good Morning,
I have the vapors, I have too much spleen. I’m phlegmatic and bilious. The country doctor gave me medicine but the medicine did nothing. I threw the phial across the room and it shattered into a thousand twinkling pieces. My Bunsen burner struggled through the night. When I awoke to the grey dawn, the call of a crow wound its way into my garret where I spend each day experimenting with ROMPLERS.
The ROMPLERS have a layer of dust on them because I keep the windows open during pollen season. I like to watch the plants mate with the ROMPLERS and pray for the health of their offspring. So far, no offspring have appeared but I cannot abandon hope. Not yet. Not until I have given the ROMPLERS back their voices. XL-1, Mo’Phatt, TR-Rack, XR-20, K2500RS, Pro/cussion, Proteus 2k, and sundry others clatter and bleat. I am the master of ceremonies and the ROMPLERS make up a grand party. We dance.
The dizziness should have gone by now, certainly, but I refuse to stop my experiments. The Bunsen burner lights the way. The ROMPLERS seem to take on strange shapes in the half-light and their moods turn ugly as the light fades from the evening sky. MIDI, help me! I curse but receive no reply. I fall into a fugue on my cot.
In the fugue I see the outlines of five dope tracks, ghosts of ghosts at first, then solidifying into sound shapes one could almost touch. I see a bust of Venus. I see the red ball taunting the night sky and the endless checkerboard landscape extending toward the infinite dark that awaits us all. Even in my fever, I knew then that I had been composing and that when health returned I would have dope tracks to share with my accomplices, peers, and, dare I call them, friends.
These are the tracks:
Sincerely yours,
David B. Applegate
