"She Was Right When She Said: Liner Notes Should Be Read"
for DMR003: "Arthromusipology" by The Heads and Necks


The Dutch Missionary story continues.
Now, you can either believe that Patrick Keller wrote and recorded
this EP all himself, or you can believe the following:


	Having managed to somehow break even on volume 1 of 
"Dutch Missionary Records", Milo Cantos was emboldened.
With engineer / sometimes musician Patrick Keller wrangling
potential hits out of indiepop and garage punk bands, and
with the other members of The Alligator Tears / Shrapnelles / 
Broken Dials not speaking to him because of the sticky issue 
of gross underpayment and unreturned social phone calls, Cantos
was free to pursue another fantastic adventure along the lines
of convincing his heroes The Capricornacopollas to record a song
for DMR001.
	This time, Cantos set his sights on the pseudo-psychedelic 
band The Heads and Necks, who had last exactly one year back 
in the late seventies and had put out exactly one album, 
of which Cantos knew of only one copy remaining, which was his.  
The band had not played together in years, and indeed, the 
whereabouts of the band members were not known.  Lacking both 
the rights and the equipment to remaster and reissue 
the Hnex album "Shoes and Skirts", Cantos decided to try and 
round up the original band members to record a new track 
or two for his scrappy young label.

	His first goal was to track down the head Neck, lead singer
and sometimes guitarist Gill Monk.  After the dissolution of
the Hnex in the 70's, Monk resurfaced in Germany in the 
early 80's, playing in a string of short-lived, much-hyped bands
which all folded before they could issue a debut single.  He had 
not been heard from since.  In fact, a website, 
www.whereisgill.com, had been set up by another die hard Hnex fan,
one Mr. Jersey Lincoln, to compile all the available data about 
Monk's whereabouts; the site mostly had user-submitted accounts 
of at-show sightings as well as a trio of police reports from 
a small Florida town in the late 80's.  By 2005, the site had 
fallen into disrepair, with the 'last update' dated as April 19, 
1999.  Still, Cantos sent an e-mail to the address provided, 
asking for any additional leads for Monk and deliberately 
referencing in his subject line a minute detail that only a 
ridiculously hardcore fan of the band would have remembered.

