Hello. It's me again. Steven E. Streight and His Sounds. This time I'm being coerced against my will by some alien beings, disguised as "wainwrights" (wagon repair technicians) who, as they pointed complex ray gun arrays at me, gave me no choice but to jam with them. You must understand that I didn't want to do it, and I don't like this music we made. I put it here for the advancement of science and to facilitate intergalactic trans-species cooperation.
These weird Andromedans were misinformed by their intelligence agencies, and thought Earth was still in the pioneer days. Imagine their dismay when they found very little wagon repair work. Luckily some gypsy wagons rolled by, which are a popular form of housing for hordes of home foreclosure nomads. The Andromedans cruelly forced me to talk along with the music, as I twisted dials and pulled on levers. (I tricked them into believing that's how we humans accompany music, with talking, because I can't sing.) I warned them, however, that my talking would ruin the music. They decided to include it anyway, but later expressed their distaste for my jejune vocal wafflings.
They mistrust my Junior Astronauts Association, but many are joining in the space travel fun, like this guy...Matt Solo: Amateur Astronaut
One of the vagabond ladies, a gypsy queen I think, wandered into the studio, and I begged her to do some operatic warbling. She was so good, the Andromedans took her back with them to their star system. My talking was frowned upon as not possessing harmonic modality congruent with their aural receptor glands. But I was being shot at by neighbors, as you can hear in "We Come To Fix Your Wagon". It was the combination of wainwright hammerings and musical chaos that made them try to stop me with bullets.
A group of Tibetan Buddhists stopped by. I pleaded with them to join in. Their contributions to "Spiral Disk of Stars" and "Abnormal Atomic Debris" were stellar. The guitar strummer? An ordinary unemployed guy who wanders around yelling at himself. He played some cool riffs, we worked them in. He accepted an uncondimented sandwich as payment. Try to enjoy this involuntary musical jamboree, which seemed to amuse, to some degree, the hideous extraterrestial freaks, whose faces perpetually mutate and morph like lava lamps.
They made me burn 1,000 CDs of the recordings. Then they loaded them into their spaceship and bid me a fond farewell. Sure. They'll make tons of money on their planet, whilst I have only a CD of music no earthling could possibly tolerate, to commemorate the bizarre event. They promised to return on March 22nd to do the show at Peoria's Clock Hat Lounge (see poster in left panel). I'll record the performance and post tunes from it here for educational purposes only.
i went to high school in Lincoln, IL, but Peoria was the closest metropolis where we went to concerts and other actions, all the best and good sounds, j)
hello from Brasil, i've been in Peoria (many) years ago in high school times, and now surfing (doinig) eletronic sounds, welcome to Pterodata, all the best, j)
When y'all're tarred of petty human and alien music, step it up and visit us: we are animals and birds in field recordings only slightly tampered with by anthro agency. We leap from bushes and disappear into thin air and thick hair. I was sick when I wrote this, which is now, but when you read it, will be later.
