Now, let’s see… how does that song go? Hmmmm…. strike up the band, Johnny. One small step… for one bald man. Giant leap for all time. Christmas day, thank you, ma’am. I came in peace… and left my mind!

That’s an oldy. Oh, yes… Christmas 1996 – I remember it well. As soon as we get our thumbs out of our asses on this seemingly endless project, I’m going to trawl through the archives and dust off some of those recordings that have never before seen the light of day. Prepare to be amazed. (Did I say “amazed”? I meant “annoyed.” Or perhaps “nauseated”.) But before you get to thinking that I’m distracting you from our current lethargy with vague promises of archival releases somewhere down the road, let me assure you that your good friends in Big Green are looking over these old songs for some very, very good reasons. And no, I don’t mean nostalgia for a past equally obscure as our present. No, no…. better reasons than that. Aggravated threats, mostly. And projectiles.

Let me ‘splain. We are under contract with Loathsome Prick, our corporate label, to release our long-anticipated (or perhaps no longer anticipated) sophomore album at some time in the next year or so. They had the option to demand the product any time after September 30, and, well, they did (the fuckers). Naturally, when we signed the contract (or, rather, had the man-sized tuber sign for us) we thought the release date would be quite a long ways off. Trouble with that long-ways-off kind of thinking is that, if you think about it too long, it gets a whole lot closer. So here we were, our album still not finished (though completely recorded), and the nice gentlemen at Loathsome Prick jumping all over our shit. What else could we do but cut yet another deal with them? This one was an agreement to play some gigs on Mars to promote the new collection. So now we’re scraping together a few sets worth of music – the usual last-minute scramble. So it goes.

I enlisted Marvin (my personal robot assistant) to descend into the catacombs of the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill in search of old songs – tapes, lead sheets, lyrics, whatever he could find. After a day or two, he reappeared on the ground floor, his brass tarnished, his sensors covered with dust, but his ramshackle arms laden with booty. Marvin had stumbled upon the old sea trunk I had brought with me years ago when we first arrived at the mill. (Seems like just yesterday.) Inside were moth-eaten reams of paper, yellow with age (though they were legal pads, so they actually started out kind of yellow). I showed them to Matt, and he nodded solemnly. Yes, yes… these were the notebooks upon which he and I had penned so many of the songs that had made us obscure back in the day. (That was a hard day.) We began flipping through the parchment-like folios, mouthing the words silently as we went along. Nice work, Marvin. Good robot.

Okay, so finding our notes is one thing; putting together the songs is entirely another. From what I understand, we have about three weeks to get our ducks in a row. Then it’s off to the land of “Opportunity”. (You know… the Mars rover, “Opportunity”? The other one’s called “Spirit”? Never mind.) Somebody water the tuber – this could be a long hike.

Are you ready to rumble? Not yet? Okay then. Just asking. Don’t get upset, now. Put that down. I said PUT THAT DOWN! Do it or someone’s going to get hurt. No. NO. NOOOOOOOO!!!

Ahem. Well, we won’t post any more of that exchange, as it may be upsetting to young children. (This is a FAMILY blog, friends. Fuck yes.) Welcome back to the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, where band members are listless, robots are corroding, and plant creatures are setting down new roots as we speak. (The man-sized tuber has abandoned his terrarium for a patch of ground in the courtyard. Seems he’s getting in touch with his inner gingko tree.) Yes, your friends and colleagues in Big Green have taken refuge in the same safe harbor, seeking shelter from the storm beneath the same perforated roof that has offered us a modicum of protection over the past seven years. No, it hasn’t fallen in yet. And we have hopes that that will never, ever happen. (Well…. “never, ever” is a very long time.)

