The music below is only a very small representation of what is ultimately possible.

This Is Not The End

Indeed it is not. This is in fact the first piece on the page - an homage to the complexities of modern life. Sub-Saharan African poly-rhythms can be detected in the gentle back-beat, suggesting that this music was originally composed by a pygmy tribe, the glottal pops and clicks of their language having perhaps been expertly translated into English, and the haunting, metallic timbres of their furtive thumb-pianos almost certainly having been musicologically transliterated into the brash cadences of a cockney music-hall "joanna" or "piano".

Save Me

Why? No.

Bad Ass

The title would suggest that this piece represents a (possibly Polish) rural farmer's attempts to gode his mischievous donkey into action. The staccato regularity of the lute stabs simply confirms this hypothesis.

Beautiful Women In The Trees

A young man's naive expression of his burgeoning admiration for womankind finds deft expression in the modernistic, almost robotic sounding, solo vocal. The singer's vocal technique is achieved by combining the traditional technique of overtone chanting with repeated, aggressive oesophagal battery. The other-worldly whine clearly heard atop the central refrain appears to be a japanese shamisen, suggesting that the brotherhood of the Burning Dog stretched as far east as the Orient. It is not entirely unlikely that several emperors of the Ming and Xing dynasties were somehow involved in the creation of this work.

Style Libre

The instrument heard at the intro and outro may well be a makeshift xylophone fashioned from driftwood by stranded sailors on an island in the South Pacific. Some Anthropologists have commented, however, that the vocal articulations bring to mind the sort of pidgin-dialect French spoken in Prussia in the late 19th century. Either way, the composers and musicians clearly travelled huge distances to create this music. Only time will tell whether it was in fact worth while.

We Are Not Pigeons

Indeed we are not. A startlingly perceptive insight.

Too Much Magic

An ethereal wash of confused and possibly meaningless sound gives way to a classical guitar solo, the complexity of which is matched only by the unskilled, shoddy musicianship. Are these the tired, arthritic hands of the great Brasilian composer Heitor Villa Lobos dancing across the strings of their beloved guitarra one last time before they drop, lifeless and forgotten, against the side of their dead master in a back-street in Rio de Janeiro, on the 17th of November, 1959?
No. They are not.

Gentle Gravity

Some Biologists have suggested that "Gentle Gravity" is the unmistakeable work of the great scientist, Sir Isaac Newton. Others have disagreed.

Dust to Dust

Fijian ritual dictates that dead relatives be sprinkled with earth or "dust" prior to full burial. Now consider that, in advanced musical theory, the interval between the note of "C" and that of "G" is known as a "fifth". As they say in Pennsylvania, "do the fucking math".

I Love My Robot

In light of the fact that most Philanthropists consider this proto-classical mini-epic to have been composed in the late holocene period of the earth's development, the naivete of the arrangement, and indeed the sentiment, is a pleasant, if slightly uncomfortable, surprise.

The Geographer

Afonso de Albuquerque, the sixteenth century destroyer of Calicut, was not appointed Viceroy of India for nothing.