All guitar, bass, and voices by Dennis
Except where noted all drums by Adam etc.
Help Won’t Help (Jason, guitar; Owen, violin)
President (Eric, bass; Jason, Saxophone)
Need (Owen, bass; Cindy, flute)
Devolution (Elda, vocals)
Yer Grave (Brian, guitar)
Letting The Night In
Black Gasoline (Derwood, drums; Pete, guitar)
Void (Bob, voice; Tony R, bass)
Dirt And Worms )Becky, drums; Owen, guitar; Tony R, bass & guitar; Jason, guitar)
Dog Milk (Art, harmonica; Becky, trumpet; Tony C, drums; Eric, flute; Beth, bass; Joe, synth; Frank, guitar)
Pig Milk (Shebo, drums; Tony R, bass; Mark, Kalimba; Owen, Toy Piano; Lucy, voice; Mimi, guitar; Cindy, accordion)
Kick That Smile
Spaz-Prov (Becky, drums; Eric, bass)
Lyrics by Dennis except “Devolution” by Elda
Recorded May 1994 – March 1995 at the Turning Hill, Palenville, NY
Engineered by Owen
Basic tracks on “Dirt And Worms” engineered by Neil
Basic tracks on Need engineered by Mark
Mixed by Owen and Dennis with help at times from Neil
Infinite thanks to all that helped
Cover photo by D.L.
Foot photo by Becky
Kinetic – Box 263, Hunter, NY 12442
One autumn day, Rip Van Winkle wanders up the mountains with his dog. Hearing his name called out, Rip sees a man wearing antiquated Dutch clothing; he is carrying a keg up the mountain and requires help. Together, they proceed to a hollow in which Rip discovers the source of thunderous noises: a group of ornately dressed, silent, bearded men who are playing nine-pins.
Rip does not ask who they are or how they know his name. Instead, he begins to drink some of their moonshine and soon falls asleep.
He awakes to discover shocking changes. His musket is rotting and rusty, his beard is a foot long, and his dog is nowhere to be found. Van Winkle returns to his village where he recognizes no one. He discovers that his wife has died and that his close friends have fallen in a war or moved away.
Rip Van Winkle learns that the men he met in the mountains are rumored to be the ghosts of Henry Hudson’s crew, which had vanished long ago. Rip learns he has been away from the village for at least twenty years.
This is an extraordinary recording, of which I had entirely forgotten. Blazing post-punk, psych-garage, let’s-get-fucked-up-and-make-some-noise-rock. A timeless, senseless, placeless, sense of time and place pervades this smoldering, mossy, unremembered howl of lysergic misery-joy from the haunted and banal Hudson Valley.
Semi-Pseudo-Sorta is waiting for you; don’t sleep on it.