RIP Gary Burger, 1942-2014
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grids quiver in the system. Read on! It's monk time
- it's hop time. Don't read this. We said: don't read
this. Let sapphires glide into the grooves. What is
beat? What is beat today? And what is over-beat? And
who the hell is going to melt the
hot and cold world of tomorrow?
as Roger beats, Gary plucks, Dave pummels. And Eddie
dreams hell's bass part. And Larry fingers the keys
of the day after tomorrow. The monks believe in nothing.
The monks believe that everything is possible. The
monks give everything. Words are the outline of lies.
Why do the monks produce their own words - for days
on end, as the moon shines - until one word leads
to another. Don't listen. Count from nine until blast
off, then swim into the city's primeval forest. Black
discs mirror colorful, shimmering illusions. This
black circle, however, quivers within the system of
our dear world - goodness gracious - the experiment,
after all, is only beginning. Truth is habit-forming.
Lying is the art of pleasing the other. The monks
for their part, love . . .
Gary Burger plays guitar and was born in Minnesota.
Roger Johnston, a Texan, gives his drums the works.
Chicago boy: That is Larry Clark - crazy-fingers at
the organ, for his father was no gangster, but a priest.
And Dave Day has more than one banjo and more than
one microphone built into each of his banjos. He claims
that he was born in Washington. And Eddie Shaw, who
hails from California, uses his bass guitar as he
(From original liner
notes of BLACK MONK TIME, 1965)