Byron Coley & Ted Lee As Seen In Your Wildest Dream

If Coley can do anything and, I assure you, he can do a few things, some very well indeed—cooking, drinking, smoking, chortling, collecting, dissecting, inspecting, sniffing, gassing, pranking—to name but a few, he can, without a beat gone by, make you wanna listen to the goddam records he's criteeking whether it be in old ishes of Forced Exposure, Boston Rock, New York Rocker, or the LA Weekly or his nugget column in Wire. For many his obscurant references to what is already an obscure contempo side can be so layered—as if the review is some kind of lit cuz to Jodorowsky's spiraling labyrinthian masterpiece of surrealist Espanola 'huh?' cinema, The Holy Mountain—that the narco-eclectic desire to actually hear what the fuk this accredited gourmandizer is—in various temperaments—jazzed about, that you actually find yrself hunting the lathe cut edition of minus three and sending all yr rent money to grip it—'Coley wrote about this—s'posed to be 'insane'. He and TED LEE have been manning the formidable and replete Feeding Tube emporium for a few years now in the wilds of Western Mass and what at first appeared to be an unlikely pair have become quite a prolific bastion of bonkerism rock and experimental otherness like a water tap stuck on unthreaded gush. Open heads recognize and learn/teach from each other without too many questions being asked (look, listen, have a cold one, step out for a smoke) They play sax? Good toot? sign em up! Music is an exchange, a gift, has nothing to do with making money only in making friends and neighbors ('that's where we meet!'—Ornette). Putting out cool records is—a well worn trope I know, but it's true as trout—a Labor OF Love. Ted Lee gleans sound art music in organic intrigue obviously from the day he was released from the chute of procreation and it stands to cosmic reason that he can hang tuff and throw down smooth licks with Coley's verbacious loquacity. These readings with sound spoo are just a taste of the cream dream epiphanies these gents collude so instantaneously on. Time is of the essence and music is time, so are thoughts and words like diamond juice dripping from the corners of Don Cherry's pocket trumpet maw—at least that's what I hear when I hear these cats yowling half past the end of nowhere on a fence behind our collective houses full of records, books, and nudie mags. Life is fuckin sweet."—Thurston Moore, London 2022