A slow solo sax phrase, fading into:

Interior acoustic, a small flat, maybe distant traffic. There is a sense of two people in the room. JOE is close-miked

JOE: How long since I gigged? How long how long? Howling my ebonite saxophone night-hawking , straight up from the deathgut... How long since I was the guvnor? How, how, how...

Must have been the early seventies since I last did the guvnor gaffs. Ronnie's old place and the Flamingo on Wardour Street.. Reading Jazz Festival... Festival Hall supporting Miles and his electrophonic deep shit...I was as good as any American, they said so in the Melody Maker. "Joe Cameron. Britain's great white hope on saxophone...his new album The Mystery Vibe takes jazz into new dimensions. "

New dimensions. Put that in your pissy little mini-disc recorder. You hear what I'm saying? Hear what I hear? Nobody hears shit.

Nobody heard the album. No, they sold ninety-three copies. So seventies. A sad time for horns and cosmic breathing. Guitars got into everything, jingle jangle went those fuzzy wankers, pretty boys killed off the saxophone colossus, and hey Joe here goes your record contract, sorry about that, you can always teach...

No, that's not why I quit. I didn't dump my brass cone with the twenty-six holes because some jobsworth who deserves a gobsworth decides I'm a lost art, lost cause, can't get a good return on my death-wail. No, I'd endured too much already. Too much, man.

My silence is secret. And brazen. Let's keep it a bop secret, in the soul silo. Rather talk about playing the dues for the blues, about my first horn, white plastic acrylic alto like Ornette's, only twenty quid, and I was hoping that twitchy fingers and teen puff would soon blow my soul straight up the curve of that rampant bell. And make the birds take off their clothes. And fly with me.

"You sound serious," said Arnie Hanson, my first teacher, " like a serious fire in a pet shop."

But Arnie revealed the dots, the scales, the chords, the mathematics of your old Greeks and Egyptians that keep the cosmos in shape. He made me learn the standards and the changes, earn the secrets of the craft. Not like your punk rappers in their crack houses, scratching each other's vinyl arseholes.

And Arnie taught me part of something else. Get down, get this down. The real secret of your sound. It's in the breath and the mouthpiece. You got to breathe like a column of fire. And you have to find the right mouthpiece.

"You mean choose ebonite, bronze, or stainless steel ...?" I'd ask.

"The material doesn't matter," Arnie finally told me, week before he died. "It's the inner dimensions of your mouthpiece, the internal geometry.. The shape of the tone chamber, the slope of the baffle, the width of the opening. You must have the correct dimensions."

Of course - you guessed it - the right dimensions are different for every player. That's the bugger.

It became the quest. My perfect mouthpiece.

The sax motif again fading in and out briefly under:

JOE: During the early sixties, the mouthpiece search was just part of my cool routine, my habit, like buying an ounce of roonie from Derby Don or Abysinnian Ned, like cultivating a tight jaw, shades, sharp hair and a cubist suit, so I could walk past the greengrocers of South London carrying my karma, my battered case for the blues. It was cool to be cool back then. I aimed for zero minus infinity.

So I'd wander into Lewington's off the Charing Cross Road, finger through a tray of used mouthpieces, try out an Otto Link Five-Star Metal, a Berg Larsen hard rubber, a white plastic Brillhart like Bird used to blow, and then reject the lot before strolling out.

The old dance-band guys that ran the gaff would mutter, but they were used to it. Coltrane was supposed to have a bloody great wardrobe full of dead mouthpieces. And with a rep like his, everyone was on the case.

One summer afternoon around 1966 - sixty-six, all the chicks- I'd spent about an hour checking out a metal Runyon with a wide opening. I wanted to become louder, wilder, edgier. Because the times they were a changing, I was working in this electric blues band, and their British Blooze were mutating, Alimony Slim and his Mojo Men were morphing into Amaymon's Orgone Temple , just like the album covers were going psychedelphic, and my purple shirt was radioactive.

But the Runyon wasn't quite right, it didn't seem comfortable with my old Selmer Mark Six. Mark Six Six Six. Still the best horn. Yeah, I've still got the remains of it. Still hear it. Strictly in my head.

And this voice floated over my left shoulder as I rummaged through the trays. "Try that beaky-looking one." She was slight, dark, big peaked leather hat, op-art dress, black lip-stick.. Her eyes burned. I was in the groove right away. It was permitted to groove then. Right on that moment I felt pretty good .