	While waiting for a reply, Cantos decided to look for 
the man who had been Monk's writing-collaborator and closest 
friend in the Hnex, "Scarab" Barret, who had been the band's 
keyboardist and 'spiritual advisor'.  Barret, a registered 
eccentric, had taken to traveling after the band broke up.  
He apparently ended up in Kona, where he was believed to be 
working in a small surfboard shop.  Cantos considered the 
situation, then decided to use the money he had been pooling to 
placate his suspended band to buy an economy-priced ticket for 
himself out to Hawaii.  No one would give him a ride to the 
airport.  During his plane flight, Cantos contemplated over 
a picture of Barret that he had downloaded off a website.  
The eyes were very intense, and the image was badly pixilated.  
The hair was wild and plentiful, and the toner was smudging 
under his thumb.  He wondered if this man had deadly psychic 
powers, and would he apply them?
	Low on funds, Cantos caught a bus out to Kona.  On the way, 
he  began putting together ideas for the album.  In the back 
of his mind was the possibility that if Monk could not be found, 
perhaps he would get the chance to take his Gill Monk impression 
from psychedelic karaoke night at Stubs to page 97 of Rolling Stone.  
Bitten in the bus by a  non-radioactive spider, Cantos remembered 
an atmospheric anecdote from studio engineer Patrick Keller 
about the spider outside his apartment and a series of 
non-atmospheric, non-anecdotal complains made by the same about 
a bunch of stupid innocuous dying bugs for which he, Milo, 
had given an ineffective glare, but the words hadn¼t stopped.  
The subject seemed as good a place to start as any.  Plus, 
acid casualties love that complexity and grandeur of nature
bullshit that is perfectly packaged in a spider.
	Cantos was wrong that the eyes would be the first thing which 
captured his gaze.  Instead, it was the Scarab's right arm, 
truncated not at the wrist, as is done in civilized countries, 
nor the elbow, but halfway between the two dotted lines, giving, 
Cantos imagined, the terrible feeling that one nearly had an arm, 
though constantly reminding that it was not enough.  There had 
definitely been an arm in the picture, Cantos thought.
	The eyes were, in fact, rather mesmerizing, but before he was
caught by them, he was stunned by the way the wild toxic hair 
spill had been effectually curtailed by some barbaric hazmat crew.
Ah, but the eyes.  As long as he looked at one of them, it did
not blink.  Cantos was worried that time's heart had stopped.
	"If you're wondering," Scarab said, "it's fake."
	Suddenly Cantos understood why the singular had been used 
in that line about 'Scarab's eye' from The Doggerels song.  
He apologized for staring and began to explain his project, 
but the conversation fell back to the subject of the arm.
	"Look, buddy, there are a lot of things I don't remember," 
Scarab said wearily.  "I've been a lot of places.  I did a lot 
of things.  Losing my arm was one of them."
	The interview was not going well.  Cantos considered letting 
it drop at that and just finding a cheap guitar so he could busk 
out the rest of his stay in the armpit of the tourist nest.  
Barret then asked if Cantos had found Monk.
	Cantos looked up.
	Barret's smile was darkly haughty.
	Cantos asked when the last time he had seen Monk.
	Barret implied that he had seen him about twelve years 
earlier, and that there had been something unsavory about 
the whole thing.  Cantos considered that this was the sort of 
thing whereisgill.com ought to know about.
	Barret said that if Cantos could actually produce Monk 
(Cantos wondered if Barret could still stab using his left hand), 
then he would play on this new record.
	Cantos had two thoughts, only one of which he expressed.  
#1: Record?  #2: Just how do you expect to play?
	Barret sneered, and explained that he had developed great 
right hand technique with his left, and that he had been making 
organ swirls since before Cantos had been making spit swirls, 
etc etc.  Cantos left feeling that the experience had been, 
on the whole, positive.

	Milo's next target was H & N bass player Fenton Landry.
It made sense: the bassline is the soul of a song.  Look at 
sacrificial Ox Entwistle: he doesn't break down so that everyone 
else can break their instruments.  A bass player shall lead them, 
and all that.  Get Landry, and you've got the songs by the soul.
	Luckily, Landry lived in Long Beach, and so Cantos would not 
have to return to Dutch Missionary headquarters in order to 
'discover' more travel money.  His premonition turned out to be 
correct, as he nearly got into an unmarked cab at John Wayne 
Airport that was driven and occupied by members of 
the Alligator Tears, who he surmised would have taken him straight 
to Orange Coast Medical Center to exchange his organs for their 
outstanding wages.  Instead, he pulled his foot free, 
and remembering the anti-kidnapping instruction of his childhood, 
ran in the opposite direction.
	Landry received Cantos with a kind of distant warmth, a candle
across a church hall.  Cantos mistakenly addressed Landry as 'pastor'.
	„Oh no,¾ replied Landry with badly feigned humility, „I'm only 
a replacement pastor--I gave the pastor a standing invitation 
if he ever couldn't make it that I would be happy to fill in.¾
	That is probably a pastor who carefully minds his health, 
thought Cantos.  You dirty pastor.
	Cantos described the project to Landry, becoming more and 
more disconcerted the Pastor Pro-tem's expression did not show 
an sign of inclination at the idea.  Finally, he asked: „do you 
even play bass anymore?¾ 
	„Oh, certainly,¾ replied Landry with a fractured serenity.  
„In the choir.¾  Eventually Landry began to show guarded interest, 
but he had conditions.  First, no drugs, second, no women.  
Third, only hopeful and righteous music.
	Cantos remembered that Landry had apparently been, 
back in the day, a heroin abusing heroine addict.  Then he 
considered: hopeful possibly, righteous perhaps (if you were willing 
to slide on your definitions), but drugs and women were the salt 
and vinegar of rock n roll, and Landry had once had the taste 
for it.  Finally, he decided to tell an evasive lie: "Well, for now, 
it looks like I'm the one writing the songs."
	Landry replied, "And are you a god fearing man, Mr. Cantos?"
	"I am afraid of many things."  Earwigs in the night, identity 
theft,  Scarab Barret's eye.
	Finally, Landry agreed to join in on the project if his 
conditions for song content and in-studio behavior were met, 
and so long as part of the proceeds would be donated to a charity.
	Cantos agreed, thinking to himself that 5% of zero is not 
a lot of money.  
	"Oh, and don't bother looking for Jerry," Landry added, 
as Cantos was walking back to the street, "he's a hopeless addict.  
Not even God's mercy can reach him now.  Just get a drum machine."

