Back in 1999, I released a record that you couldn’t play. What follows is taken from the press sheet.
Imagine 7″ vinyl and art combined. A record made without instruments, tape recorders, computers or sound, made without going into a recording studio, made without a conception of how it will be heard until it is played, if it is played at all.
Imagine the hardest sounds your stereo can cope with, with no regard for rhythm, tone, timbre, melody or key, giving up only the by-product of a messy and violent coupling.
Imagine a record which has a history, but which is then rewritten in a smothering, revisionist tactic, a cruel drowning of the efforts of past artists, relabelled and appropriated for nothing, nothing, nothing.
Imagine a record disunited with its ability to entertain, a record devoid of funk, grooves, rock, roll and soul. A record tied up and shamed, strong armed into relinquishing the very qualities that define it, dislocating its overweening pride and conscending pomposity.
This, fathermuckers, is what you have right now. It’s what you’d expect from Spunkle, only in a way you’d never expect. After this, nothing will have changed.