This schizo-soul land touched by Morpheus’ hand where I fall and I flail and I warp and I wail cause the chips are all green and the faces are mean so I crawl and I snail searching sound’s holey grail; where there’s mischief and magic and laughter and crassness and chancers and dancers and crackfuck and cream crewed through desolate years and dismissed by their peers; these disparate faces, these Jericho places; this sonic exception, this aural invention, this musical tension, this lithe-limbed redemption; the Welsh Music Scene roars below-ground, unseen, seeking sensory sheen, brilliant, breathless, obscene...

...as I grow up and throw up in shit gigs and good gigs in back street hick shitholes polluted with arseholes with mutants dickdragging and pissed up and fighting, whose shitebraincunt cursing is smiting these heroes whose dragonbreath vocals soar high, crazy, hopeful; not giving a toss cause the inverted cross of their genius strikes me, inspires me and fires me to run with the snorting hoofed horses of laughter alone and uncaring for twats driving tractors or all of the others whose blood only rises through cheating on wives, is this really a life?

Fuck yeah here I am LIVING and sweating and loving the scandalous beatings fellatio feeling of gigging, of bleeding emotions and seething with hormone and healing ascension in fanzine and labels and scumbubble evils of wizards and perverts and pissfools and Wales and its weevils; through Ectogram’s rhythm all skewiff and screeching and Rheinallt H Rowlands’ gravelsome soothing; Gorky’s up mountains lysergic and grinning; Dave Edwards and Datblygu Falling, not spilling a drop of the lifestyle the lifeblood; the turnstile to terror spins wildly and snidely with wordplay and wonder and preachers and pleasure and blunderbuss bugger-em-all.

And Y Cyrff and Ffa Coffi Pawb grouping, regrouping, recouping the dark years the spark years the larktear infection of brilliance breaks bruises beats blasting; befuddling the ignorant industry’s hiding; inexorably rising and righting and shaking down yawn years of drowned valley dreamery crying internal for voices heard only by those whose hearts bump with the passion of crawcrackling snaredrum and basslines and bedlam.

I grin at the gracious and worthy and rapacious A&R faces who scrabble and scribble and buy drugs for SFA, cream over Cerys; who trip (up) with Gorky's and moider with Melys; the media slavers, a stalker, a lover, a realisation that if you uncover the stones of the Offa there’s murder, there’s magic, there’s love and there’s lager; inviolate genius and passion and power.

A gorgeous gift through generations passed; it’s just that before, no-one bothered to ask. But thanks to the labels, to Ankst and the others - the Llareggub lovers, the banshees and brothers - this troublesome, mischievous sly-eyed and scree-thighed devil of delinquence, musical munificence has a voice that can shatter both heaven and heathen, and forever will it sing.