	Jerry "Capital" Gains, once and future drummer to the Hnex,
currently lived in Upland, California where he worked as 
a mechanic.  On his way up the 57, Cantos wondered to himself 
what could be done with insects, beyond the cruel pranks of his youth.  
Thinking about cruelty brought his mind to rest on his 
spotless career as a leaver of women.  Not dumped once, 
threw them all away before the expiration date.  He wondered briefly 
if he was a terrible person, but easily swatted the thought aside.  
But he was filled with a kind of morbid scientific fascination 
to try and imagine how the other half lived, the half who stayed behind 
in their bedroom, or the cafe, or their mother's wedding anniversary 
after you slid out of that coat and made your way to the nearest exit, 
feeling light enough to hop a picket fence in stride to see if anyone 
else was letting a pie cool on the window sill.  Cantos was a man who 
enjoyed a challenge, like how to escape from a 3rd floor balcony 
when the time was right.
	When Cantos first shook the hand of "Cap", he scanned 
the man's arm for track marks, and was relieved to find none
--Dutch Missionary Records could not affording supporting any 
musician with a habit much more expensive than charm bracelets.  
So pot then, or the drink?  One of Cantos' coworkers in 
academic sanitation could hook him up.
	"Eyes are up here," Cap said.
	"Righto," said Cantos.
	Cap was considerably more grizzled than fan websites would have 
lead one to believe.  It looked a bit like life had been shaking him 
side to side.  Back in the golden year, Cap had seemed out of place 
with  psychedelic freakouts like Scarab and outright decadents 
like Fenton--he was a former mod who believed in keeping his look 
as clean as his drumming, with of course a defiant corruption 
underlying both.  Now, he and Barret could have embarked on 
a side-project called "the Third Eye Fuck You Band".
	Cantos began to outline the project, but Cap stopped him with 
a wave of his industrial-encased arm.  How had Cantos missed that
while staring at those arms?  Well, of course he had put them on 
since that moment of rude inspection.
	Cap told him that he didn't play anymore.  At all.
	Cantos thought that it didn't look like he'd had encountered 
Fenton on the road to Damascus.  "Can I ask why?"
	Cap squinted at him.  "Don't you see the fuckin scaffolding?  
My arms are destroyed."
	Cantos considered other stories he had heard.  "Were you 
holding the drum sticks the wrong way?"
	"I know how to fuckin' hold a drumstick, jackass.  I was 
a fucking drummer!"
	They stood in silence for several minutes with only 
the sound of the braces striking plastic and stereotypical 
beeping sounds.
	"If I can ask . . ." Cantos ventured.
	"Look, what you fuckin'--  Okay, you wanna know?  You wanna know?!
Have you ever heard of 'Go Go Rhythm Panic'?"
	"The DC comp?"  I'm a modern guy . . . 
	"The video game!  Bad news, man.  Bad bad news.  That thing is 
a monster."
	"Huh."
	"It's got like, 6 inch fangs of icy death.  And glowing 
red eyes!"
	Ah the tragedy: man aspires to beat machine, machine fights back.
	"So, if I can ask . . . why are you still playing games in this 
arcade?"  Some young punk was standing uncomfortably close behind
Cantos, vigorously playing an old Neo Geo machine.  Then again, he
should have known better than to crowd the machines if he didn't
want to play.
	"Gotta stay sharp.  Your fingers get lazy if you don't use 
them every day."
	"Huh.  But you DID beat Go Go No No, right?"
	"Of course.  But you know how many of those games there are?"
 	"Three?"
	"Seven.  And that's just versions of the first one.  There's 
a sequel that is only out in Japan--very hard to get on import."
	Cantos saw an opportunity to close down the game directly.
	"You know, I've got a friend doing Japan right now--"  He felt
a little dirty, but scruples are for lesser men.
	"DOING Japan?"
	"Well, you know . . ."  Milo made an amorphous gesture with 
his left hand.  "But he could bring back a copy of Go Go Hyper Panic 
200% Crush, if I got enough money from this record I'm thinking
about, of course."
	Cap narrowed his eyes and studied Cantos.  "You know, it's not
even called that--you gaijin think you've got that Japanese ALL
figured out, don't you?"  Who you calling gaijin, kemosabe?
"It's Actually called 'Blue Heart Impact: Drum Shadow'."
	"Okay."
	"Aka GGRP 2."
	"Yeah.  Anyway, I can get you Shadow Heart Drum if you 
want it . . ."
	Cap continued banging his arm braces on the machine for a 
couple of minutes.  It was rather painful to listen to.  "Alright, 
fine.  But all you¼re getting is a drum machine."
he don¼t bang the drums anymore . . ."  True enough.
	"That will work."
  