I felt the mouthpiece in my palm. It felt unusually heavy.

I must have asked her what the hell did she play at - not many female horn players back then - and she must have smiled or murmured, I can't decide which now, must be careful not to make this up, but while I was sliding that tight-fitting mouthpiece on to the neck of my horn, she suddenly wasn't there, and all I caught as I turned my head was the swing of the shop door. Oh, the magic of chickery. Dig it.

The mouthpiece - THE mouthpiece - seemed to be bronze with a black ebonite inlay , and a long tip, a wide opening, very worn, deep toothmarks on the ebonite. No sign of a manufacturer's name or serial number. There was a half-eroded logo, like an odd bird-headed figure. It was ridiculously cheap, so what the hell.

To the amazement of Lenny behind the counter I bought it right there without giving it a single blow.

The sax motif again but with reverb / phasing , fading in and out briefly under:

JOE: That night I'd promised to jam down at the CIA. The Cosmic Intelligence Agency wasn't a jazz pub, wasn't an R&B club, wasn't quite an art gallery or a cinema or a bookshop or a theatre. But it was happening.

The poet Nick Bonevitz - you're too young to know Nick - had started this all-night free happening Soho basement thing, mixing the media, melting the edges, girls go go to the poetry beat, the burning celluloid loops the loop, and Rod our guitarist from the evolving Mojo Templars could blast his freaking AC30 feedback around and around the black walls...

He insisted I got into it. "You play what you feel, Joe. Play free. Play off the lights spinning on the ceiling, play off Nick's mantras, whatever, man. You play into your own space-time!"

4 SFX: Change of acoustic - basement echo Erratic hand drum , scrape and thump of piano being dragged, piano strings plucked and strummed, audience mumblings ("Far out.. happening, man...) under:

JOE: But Rod wasn't there when I stumbled into the depths. Two guys in leather harnesses were dragging a broken piano across the stage, another beating it with rolled-up newspapers. Some bloke was getting intense on bongos. The audience lay on the floor.

Normally I'd try new gear at home before risking it on a gig, but did it matter here? I hid behind a pillar and got out my Rizlas while Bonewitz howled his long poem.

Distant filter/treatment on JOE/BONEWITZ:

uranium gods, beetles of the satanic dung
roll over roll over Hanoi Saigon
the flames of Kali
torching my white tricycle the last lilies
while neon Picadilly implosions
strafe quivering boardroom bedroom flesh...

Scattering of applause - and fade

JOE: And so it went.

Don't laugh, you're gonna need that poem some day.

Rod arrived at last, with the drummer from the Original Sins - usual pilled-up mod type - and a worried-looking bass player. Nick told the audience we would be "taking a trip into a new musical interzone." They were silent. Just a blissed-out shadowy mass.

I let the others set up first, rolled another industrial-strength jazz cigarette, then got out my horn, and slid the mouthpiece on to the neck.

Long reverberant sax lines, slowly increasing in volume and intensity under:

JOE: It felt weird right from the start. Just to get a whisper of a note I had to force the embouchure, really lock my chops like I had terminal tetanus. But once I'd locked on to it it was, like the young dudes say, awesome.

Even tuning up, with a medium reed, I could feel a huge extra vibration that seemed to go right through the keys into my fingertips. All the freak high harmonics at the upper end of the horn, the ones Monsieur Adolphe Sax never expected anyone to find, just emerged as soon as I imagined them.

I heard Rod start his riff. Nick's 8 millimeter projectors rolled and the cellar became a cave of wobbly mottled light.

Rhythm pattern, heavy bass, space funk scratch sax line ebbing and flowing under:

JOE: The pulse thickened. The horn was going to speak for me. I laid a line on top. A long blue line. How long, how long.. This mouthpiece could hold it for ever.

The line took a loop, snaked and coiled back , danced on an interlace of light in iridescent filaments. Yes, yeah, you heard it all before, the old numinous trippy happy brain busting blusterooni, but it was really happening, baby, surreality going down down at the CIA. And the dreamy time started to take itself out, out, outermost...

I saw her at the edge of the dream-cone, in her psychetropic dress, dancing in spirals, flexing her body to the bend of the notes. I was breathing her in and out, into my brass cone of power, tightening the lip, lipping up the micro-tones, into those high harmonics, her dancing ghost tones.