We spent much of this week making a desperate effort to finish our sophomore album in time for the highly unreasonable release date handed down by the corporate chieftains at our label, Loathsome Prick. Then somewhere around, oh, Wednesday, Matt and John threw up their hands. (Being somewhat less original than they are, I did so as well.) It just wasn’t going to happen. Release, yes… but not October. Never October. In fact, we ran the numbers through Marvin (my personal robot assistant) and his statistical modeling analysis module started emitting greasy black smoke. (Marvin did the rest of the calculations with a pad, pencil, and 39-cent wristwatch calculator.) It seems, at our present rate of activity, we may manage a Spring 2008 release, taking into consideration the current non-alignment of the outer planets and the relative mass of the third-quarter moon. (You mathematicians know what I’m talking about.)

Well, anyway – that was Wednesday. That left two more days to figure out how we will break the news to our masters at Loathsome Prick. Mind you, we’ve had prior experience with belligerent corporate labels. Some of you may remember our detention at the hands of Indonesian military goons contracted by our old label, Hegemonic Records and Worm Farm, Inc. (now Hegephonic). It was not pleasant, not nearly… so you can probably understand our trepidation. Naturally, we recruited Marvin to convey the news, preferably in some kind of binary code that would take the suits at Loathsome Prick a couple of days to decipher. Marvin put the message together and sent it off via the automaton equivalent of instant messenger. We waited. At some point during the course of that afternoon, I felt a mild earth tremor. Translation complete! Sure enough, the phone rang. We gave it seventeen or eighteen rings before answering. (Let ’em think we’ve got customers.)

Well, turns out they’re okay with the postponement, on one condition. Yes, that’s right, there is a forfeit. We have to play some showcase gigs. Where? At a venue near you. So long as you live on planet Mars.

Take five. One… two… three… quatro! No, no – stop. Wrong key, man. Totally wrong key. It’s the one around the back of the horn. You’re concentrating too much on those front keys.

Greetings and welcome to the house of dung and smog. Did I say “dung and smog”? I meant, sun and fog. Yes, the misty environs of the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill on a cool Saturday morn – ah, ’tis a sight to behold. A veritable feast for the senses, particularly the olfactory. That burning smell? That’s just us burning up the tape down here in our dungeon-like studio. (Maybe I did mean smog after all…) Okay… I am playing a little fast and loose with the facts. In this digital, nonlinear age, we have abandoned tape altogether and taken up the cudgel of cutting-edge recording technology – wax cylinders! No wait, not wax. Wire. Wire recording. Wild, wild new deal in tracking songs, mate! I heard all about it from the dude on the corner – the guy with half-a-boot. On his head.

I know, I know – he doesn’t know what he’s talking a-boot, right? Well… before you go there, listen up. Format doesn’t matter, friends. We’re mastering our first album in nearly ten years – a work fully four years in the making. If we got all concerned about formats, it would probably take us another four years. (Not sure this mill will be standing then.) And whether it be wire, wax, or some other widget, we’re preparing these fifteen songs for release, come hell or high water. And those of you familiar with the recording process know, this is the point in every project where you discover how far from finished you truly are. For instance, I’m having Marvin (my personal robot assistant) add a last-minute saxophone part to one song that… well… that just needed something. Something like a robot playing a saxophone. (Always helps. Just ask Captured by Robots.)

Speaking of robots playing saxophones, I hear that plucky Mars rover is still exploring major craters on the red planet. Pretty stubborn little critter. I always taunt Marvin with “Opportunity’s” record on the Martian surface – a foreboding place if ever there was one, take it from me. Anyway, Marvin’s a little sensitive about my rover-based teasing, because his brass skin is susceptible to the peculiar conditions of the Martian atmosphere. In fact, the last time we were there, we spent nearly as much time buffing the corrosion out of Marvin’s skin as we did setting up and tearing down from the gigs we played on Mount Olympus (tallest known peak in the solar system). Check it out, the rover “Spirit” has been on the planet for fully 1,290 Martian days. We were just barely there for two. What do you say to that, Marvin? Huh?

Bone mean, you say? Fuck, no. I’m just trying to get a good performance out of him. Sure, he barely knows how to hold a saxophone, but that has never stopped us before. No, Marvin. Swinging the saxophone at me won’t help. Mars Rover never had to attack its master!