	The last lost Head or Neck--besides the biggest Head, 
of course--was guitarist Maurice Stoveman.  In the 70's, 
Maury was known for both his mindbending washes of swirling guitar 
and his servility to Gill Monk's will.  Friends did not 
believe he was a particularly happy person, but they were 
convinced that when he was told to play guitar, he did it well.
	Cantos took the Greyhound to Tucson to Maury's place.  The 
door was answered by Mary Stoveman, and I'm sorry that we must
approach the unfortunate stereotype of the castrating woman.  
Then again, there's also the stereotype of the submissive
woman, so all the extremes are covered.  You also have your 
overbearing man (Cantos) and your underbearing one (Stoveman).
Pick a gender, pick an attitude, and you've got a set type 
ready to go.  So the ballbreaker then.
	Mary asked what Cantos wanted.  Cantos replied that he wanted
to talk to Maury.  Mary asked, frankly, why?  Cantos answered
that he wanted to see if Maury would play guitar on an album.
Mary said she believed that could be arranged.
	Mary directed Milo out to the balcony.  He thought of Kafka.
Maury looked up at Cantos as he walked out the door and had
the door closed behind him, looking like a set of eyes ringed
with despair.
	Cantos got down to it, fearing he might want to throw himself
to his death off the second floor balcony if he spent too much
time exposed out there in the crib in the Arizona sun.  He 
outlined the project with its dangers and potential benefits.
	Maury's question was this: "Do you think she'll be back soon?"
Cantos: "No, she thinks you and I are going to make some money."
	"That would be terrible."
	"I don't know if I follow."
	Maury gave a great sigh.  "You see, if I succeeded, that 
would just make her think that I was going to actually be a 
success, and then she would really never leave me alone."
	"Well, it wouldn't be THAT much of a success . . ."
	"Oh she doesn't know anything about the biz--I could play 
wakka wakka on a disco track and she'd think it was big time.
Do me a favor--tell her that you wouldn't offer me enough money."
	"Oh, I won't."
	"Not even to help me out?  You're not a very nice person."
	"True enough.  So you don't want to play guitar on this album?
Even if I get Gill Monk?"
	Maury's eyes became animated for a second: "You've got Gill?"
	"As good as got."  Complete lie.
	Maury sighed.  "I don't even know if I LIKE playing the 
guitar, to be honest."
	"What would you rather do?  Play bass?"
	"I don't even know.  My dad told me to play guitar when 
I was a kid.  Then I met Gill.  Then I met Mary.  Mary didn't 
really like Gill."
	"Uh huh.  And then you met me."
	Maury looked over.  "You."
	"Well, I'm no Gill Monk . . ."
	"Obviously."
	Hey.  "But I've got some ideas, and I can sing pretty well . . ."
	"But Gill can sing."
	"Well sure . . ."
	"Gill will be singing, right?"
	"Completely.  I just meant, if he needs back up vocals . . ."
	"He never liked them before . . ."
	"Well times have changed.  He had a near death experience."
	"Really."
	"Very near."  Perhaps put his hands all over it.
	"Well Mary would never agree.  She hates Gill."
	"Well, and I'm not going to pay you enough money."
	"NOW you say that . . ."
	Heh heh, the liar tells the truth.  "Look, I'm not, you know,
SAYING anything here, but are you sure that you and Mary, are
you know, meant to be?  I mean, yeah, your names look very 
similar, yes."
	"You just met her . . .  She's actually really . . . great,
yeah.  And she really loves me . . .  She just wants what's
the best for me."
	"For you, yeah."
	"And you know, you can't find a woman like that, you know,
every day.  She's pretty . . . perfect."
	"Quite a looker."
	"I mean, if I could believe that she wasn't, I mean . . .
but you know, she's really great."
	"And you're pretty great."  Milo felt stupid even saying it.
	"No I'm not . . .  I can't believe she even puts up with me,
a girl like that . . ."
	"A girl's just girl."  The doctor speaks.  "I mean, she can't
be THAT great--you can't live like a worm.  You don't want 
someone making you feel like they're doing you a favor!" 
Besides me.
	"You don't know . . .  She's just so perfect.  I mean, her 
teeth . . .  And do you know she got a 1390 on the GRE?"
	Cantos showed me some teeth.  "I'll bet I can find something
that's not so perfect about her . . ."
	"I don't really--"
	Just then Mary opened the patio door.  Maury's body seemed to 
jerk as if electrified.  Milo turned, and you could see 
his smile through the back of his head.
	"Say Mary, did you ever spend any time in Baltimore?"
	"Yes, why?"
	"Did you know a guy named Milo Windamueler?"  He held 
up a finger across his mustache.
	Her face began to twist in horror, but he did not savor it.  
He turned to Maury.  "Oh yes.  You can tell me when to stop."
  
