Waking up in his dumpster one morning, admist the usual debris of thirsty circuit-boards, trumpeted mouth-pieces, depressed drumsticks, horny paper-weights, intellectual clothes-hangers and hyperactive violins, Eugene discovered that he was not alone in his dumpster - and in fact it was not even his. Not disregarding the family of an unidentified species of rodents which had just moved in, the dumpster now also contained a merry band of musicians, none of which could sing or play fortunately. Inviting them to stay for some tea, some stayed for good, some started to play shoestrings and bumble-bees (which is quite possible if you come across the right species), some ended up collecting wire and porridge.
Never careful with that axe, Eugene commenced a twelve tone riff soon after metabolizing the tea, at which point Pierre joined in on a gun. "Get On", "Come aboard", "All passengers please go to gate 12b, door 3, drawer 65c". The electricity went out and more refugees came drifting in rafts. Don't worry all are granted immediate asylum in the dumpster. If you know how to dive you know how to play. There are guitars, horns, theremins, speaks and spells, prepared pianos and upright basses, there are banana flies and samplers waiting to fall in love. We'd like to play you some of our tunes. Bela says it's okay. We are only in it for the timbre. Somebody released a record, we are hardly to blame. There might be more. There might be less. At this point we'd like to make a political statement. Be careful at the border when you arrive.
