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Hvor kommer alle de der metroseksuelle mænd med stramme bukser og røde solbriller i panden, som er freelance-grafikere, multimedie-designere eller bass-spillere i et elektroband egentlig fra? Er der mon sådan et skab i en eller anden gammel dames lejlighed, hvor der hver anden onsdag udklækkes et kuld indbildske polio-dukker med gustent overskæg og fedtet hår, som så svanser ned i Kødbyen og danser åndsvagt til Islandsk lortemusik? Sådan et Narnia-skab fra helvede, hvor fire godtroende og eventyrlystne børn går ind for at møde en løvekonge, men i stedet ufrivilligt bliver tryllet om til en hær af Henrik Vibskovs tørklæde-befængtegøglermænd og sendt ud i Københavns brokvarterer for at sprede det fesne budskab. Man bliver så træt i øjnene af deres sjuskede tilfældighedsmode og hvis det er sådan en fryns eksen hun dater, så er der snart en læspende, Reykjavik-elskende tørklæde-klovn i narkomanbukser mindre i København!
Ja, jeg skulle bare lige af med det

Its a long way to go

A black angel by my side

When will it ever end?

"This Is A Lie"

How each of us decides
I've never been sure
The part we play
The way we are
How each of us denies any other way in the world
Why each of us must choose
I've never understood
One special friend
One true love
Why each of us must lose everyone else in the world

However unsure
However unwise
Day after day play out our lives
However confused
Pretending to know to the end

But this isn't truth this isn't right
This isn't love this isn't life this isn't real
This is a lie

How each of us believes
I've never really known
In heaven unseen and hell unknown
How each of us dreams to understand anything at all
Why each of us decides
I've never been sure
The part we take
The way we are
Why each of us denies every other way in the world

However unsure
However unwise
Day after day play out our lives
However confused
Pretending to know to the end

But this isn't truth this isn't right
This isn't love this isn't life this isn't real
This is a lie
This isn't truth this isn't right
This isn't love this isn't life this isn't real
This is a lie

Grass grows greener
On the other side
Corn grows sweeter
On the other side
And I watch, And I watch, And I watch
And I see too much
And I broke my face
And my head grows too much
God spits
On my soul
There's something dead inside my hole
In my hole
In my hole
In my hole
I step crueller
But less defined
Striped cats cooler
But so is mine
And I want to see
What I want to be
And I see me on a touching screen
And I'm dancing to a scream
God spits
On my soul
There's something dead inside my hole
In my hole
In my hole
In my hole
How can something crawl within
My rubber holy baked bean tin
It's god to me, it's god to me
It is heart and soul
Oh, heart and soul

Today I went to my good pal Soerens place to hang out and play on his cordless bass, it isnt a Fender but it is a great bass nevertheless.

We recorded some of my old Martin Hall records from vinyl to CD....I wonder if that is Piracy? copying your own vinyl to CD?? Im tired of changing the speed on my Rega recordplayer all the time....free force structure, Relief, Warfare (with Under For).

A decision was made to record some new stuff, techno cabaret Voltaire style... as I cant play keyboards I am going to play some simple themes, while Soren provides the backing tracks, he is probalbly going to convince me to sing again...

I dont know when we are going to record the stuff, probably never ......who knows...