Part 1 from this 5-part composition built in the mixing studio (primarily from separately recorded components). World music meets the music of other worlds. Vocal, voices, theremin, keyboards, moog, violin, sitar, bass, roto-toms, tabla, doumbek.
unique music jazz opera n
Story behind the song
Text originated from the interactive novel "The Texture of the Sky": www.discord-aggregate.com/texture.
Lyrics
You are staggering down a long corridor. All you have to do is Clear Customs. You know you're clean.
You are next you are next you are nnnnnnnneeeeeeexxxxtttt!!!!!
You leap into the air over the Plains of Customs. You question your courage: can you do it? SLAM! SLAMMMMMMMM again - and you have been hit, mid-air, engines screaming and ground too close, flash of a grinning khaki face - your nemesis!
2
You come back on your front, surrounded by Customs Officials. Your purple oatmeal-bruised shoulder aches and stings: what happened!? There! There he is, the one who scorched you from your spread-eagled glory. Folded accordion flesh leaking slowly into your eyes. One eye left - he fixes it on you, scornful, triumphant - and then he is dead and hissing, evaporating even as you watch. Leave, just leave, the dream is dead, the joy scorched. And you and you and you have yet to be Searched . . .
With such gentle dismay, such impeccable regret, you are informed that due to your unfortunate altercation with the apparent head boil of the rebellion, a simple Patdown will not do. A Full Search, fine, you've nothing to hide, clean as a babys whistle. Perhaps a Strip Search? And now arriving with unheard cannon, the Senior Official With A Lot Of Bright Buttons swarms into view. Perhaps, possibly, would you be so kind as to remove your clothes?
The flesh on your shoulder screams.
3
A mouth has somehowwhen formed on your shoulder, nestled in the center of the pain, screaming, teeth gnashing, spit flying. You are panicking now, on edge, reminding yourself that you have nothing to hide, but what if you do? What if he planted something on you, stashed the goods? Your ear starts to pulse, a grinding snap - and a fist slams into your eye. You howl, an Official grabs the hand and begins to pry open the fingers. Whats in the hand, the mouth? Is it Is it Is it Contraband? What if they find it, what if you're guilty, what if you are taken away screaming knowing somewhere in you is something bad and The Officials will find it! They will split you open, make an example of you! Pain radiates through your back as each vertebra begins a jiggling dance of fist and mouth birth. Hands pawing at your own flesh, fingers claw and scramble to stretch into impossible chewing crevices. Officials have you down on the ground now as you writhe in the grip of your own suffocating digits. Your body shudders, holes open, fingers pry, mouths clench, grinding teeth refuse, thousands of hands grab, hold, arms go through you, groping Officials grim-faced and justified. Your eyes explode, birthing, gaping, blind! Fingers claw at bone, slippery, triumphant, where are your own hands? WHERE ARE YOUR OWN HANDS?!?