And then I hit the deep split notes, macro-tones, bull-roaring belly-aching chords, bell of the horn shuddering, Overtones of the overman over and over Something was playing me, playing her around and around.

The Agency of the Cosmic Intelligence was dissolving , resolving itself, realigning the walls into a dark triangulation, trapping us in its hole, holy chamber, this contracting black pyramid.

I spoke through the mouthpiece. The mouthpiece spoke through me:

Sax and beats continue, plus Vocoder/filter treatment on JOE/MOUTHPIECE:

Echo or loop under:

JOE: It's all now, isn't it, I can still hear those sounds decaying, decades later, because I'm decadent, but you can't, can you, you haven't got my inner ear, the knowledge of the lost chord, you think I'm a victim of my own bloody creationism, dontcha, hey? But you still want to know what happened.

Nothing. Then an un-happening.

Doors breaking down, confused shouting, angry police voices ("bleeding hippies ")

A blast of light, and I couldn't breath, elbow in my chest, because men in blue domed helmets had stormed the stage. The fuzz just bust down the doors in search of us noise nuisances and found all these soft bodies clutching dope in their knickers, and Nicky-nacky-noo who hadn't got an entertainment licence was nobbled by the knackers, and it was off to the Yard, excuse me, sir, while I stomp on your goolies, this is the Reality Principle speaking.

I was dazed, clutching my bleeding lip but I managed to duck behind the wreck of the piano and fumble my precious horn into its case, while the Old Bill were herding their catch of sheepish hippies.

When I looked up, I couldn't see the dazzling op-art dress, and when I'd backed out through the fire exit, she wasn't up in the throng on the pavement, although my ears were still ringing with that vibe, and Old Compton Street was shaky as a B-movie back lot.

Rod somehow took me back to his pad and I crashed for forty-eight hours. When I unpacked the horn, I found a slight dent in the bell. And, yes, the mouthpiece was missing.

"Must have dropped it in all the fuss," said Rod, "you were too busy looking for that chick. I didn't see nothing..."

The sax motif fading in and out briefly under:

JOE: Yes, of course I went back to the bloody venue , ready to check it out inch by inch. The Soho landlord was already gutting it, turning a cellarful of rubble into the Purple Pussycat, members only, "a respectable club, no more beatniks and weirdos, see..". He suggested removing my front teeth might make me play better.

So I resumed my regular cruise of the music shops, trying to describe my magic mouthpiece, drawing it from memory, expounding its extraordinary properties. The staff at Lewington's would groan as I entered. Nothing worse than a punter with a mad theory of everything and no money. They gave up trying to fob me off and eventually ignored me.

Solo sax under:

JOE: Then I'd practise obsessively, in the hope of rediscovering that unique vibration, that sense of being sung by an alien tongue. I tried every permutation of fingering and embouchure, I tried circular breathing and harmonics, I played every interval, all the arpeggios, all the scales, nine hours a day non-stop.

Little Stephanie stopped coming round to cook her useful three-day casseroles, and the gorgeous bored Fenella with the flat in Belgravia skived off with a graphic designer so there I was, starving and horny, the authentic blue monk droning through the nights. And I didn't care.

Over the months the notes would eventually get longer and faster and louder and thicker and I was really getting my tough shit together but the sacred moment wouldn't happen, time and space didn't shimmer in front of me, no split in the bedsit walls to show a glimpse of those floating hands and flashy Atlantean eyes, not a glimmer.

On gigs with Rod I was playing more and more for myself - if I could hear myself over Rod's guitar feedback. The stage became an extension of my private space where I could try out mad new sonorities. But despite the crashing sonic wave fronts and the lights and the dope, no damn thing happened.

I kept coming back to Arnie's idea of the secret geometry, the sacred proportions of the tone chamber. I collected paperbacks on acoustics and Egyptology and the Lost Wisdom of Atlantis and read them for hours in band wagons going up and down the M1, the words wobbling on the page as I tried to make it all fit together. Pythagoras, Pi, the Golden Section (1.618 recurring) , the ground plan of the Great Pyramid, the ratio between the tip opening and the internal diameter of a hollow slug of bronze and hard rubber - I couldn't make it add up.

