Unmarked Noise explored and imploded the edges of his basement's headroom, scraped up the remains and put them in a test-tube, Bunsen-burned what was not yet scorched, spread the ashes over the ever fertile grounds of Amsterdam, flirted with the local scenery while waiting for his fruits to grow, Mashed them up, poured that in a mold, and made sweet love to it. That!, my ladies and gentlemen, delivered the all singing, all dancing, incarnation of vintage-synth, Warhol wannabe, Nike wearing, bohemian bastard, by the name of Jesus W. fucking Christ. Shine on! You crazy diamond!

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