More Strange Treasures from the (Shoe Box) Vault

It was perhaps February, 1992. New York City. 5th Street between avenues A and B. Snow outside, but Francis’ studio apartment overly warm from the steam heater we could not control. The room was steamy. We were drinking herbal tea.

All of us, at different points throughout the day, gathered on his bed around the 4-track recorder, the microphone. Francis D, Robert The, Bob Nozawa (then Bob Dung), Marta VI, and me. One track at a time – Robert trying out his Mongolian throat singing, Bob speaking in tongues, Marta moaning and banging on pans, me moaning and singing and howling – all of us chanting – dancing in circles, shaking, jumping, rolling on the ground.

No drugs. Just sound.

At some point, Siobhan Meow comes over, maybe brings their sax? This might be an imagined memory.

Sto came over, too. He said, “I can’t handle this. You guys are freakin’ me out. This is huge. You guys are huge. I gotta go.” He looked rattled. He left.

The recording session lasted til late in the afternoon. Mixed onto and recorded over a tape of Inuit women chanting (oops).

We worked up a good appetite. A day deserving of something hot – likely vindaloo. 

This was the beginning of the freakiness of the 90s. It was perfect. I miss it. I didn’t think it would end. I want more. 

Image of me at 21 taken by George Tiboni – close to the time this recoding was made