Hail Fellow Well Met

Tremulous grew my mistrustful heart when of a cold and dark evening not some time ago did there come a knocking most exigent at the grand door of my family’s estate—may long it prosper and suffer forfeiture of monies at only the slimmest of taxation rates. As the hour was such as suits only earthbound spirits and those most desperate brands of hooligans, the household all had retired to their chambers for a night’s restorative slumbers save mineself, who, unable to taste that sweetness of a momentary respite from consciousness, had, as is oft my want in times of harrowing solicitousness and incapacitating encumbrance, sought safe haven and refuge in the comforting bosom of my beat lab—may long it prosper and yield fruits bearing only the slinkiest of grooves all borne in the name of sweaty, pulsating bodies—and so accordingly ‘twas I tasked with the chore of answering this unnerving mesonoxian summons. For a solitary moment doth I waver upon the threshold of my Kingdom of Sound; yet with a flourish forth ventured I.

‘Twas a cloaked figure I greeted at the gate with prudence. Verily I tell thee, what a vexing sight! No features could I discern, to no vestige of form could I affix a common humanity; still, a strange and unchecked calm did I feel washing o’er mine heart in spite of my sensible mind’s sizable alarm. This inscrutable soul held aloft in one hand a flourishing torch, as if some substantial journey was in medias res and this incandescence was a friend, lover, and guide, all entwined in one; cradled in the nook of the other arm was a package. With nary a word did this wraith pass to me this bundle so sacredly carried, before departing with burdened purpose and immediacy from whence it had come.

Return to the friendly confines of the beat lab doth I, and to the task of deciphering the nature of that curious artifact which in mine hands I held I set. ‘Twas a lovely creation, shot through with all of heaven’s most alluring shades, the richest of melancholy indigos and wistful violets, bearing as caption the queer cipher:

CAUSTIC CASANOVA SOMEDAY YOU WILL BE PROVEN CORRECT

Partnered with this striking piece of art found I a letter. ‘Twas a charter from the governing members of one Mad Love Records granting mineself sole proprietorship o’er the crafting of a treatise heralding the essence of this “album” to the fervent patrons of CD Baby. Harrumph, doth I humphed. What a rude and uncivilized gesture, so unbefitting a gentleman of my substantial station—may long I prosper and concoct hypnotic rhythms that will populate Swiss raves with beautiful people ‘til nigh eternity—to receive an unsolicited commission of this nature! And at such an unholy hour in such a haunting fashion! Most nonplussed doth I find mineself, yet, being a man of reason and not inconsiderable learning I took no rash action in the fires of my distemper, and instead proceeded to perform the only rational action the moment afforded: Upon the mercy of my beat lab’s absolute world class sound system I placed the fate of this mysterious record, come what judgment may.

Ninety-five one-hundredths of an hour later stirred I from what surely be the most magical and splendid moments of mine two ears’ existences—may long they prosper and share with me regal riffs and magisterial melodies. O, I swear to thee, such music! Such contradictions! Felt I pummeled and uplifted, ransacked and soothed, moved in body and mind, all from the same orchestra’s concoction!

And so now gather I my thoughts on this radiant LP, so deftly recorded and engineered by Sir J. Robbins—may long he prosper and set loose his magpies’ songs upon the globe—so expertly mastered by Baron Bob Weston—may long he prosper and succeed in every Mission he undertakes—so superbly written and played by Lady Stefanie Zaenker and Lords Francis Beringer and Michael Wollitz—may long they prosper and enchant the masses with their holy choral endeavors. Ye who gather here reading these words face a momentous decision: Doth thou spend thy hard earned wages upon these tunes? All I can tell thee, as plainly as do have I in my power, is this: Thou, a conjurer of worlds, a creator of portals, a grasper of procurements from the great beyond, Use thy Magic Machine to call forth from dimensions yet unconquered these gallant arias, that thine great halls might too be filled with commanding canticles eve after glorious eve, that thou might yet become a better, more harmonious soul on account of what thou encounters here.

Yours In Ever Faithful Devotion To The Bounteous Glories Beheld In The Sphere Of Independent-Minded Rock,
Leonard Calvert