Calling all stations. Pencil me in, Tink. Don’t ask when; when is when; but if you must -- ‘til the bending sax bows out. That’s your cue. OK? It’s written there in plain english, Charlie. On your QSL card. Now get to it before these machines power themselves down -- they’re still going -- and take it easy, because we’re going to be stuck in the thick of it for a spell. Not too easy, not too much kava and no vodka.
“Standing at the machine every day for all my life…”
At the Center of the Earth, the pole position, you stand, pivot, busy with the pan pots, busy with twist-and-flick fingers, and furrow; a table of stuff and batteries, guarded by mics turning snug into the snake patch into the control room -- the control room and the studio room mirror one another as much as cousins mirror one another: there seems to be some sort of family resemblance, of what sort, I couldn’t tell, exactly. This coming from someone who’s been in both rooms...and down the hall, past the plate glass blockades (some of them). And one snake leads past the wax and the hall and stops shy of the staircase. The whole edifice goes on indefinitely (a guess -- I haven’t seen much of it yet), with mirror rooms, long lines of plate glass, other ends of other staircases, blank lyrics... my guess, since I’m guessing good tonight, there’s a chapel at the end of one of those halls, the last hall we come across. I bet.
…...
-- Rick Weaver
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