I don’t know if the title of this thing is right – scrawled on the otherwise blank inside of the J-card, in pen, is “Billy Sims 2014” in cursive, and then, in seemingly different handwriting, is “BILLY SIMS,” all caps. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Oblivion, the one hurtling toward us by the end of this tape, is hurtling toward us. What sounds like a multitude of processed madness is processed madness as reflected back from our souls via synthesizers, I guess, or other electronic equipment. Don Buchla is rolling in his grave, and if we’re not careful, this tape is going to reanimate him. He’s going to come for us all. Morton Subotnick is not the athlete he once was – he’s a frail (probably) 83. Billy Sims, whoever he is, whatever he is, has the drop on us. There are samples in here too. Samples! What is this, the Caretaker? We’re all doomed. I want this tape to be circulated more widely. I want Billy Sims to come out of the shadows and stop torturing us with his invisibility and unpredictability. Or, uh, “unpredicta-Billy-ty.” Heck yeah.