Only album, as far as I know, recorded by the singer Ingrid Chavez.
It was recorded at Prince's Paisley Park studios and very much has his sound.

Track listing:

Heaven Must Be Near
Hippy Blood
Candle Dance
Elephant Box
Slappy Dappy
Little Mama
Spiritual Storm
Sad Puppet Dance
Whispering Dandelion
Walking back from LaVal's Subterranean last night, where Randall was performing with the Berkeley Improvisers, I breathe in the night air and am filled with a longing to write a letter to someone far away. A man with a mohawk ponytail stops on the path in front of me, crouches down by the side, and swears in amazement at a slug roughly the size of a zucchini. It's enormous. There's a smaller one ahead of it, trailblazing. "Find me a ziploc bag," he says to himself, to me, to his companion. It is after this incident that I get the impulse to write, but not about the slug, curiously enough.

However, when I try to think of someone specific to write to, I cannot settle on who. Chris is moving soon, James I don't really know well enough. Phil? Perhaps, though, I should call him. Rich? I pass the building where he lives- he's graduating, has his own life to think about. I wonder if I should write to Sip- and while this idea appealled to me while I was packing my things in the apartment- I have no desire to do it now- have, in fact, forgotten what I wanted to say in such a letter. Perhaps I could write Mary, Ana, Ian, Mark, Paul, Tracy....

Of course, this morning I don't remember what I wanted to say in the letters, only something about looking up at the sky and feeling connected--

I am delighted to hear Maryclare call me a snob.
I'd been searching for the word that would describe my fault of judging others and there it was: nail on the head, a snob, that's me.
A gentle snob, Maryclare is quick to point out, as opposed to a tyrant.
But I am tickled pink to hear it.
A snob.

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