	Ahhh, the past, you never know when it's going to hop up onto
your shoulder like a faithful pet.  Not always an accurate predictor,
but a wonderful set piece, if an unpredictable party guest.  
Did Cantos feel bad about ruining a probably pretty good woman?
By this point, he had decided that knee pads were not as good an
investment as running shoes.  But now he was returning to the
home base in triumph--you can strut then.  After you've had me
you know that you've had the best.
	When Cantos got back to the Dutch Missionary offices, he had
a less than encouraging e-mail from Jersey Lincoln waiting for him:
whereabouts of Monk still unknown.  An estranged wife--one 
Lauren LaVal--had been identified, but she either did not know 
or would not tell where they could dig Monk up.  She had 
furthermore requested that Lincoln never contact them again, 
as her son Peter did not know anything about his biological 
father.  No further leads.  Interest flagging--considering 
abandoning obscure music fandom for something more rewarding, 
like fantasy football.  Great news, Cantos thought.  Perhaps 
a little less strutting--keep jogging at a good pace, avoid 
telling any one about the set back.  He didn't bother 
going home--these lyrics would not write themselves.  
He had scotch and a pillow  in his office.
	The other shoe dropped on the day when the remaining Heads and
Necks were supposed to finally be reassembled in the studio for
the first time in over twenty years.  Cantos spent the morning
in his office drinking tea, looking over lyrics sheets and 
mugging in the mirror.  Then Patrick Keller came in to tell
him the bad news: Alexander Notoronski, former mastermind
of Alternabride Magazine who, if you remember, had been drafted 
by Cantos to provide his guitar skills to the Alligator Tears,
was making trouble.  "He wants money, and he's holding you to
that incest bullshit."
	"And just WHO told him what was going down?"
	"Hey, next time, maybe tell the rest of us what the lie is 
so we can sell it better.  He asked, I told him.  You know, 
I think he's still sore about the whole 'no girl keyboardist 
yet' thing.  Well, and the 'you not paying him' thing.  You
know he's been temping?"
	"Thank you captain exposition.  All right, I'll go deal with
him.  Get the band something to drink and keep them like 
undeveloped film."
	"Uh?"
	"In the dark."
  
