Fyoelk is damn good fun. I don’t even care if he’s got a song called “Bong” and I don’t care if Fyoelk is a nonsense word and not his birth name; thanks to Fyoelk, I’m having too much fun to care. I don’t care if the batteries on my walkman are dying, causing tempo warps and pitch warbles (on top of the warbles and squiggles already embedded in the tracks); I saw this fellow play ten or so shows this month, and his songs, even “Bong,” are burned into my memory. I don’t need his tape to bounce down his good-natured mellow trail of amiable abstraction, now that he’s filled my foggy head with bright colors, strange geometric shapes, sleepy and unpredictable thoughts out of nowhere. His songs are part of the permanent collection, the mental radio dial, and they have nowhere to go but ON. I feel lucky. Happy Birthday Fyoelk!