Desperate to intuit something, anything, I took up yoga for a month and went to muddled lectures about the Space Gods, I went to Glastonbury and let mad street people grip my elbow and tell me about their sightings of King Arthur and the ufo that got away. I expanded my drug habits to include different kinds of mushrooms and spent a week semi-paralytic locked in a toilet, dribbling and moaning that I'd never play again.

In the event I got kicked out of Rod's band, now known as Kandinski's Overmole Passion, partly for becoming unreliable but also for not being a guitarist. It was an omen of things to come.

But there and then it forced me to straighten up. I realised I had to focus on the centre of my sound, the jazz sound, in memoriam Arnie Hanson, I had to project my pure jazz licks up front, not lurk in the electric fudge of rock. I had to make do with my ordinary set-up, the old Selmer and a Dukoff Number 6 - and then I had find the right guys - just keyboards, bass, drums. I had to work my way back into the jazz orbit and let the vibe of the Cosmic Intelligence Agency fade.

It's been a long slow fade.

For a while my survival strategy worked. Because I worked hard and fast. The Joe Cameron Quartet got pretty damn good, you can go back to the critics and the record reviews and the listings, I don't have to prove anything here and now, you can get hold of the albums. Somewhere. In the vinyl graveyard. You hear how the repertoire grew. I took things from Bird and Trane and Ornette and my man Sun Ra and made them mine.

Only thing that didn't grow was the audience. Despite the odd prestige gig, by 1972 it had dwindled to back rooms in pubs. The traddy buffs in cardigans would leave after the first number, young guys hankered for the funky wahwah.

One August night in a gloomy bar in the suburbs - Wimbledon, I think - we reached a point in the evening when there were more of us on the stand than on the floor . Two heckling drunks and a solitary girl. The old geezers left after my deliberately extreme solo, but the girl sat at her table through the rest of the set. I often played with my back to the audience so I didn't really get a look at her until we'd finished and the lights went up.

She was slim and dark and flaunted black lip-stick. The long hair was now bobbed, a leather coat replaced the op-art sheathe, she was hiding behind wrap-around shades but otherwise the resemblance, this cloning from my deep past, was unsettling. I was very tired by now and I'd drunk a lot of Southern Comfort. My inner ear was humming with a faint vibration.

" I think we've met somewhere. Music shop, West End, around sixty-six..?."

"I don't think so. I spent most of sixty-six abroad. But it doesn't matter. I love your sound."

She called herself Zara. Or Cleo. Or Estelle. I don't know, I've tried so hard to dredge it up, it's always on the tip of my tongue. Perhaps it's a secret. Shan't tell you. Let's call her Cleo. Cleo was a dancer. Or a jeweller. I wasn't quite sure as the liquor was blearing everything at the edges. But she really liked my sound. And I liked her likeness.

Cleo wanted me to go back to her place. Which was only two hundred miles away, in the West Country. A hip white cottage by the sea. She'd only just bought it. She was inviting some friends I simply had to meet. Film directors, poets, musicians, some of them with deals and connections and good sound equipment. Perhaps I could bring my horn and record some tracks. Maybe I needed some space, time for inner voyages. Talents like mine needed nurturing.

I let her bright metallic syllables dance over me, my boozy gaze flickered on her dark lips. Luck this good was so unbelievable it was meaningless, it would never happen. But she tossed a card into my sax case as she sauntered towards the door.

I drove down two days later, in mist and rain. The transmission on my rusty Mini was always dodgy and by the time I'd passed Exeter the gearbox was grumbling and grinding its teeth. And when I finally made it, around midnight, lurching down the lumpy mudbath lane to the hip white cottage, I knew this could be an expensive one-way trip.

They were all in the dining room: big table, oak beams, lots of bottles and drippy candles and hookahs and hashtrays, a broken sitar in the corner, huge stereo, all that gear.

Cleo made an entrance in her long beaded robe and introduced me. The poets were ex-members of the Bonewitz faction, and I recognised a guitarist once known as the Chordless Wonder, fired by every band in London, now draped in a caftan. There was a woman who'd worked the projectors at the CIA . She was waving an 8-millimeter wind-up camera. I guessed this was the film-making. Nobody said much. Maybe people didn't talk much back then, they were all pretending to be fucking alien telepaths, I dunno. I fell asleep on a sofa.