	Unfortunately, luminous Notoronski was mixing with the 
photosensitive Hnex, and the other Alligator Tears were lurking
around as thuggishly as a bunch of indie-rockers could be,
and there was no particularly good way to separate them out.  
Keller excused himself to go sit behind the boards--about 
65% chance that that would  require very little work today.  
Cantos girded himself for some two-fists and a knee diplomacy.
"So what's the deal, Alex?  Let's go somewhere and have
a talk."
	"Ahh, Milo, had a good trip?  No, I think we should have 
our talk right here."  He appreciates good acoustics.
	"Okay then."
	"So the Professor tells me that you're planning on 
recording a little album today . . ."
	"We thought we might."
	"Well, that's all quite lovely, but you know the rules,
Milo: you can't have a wedding without something old."
Sure, Alex, whatever.  Save it for the lyrics--you've got a 
taste for arcane knowledge?  Come now--subtlety, my boy.
Never going to catch a fish with a bazooka.
	"We've GOT something old."  A whole band of old, in fact.
"I'm going to do the singing."
	"What?!  Where's Gill?!" Maury Stoveman demanded.
	"You said that he would be here," Scarab Barret said, 
seeming slightly amused and largely scary.
	"He's here with us in spirit.  I listened to his records 
more than anyone else I know!"
	"Record," said Keller, over the intercom.
	"I've been to enough sÈances in my time," said Scarab, 
	"I'm not going to part of another."
	"Yeah!" said Maury.
	"Well it seems you've got a problem, Milo.  If you don't 
play, then you can't put out the record, and if you do, 
you've got nothing to put out."
	"Look Alex, guys, we can work this out . . ."  Milo turned 
to the assembled Tears--92 short.  "Brian," (bass), 
"Kyle," (drums), "Peter" (guitar--did you catch that?), 
don't let Alex guide you astray on this one--you're all 
totally going to get paid."  Milo didn't catch it yet.  
"But if we don't put out this record, there's not going to BE 
any money to give to anyone!  And fellas," now he turned to 
the assembled Headenecks, "look I really tried to get Gill 
here,  but he's disappeared--he's gone.  But don't we all have
a little bit of Gill in all of us?"  A pointless thing 
to say--he still didn't catch it.  "And especially me
--this guy has been my idol since I don't know when.  
I made myself in his image.  I was in a Heads and Necks 
tribute band back in college!"  True--2 shows played as 
the Cuffs and Collars.  I'm sorry.  "So with me, 
you're basically getting Gill Monk jr."
	Since Mr. LaVal is not going to do it, I may have to--
	"And what the hell else are you going to do with 
yourselves?  Near as I can tell, you guys have only ever been 
any good together.  And you've got each other, 
even if you don't have Monk.  That's not so bad--80% recycled 
material.  Better than most multicolor hanging filefolders."
	"Bullshit," said Barret.
	"Yeah, pretty weak, Cantos," Alexander added.
	How is this farce going to end?
	"Peter, phone call," Keller said, poking his head into the 
studio.  "I think it's your mom."
	Cantos's head swam.  He rejected the solution.  Only he 
should sing his words--he wondered if he blacked out somewhere 
in his trip and killed Monk himself just to keep him from 
coming back.  His words.  To be the head of a monster made of heads.  
The voice.  His words.  But not his life.  Only his life's dream.  
But there was no other way.
	Peter came back in.
	"Hey Peter, can I talk to you for a second alone?"
  
