– CBGB, Winter 1975

When that music's hot subway steel & backroom smoke hits your spine, you can't help but follow, can you? She's the NY hard-mouthed poet punk of the street, all sidewalk grit and barfly. Goat woman from (not in) an Aquarian age – a neuter gendered prophet of the microphone – with a spew of blood from her raw-edged siren throat to boil through every vein. In the land of a thousand dances & spoons, her tongue's a rage against any light, a Molotov cocktail to your deepest ear. The heavy skyline crumbles in on itself, night after month after year, to an orgy of poster-plastered brick & sweat – always on the down beat. Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine , she says, and the studio apartment parties tilt their way across the floor in a forest of legs, in a bowl of hands.