When I woke up, it was sunlight, high noon, and the place was deserted. I found a bathroom and a kitchen and some stale bread and some coffee, and then decided I might as well work on the horn. I wandered upstairs and found a kind of loft. Under the low timbers I ran through a chart of Round Midnight - always loved that tune - and then tried some of my extended harmonics and overtones.

"You never stop, do you? Always striving. You're amazing..."

She was standing in the stairwell, dark blouse half-open, a massive bronze pendant gleaming between her breasts. Her lips glistened. I probably said something clumsy, made an awkward movement, stood all louche and half-cocked, while she circled her hot white space.

"You can play tonight if you like. Play with my friends. Or play just for me...?"

"Whatever you like..."

"Perhaps both can arranged. It can all be recorded for posterity. Even eternity.." She
smiled.

"I'm sure I've played with you before."

"Maybe..."

"You told me you weren't around in sixty-six. Why?"

"I didn't want to confuse you with an information overdose. Better to recall the rhythms of the past gently..."

"I'd rather rediscover them right now." I must have touched her waist. She twisted herself away.

"Maybe later..." Then she took my hand and placed my fingers between her breasts, neatly unhooking the huge cylindrical pendant. "You might need this."

I could feel it in my palm, heavy and warm. I stared at it stupidly as she ran down stairs, out of the house, into the garden, into the woods. Then I realised that it had a cap which could unscrew.

The mouthpiece slid out into my hand.

The sax motif fading in and out briefly under:

JOE: There must have been an interval. Hours maybe when I sat cradling the
damn horn in my lap. Or stood, gripping that bloody mouthpiece between my sore jaws, blowing into the void.

They came back for me late afternoon. The Chordless Wonder had disappeared but one of the poets was carrying a Uher portable recorder.

Because Cleo and her friend Lucy the film-maker had an idea. After we'd feasted we were going down to the beach, I was going to play freedom music , poets of the tribe would beat congas, Cleo would dance, and Lucy would film us ,while the spools revolved to capture it all for eternity.

They spread the feast on the big table. Big eats, big spliffs. I ate their curry in silence as I watched Cleo and Lucy laughing in slow motion. I was in the depths, floating between dread and desire. I'd got what I wanted. No way back now.

Outdoor acoustic. Stylised waves, wind water, gulls under:

JOE: Later we walked around the coastal path, spiralling down towards the sunset. Huge walls of purple cloud filled the horizon. The wind was rising. They skipped ahead, while I lugged my heavy case through the long grass and across the dunes. We went on and on. My pointy boots didn't work so well on shingle and slimy rocks so I fell behind and lost sight of them for a few minutes as they turned around the headland .

I arrived at a wide stretch of glistening sand under the sandstone cliffs. The tide seemed to be moving in fast, the waves were rolling high but Cleo was tracing some geometrical doodle with a bit of driftwood while Lucy fiddled with her camera. The light was going. She would have to light the scene with a flare. There'd only be one take.

One of the poets waved a microphone and looked at me expectantly. So I opened my karmic case and assembled my horn in the twilight. Cleo smiled as I slowly forced the crook into the mouthpiece.

Sax, sustained, resonant, then turbulent, with hand drums under:

JOE: I warmed up the horn with a few blasts into the wind, then turned towards the cliffs, all hollowed and fluted and crumbing. My blurts echoed and ricocheted.

Somebody shouted that the tape was rolling. And Lucy wanted some action. When I turned again, the drums had started, and naked Cleo was gliding across the sand.

I made a long fierce mad bird cry and an answering phrase, like what was I doing here, what was I, what was the nowness of here or her , what or who was going down, I didn't know but I couldn't stop,.

Cleo spun and leaped and twisted in the stuttering light of the flare. Her body gleamed, the flames glinted in the bell of my horn, and I began to feel that double resonance, the overtones and those mind-wrenching undertones, as if my head was going to split right open and a great wet darkness was flooding in.

Now I was wallowing helplessly in my sound-world. Wavelets streamed in around my ankles, I can hear it now, that spray and shingle. I lent right back to balance against the weight of the horn, the enormous unexpected weight of the mouthpiece, as glistening Cleo came closer, closest, I could feel her fingertips, her mouth against my body.

For a few seconds I was just sheer resonance, a column of pure dancing waveforms.

Then I dimly realised that hands were trying to force me off balance, down, into the rising tide and its undertow, and a fist - her bloody fist -snatched at the neck of the horn. The flare spluttered and expired and we were all rolling in the salty blackness.