	So the record got made.  Peter was actually pretty happy to 
realize that his no-good never-there father was actually a 
rock idol to a handful of diehard believers--suddenly things made 
sense.  He'd probably be bitter again later, but for the moment, 
it was just too cool.  And perhaps he enjoyed snaking Milo Cantos, 
the kingsnake himself, for the right to put in his hiss.  
Cantos did not enjoy it, but his happiness was not the issue; 
getting the  record made expended anything he was owed.
	The Heads and Necks made plans among themselves to tour on 
their original material and cut Cantos out of the deal.  
They were reasonably happy with his lyrics--not really psychedelic 
enough--but after sharing their stories of the fang-toothed stranger,
they agreed that his machinations were just a little too devious 
for them.  Besides, if they wanted to put out another album, 
they had him powerless by his incest policies.  And the new kid 
was good--in fact, he was actually a bit better than Gill had 
ever been--a sweeter voice, purer tones.  They didn't realize 
that he'd learned a few things from Cantos, which were, 
you could say, gifts from his father.
	The Alligator Tears eventually got payed.  Cantos hawked 
a number of rare records on online auction sites, but that 
didn't raise much scratch.  He went back to painting garages, 
so at least each of the Tears who had garages got them painted.  
The Tears grudgingly agreed among themselves that they would 
work with Cantos again if he produced the money up front and 
used an apology as the count-in for every subsequent song.
	Alex Notoronski vowed that, while he would take Cantos's 
scraps, he would reunite the Magazine for at least one track 
on the next DMR label sampler, with or without a keyboardist.  
He vowed that someday Alternabride would get off this crappy 
little label, but for now, he would step on Cantos's head 
and neck to stay  above the quicksand.  He hoped the working 
world would not wear him down before a real opportunity came 
along.
	Patrick Keller went on recording tracks for the second 
volume of Dutch Missionary Records with bands like 
The Twitches, The Loams, Marky St. John and The Killroy Set 
on Stunned, and GO PROSE! BEAT POETRY!, but he was beginning 
to weary of just producing indiepop and garagepunk, 
and secretly made plans to start working on a musicuh 
of the futureuh that would, if he was lucky, 
probably end up sounding like what was playing across the pond 
in crampt little clubs in Manchester and London around 
the time of his birth.  But with a smile.  A smile for the future
with a fang.  The future may just be the past misheard.
	And Milo Cantos, champion leaver, the great non-communicator,
1989 California Southern Region poplocking 2nd place award winner 
as part of the crew "The Simple Machines", amateur scientist 
of women's mysterious parts, voted most promising minor leaguer 
with an unbroken string of no-quitters, who had been so proud
of his imaginative act of agape love toward the growing hoard 
whose numbers he had helped build was punished for his arrogance 
when he was sand-bag, blind-side, trash-can dumped by his girlfriend 
upon returning home.  It seems that even the heads of non-successful
indie non-labels need to pick up the phone before they leave town
on crazy quests, especially when they share an apartment.


until the next installment, missionaries.





CREDITS
all songs written by Patrick Keller.

guitar, bass, organ, keyboards, programming, sequencing, triggering, vocals:
Patrick Keller

recorded Summer 2005, in Irvine, CA by somebody, then
mastered by Olivia at the Late News Desk


cover art: 'spider pastoral' and 'featherless cherubim' by Patrick Keller

lyrics & tabs available on the Dutch Missionary website 
www.franzkeller.com/dutchmissionary/amp.html



THANK YOU, MY UNDYING FRIENDS:
Franz, Mia, my folks, Jeff, Joe, Tom, Jonathan, McKenzie, Mike, Brandon, Leila,
Robert, Glenn, Will, Em, amici non nominati


SHOUT OUTS: 
the LA Riots, the Mae Shi, the Bachs, Helicopter Kick, the Flesh Godz, the Iron Monkeys,
the Robot Ate Me, The Stairs, The Joggers, Messthetics records, The Saturnines, 
The Brothers K, The Beat Conflicts