Made by Dylan McCartney at the attic in the village by the cemetery with ancient tapes, several drums, two or three synthesizers, a bass guitar, shakers of a few sizes, a cowbell, a century old bugle, a broken melodica, two tambourines, the “thing”, a harmonizer, a destroyed contact mic, barely functioning buzzing amplifiers, sounds of the 1401, two warped electric guitars, a hand drum from my late uncle Gordon, a computer on the brink of a fatal crash, consumer grade microphones, a truculent flanger, a few bottles of ouzo, a bevy of self-induced paranoid delusions, bridges between Cincinnati and Kentucky, the companionship of a frightful cosmic tale, the solitude of the forsaken spot, vivid and visceral nightmares, red lights, night rides and poisoned air.
