverage towards what? Good question. Seems like ever since the man-sized tuber was a baby carrot, these fuckers have been pushing us to release some product for them to push. Now, if you know Big Green at all, you know our credo… the quality goes in before the music goes out, or something like that. Sure, we’ve been working for years on this project, but damnit, we haven’t gotten to that quality part yet. Damned frustrating thing. We tried to insert the quality right off the bat, but it was just too big. Then Mitch Macaphee came up with a formula that would convert quality into a semi-viscous fluid, which we could then pour into our recordings. But that just managed to gum up the works, and we lost precious time… six months, I believe. (Just try to get semi-viscous fluid out of reel-to-reel tape spools. If you’ve ever seen The Reluctant Astronaut with Don Knotts, you know what I’m talking about.)

Who’s to blame? I think you know the answer to that question. (Oh, yes you do… don’t try to hide in the back, there – I see you!!) It is most assuredly Marvin (my personal robot assistant) who is responsible for the monumental cock-up that has befallen us of late. Now, I know what you’re going to say…. the same thing posi-Lincoln (the good one) has been saying all week: Marvin can’t help himself; Marvin has lost his tiny little nut; Marvin is addlebrained and cracked in the crown. Poor little Marvin, right? Well, goddamn it…. I’m sick and tired of this robot-coddling. If he’s got the poor judgment to go bonkers all over the place, the least he can do is avoid any kind of real estate transactions. I mean, it’s not like he’s a professional realtor or anything. Think of the issues they have to contend with! And I’m supposed to feel sorry for him? It’s unsupportable, damnit, unsupportable!

Phew. Well, I’ve gotten a little overheated here, my friends. And I apologize. I should let Matt take over the keyboard for a couple of weeks. Or maybe Big Zamboola. (Nah… he types with his ass.)

Hmmmm. Play that one back again. Yep, yep. Yep. Uh…. nope. Can’t hear it. Try it again. Try tweaking up the fenstenmacher towards the end, there. Okay, okay…

Oh, hi. (No, not Ojai, California. “Oh…. hi….”) Forgive me for not responding to your presence sooner. I was deep in post-production land, here in the bowels of the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill wherein we have made our home (albeit somewhat tentatively). Yes, we are putting those last few finishing touches on Big Green’s long-awaited sophomore album – truly a labor of love, my friends. (Yes, love… and great hatred. We’ve been toiling on this sucker for almost five years, and I for one can hardly wait to set it loose into the wild.) A subtle and arcane process it is, for sure. What… you’ve never looked in on a Big Green post production session? My god, man… look in, then, look in. Let me be your guide, your interpreter, your local connection, your book-keeper, your rent-a-juggler, your basketball inflator, your….

Okay, I’ve wandered a bit. Sorry. Grueling work, this post production business, especially when you have to do it in a drafty old mill like this, flanked by a needy man-sized tuber, a couple of cranky Lincolns, a wayward planetoid without a solar system, and a lunatic robot. Yes, Marvin (my personal robot assistant) still has his issues, but we’ve pretty much decided to give him his space. (No more banjos in the blender, though. It makes the smoothies taste weird.) After all, this old barn of a place is plenty big enough for a person (or a robot) to go as mad as he/she likes, just so long as he/she doesn’t hurt anybody, or him/herself. Got that, kids? And remember – be free. Okay, everybody got a paddle ball? Good. Start paddling on three… one … two … THREE! Good, Jimmy! That’s the ticket. VERY good!

Ahem. Where was I? Oh, yeah. There’s another distraction, kind of related to the Marvin crazy-man thing. As you may remember from a couple of weeks ago (go back and check, I don’t know for sure), Marvin took it into his little tin head to sign over our squatting rights (such as they are) to the kind and generous folks at our current corporate label, Loathsome Prick Records. As Matt was quick to point out (with a flaming poker, no less), this transaction may tend to give our paymasters a little more leverage over us than some might consider either fair or appropriate. Not that they would necessarily press their advantage, but… necessity has very little to do with it. And just yesterday, in the middle of a mastering session, the playback was drowned out by the sound of a band saw. No, it wasn’t a last-minute avant garde solo thrown into the middle of Do It (Every Time). It was a bunch of workmen hired by Loathsome Prick to rip a new entrance in the courtyard wall. Which just happens to be one of the walls enclosing our makeshift studio. Which just happens to be where I’m standing right now.

So, I don’t know…. what would YOU do if your record label sawed a great big hole in YOUR mastering session? Would you stomp around and curse their bones? Would you pick up a paddle ball? Drop us a line and let us know. (And if any of you know what a Fenstenmacher is, add that to your little message.)

First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is. Om naman shavaya. Ooooommmm…. OooooHooommmm… ahem! ahem! gack!

Whoops – sorry there, folks. Got a frog in my throat. Just trying to catch up on a little relaxation, eastern-style. Yep – transcendental meditation, as practiced by the now-late Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, who passed away just this week. Didn’t know we were into this arcane trend of many decades past? Well…. truth is, not. Just thought that, hell, if it worked for The Beatles and other somewhat more popular pop groups, perhaps it might work for us. So I started meditating, thinking if I did it hard enough, it would make us enormously famous and successful retroactively. Then we could retire to our lonely mountaintop redoubts and play the plastic banjo until doomsday. (Which might be right around the corner…. REPENT!!) Anywho… it hasn’t worked so far. Not sure, but I think I may have coughed up my fifth vertebra. (Whatever it was, it sure seemed crunchy…)

Okay, well, there are other reasons for my resort to distinctly metaphysical sources of comfort here in the bowels of the Cheney Hammer Mill. One biggy is the continuing madness of Marvin (my personal robot assistant), who has persisted in the bizarre practices I described in last week’s entry (if you missed it, scroll down and you’ll see why I’m so discomfited). And as if that isn’t bad enough, he’s added a few more strange things to his repertory – stuff like, well, bouncing around on his head while reciting the acknowledgments page in his owner’s manual. Like putting a tambourine in the blender and drawing question marks on the outside with axle grease from the local garage. I could go on, but I’ll spare you. (You might start meditating, as well… and we can’t have that.)

As you may recall, Marvin’s inventor, the unredoubtable Mitch Macaphee, is far to busy doing nothing in Buenos Aires to come out here and straighten his creation out. This is not good. We’re in the closing phase – yes, friends, the closing phase – of production on our new album. Just today, Matt and I were editing a piece of some ambient sound we recorded on Cancri 55 into one of the songs on the new album – a little number called “Volcano Man”. (There’s this strange interlude about halfway through – you’ll hear it.) Yes, we’re sprinting to the finish line like overheated sloths… but this mad Marvin business is seriously getting in our way. No, seriously…. if he doesn’t get a grip, we may have to pull his power supply. Yes. Oh, yes.

Whoa… wait a minute, hold on. Can’t get too worked up, now. Must relax. Ooooommmm. Namaaaaaann. Shhhharayaaaaa. OooooomyGod, he’s doing it again! Put that blender down, Marvin!