I was used to playing on my back, I guess, walking the bar with Alimony Slim. Her slim steely fingers were trying to twist my neck under but I pulled right away, raised my machine like flaming Excalibur and managed to spout one final total sustained full-bore note. All the tones. My busting lungs filled the tone chamber. Fortissimo. Maximum fire-power. The megaton blast.

Sax and wave sounds converge in cataclysmic roar - massive low-frequency rumble growing under:

JOE: The cliff replied. And the edge of the cliff trembled. I must have hit it in the root of its Devonian being, rumbled the secret note of its foundation.

And the whole fucking lot, tonnes of red sandstone slid down, down down, it was unstoppable, it kept on coming , into the crash of the waves, to create a great vortex of water, sand, and rubble. And it caught Cleo.

Long reverberations on voice, slowly fading under:

There were questions, of course. An inquest. How foolish of urban bohemian riff-raff to go partying on a beach that locals respected for its occasional freak tidal bores and fragile cliffs. How regrettable that in their drug-addled state these feckless young people were incapable of recovering Miss Cleo Segrave's body from the fierce currents and whirlpools that eddied round this spectacular coastline. A verdict of accidental death was recorded.

Lucy came to see me a week later. Her camera had cracked open when she dropped it, the film had spooled away in the tidal uproar, but she had her own version of events.

" You were trying to screw her mind, weren't you, you cheap little muso. If you hadn't been trying to hypnotise her with those horrible noises, this would never have happened."

I showed her the door but I didn't argue. I believe she went on to direct a series of successful mouthwash commercials.

I retrieved the tape, eventually, after making complicated overtures via Nick Bonevitz. It contained several minutes of Lucy giggling, a lot of wind noise, and then it went dead, as if the guy had tugged out the microphone cable as soon as I started tuning up. Bloody poets are useless even with good technology.

The horn was dented, corroded, almost wrecked beyond repair. Cheaper to buy another, so a few weeks later I got an efficient Japanese instrument. And tried to continue the Joe Cameron Quartet. Without that mouthpiece, and its mythology.

Distant sax bleats and grunts under:

But I played less and less. Even with my normal set-up, I couldn't get the right sound any more, my speed was faltering, my tuning was decaying. If I tried for the extreme notes the breath ebbed in my body. And I got these splitting head-aches, toothaches, pyorrhea, abcesses. And cyclical nightmare dreamscapes. I was/was not guilty.

The doctor could do no good. I started cancelling gigs. And, of course, I tried the usual opiates to ease my bodily comfort. Bet you first thought I was a simple old ex-junkie. At the time the music press all thought I was a very pro-active young junkie, who was taking early retirement. They didn't know the whole back-story, like you do.

The actual mouthpiece? It's over there on the shelf, by the Blue Note albums. I was going to get it analysed in a lab somewhere but then I've thought better of it. The other choice is throw it back, on that beach. But that's no way back for me or Cleo. Of course it would be good for your feature if you could handle it, measure it, take it to an expert. Maybe try it yourself. Go on...?

No? No-one listens to me. And my big mouth.

But old Nick Bonevitz has become a good mate over the years. He sent me something he found on the Web a couple of months back: Listen up...

Page rustling:

"...according to sources even earlier than Plato, allegedly derived from a tablet at the Great Temple of Heliopolis, the Atlantean rites were in their decadence decidely sinister, no innocent celebration of a benevolent sea-deity. The rebirth of the Goddess and the renewal of the Aeon demanded sacrifice. A priest-musician was chosen for his skill on the serpentine horns favoured by the Atlantean aristocracy and perfected by their skilled bronze-workers. He played for one of the Sacred Temple Harlots, selected for her beauty and intelligence, who took the role of the Dancing Goddess, Kaila. As his music aroused her to heights of lascivious abandon, she would lure him to the water's edge where he would be ceremonially drowned. There is a variant account, found in the Rev. Chiswell-Jones Curious Rites of the Primal Age (1888) in which the musician carnally possesses the dancer, who is herself then slaughtered by suffocation..."

It's from some book called Time Captains of Ancient Atlantis. Mind you, there's a lot of dangerous old rubbish trapped in that Net. I have to keep my twisted mind half-closed, my mouth under control. I'm going to play again some day. ...

MUSIC rises and fades