The opening track from the Lo-Fi Allstars debut album - How To Operate with a Blown Mind, released in 1997 on the famous Skint record label. The introductory monologue below has to be one of the oddest I've heard on any recording.

Dear God,
The patient's best intentions have sadly faltered.

Despite his newly installed, varnished brain, and being force-fed gallons of viscous demented liquor,
he is determined to obtain the new drone spiders' trophy.
He dreams of becoming the scorpion who never sweats.

Quite frankly i'm sickened to have this individual infiltrate my headspace.

He talks of lascivious laughs haunting his every second
as the clock spits, clicks, and time speeds by in the form of a neon snake.

Massive delusions?

Very probably.

I fear for my safety.
He is as weak as his fellow man.

I am now surrounded by hypocrites, liars, drunks, clowns, fools, sycophants and the desperate.
I insist we barter with the moon to sell the patients cohesive lyrical maps in exchange for a vision of the future.

Stricken with grief, I have no choice but to turn to lethal toxins
Hardcore Punk Paste.

Allstars takin' over...

Listen up, motherfucker...we're going to throw it down

Lo-Fi Allstars-Warming Up The Brain Farm

There were originally a different set of lyrics to this song, shown below, which are as broadcast when the song was first aired on the late-night BBC Radio 1 Big Beat show -Breezeblock hosted be Mary-Anne Hobbs.

Dear God,
The patient's best intentions have sadly faltered.

It has of late become apparent, he's driven by lust and he's as weak as his fellow colleagues.
A hypocrite, surrounded by liars and bed-wetters.

Stricken with grief, he turns to lethal toxins, hardcore Punk Paste.
Goodbye Lord

Allstars takin over...

Apparently the 'creator' of this lyrical oddity was the bands main vocalist, who went by the nickname 'Wrekked Train'. He had a habit of getting completely plastered on Tennents Super and wandered around London armed with a dictaphone. This gives the inital spoken words an odd almost eerie feeling as there is still a lot of background noise and you can almost envisage him trudging along through the deserted streets of the capital.

This song and many of the other samples on the groups first album, entitled 'How to operate with a Blown Mind' are from the same drunken ramblings.

Some thoughts are there on the tip of the brain, others rise up out of the stinking ferment and make themselves known. Actually stopping and thinking reveals other pieces, usually pragmatic: instead of an angel on my shoulder, I have an OODA loop.

Did my mother deliberately slam her hand in the fire door? Was the Prozac a cry for help? Was the only way she could get attention causing trouble? You won’t have her to kick around anymore?

Do we go through life setting fires or putting them out? I run towards the fire, ready to put it out. When I can’t solve problems, I get itchy.

Y’all motherfuckers need OODA.

I went to Burning Man with a sprained ankle and a camp to run. One took precedence: once that was done, I decided I was fucking off to go play with my friends and enjoy the Burn. I spent vast amounts of time chilling out and aggressively refusing to do otherwise unless one of my leads brought it to me.

Later, after too much partying, it made me feel really good to have medical tent effectively give me some ibuprofen and tell me to walk it off. As it fucking should be.

I limped all the way back, demanded my ex-boyfriend fetch me something to smoke, and passed out in someone else’s yurt, snuggling his wife.

Five is my little trauma cat, no matter how big he gets or how large his tail floofs in winter. He’s gotten to the point where he’ll come and beg for pettings - usually when he wants food. Otherwise, most of my friends think I only have the one cat that falls over on shoes. Meanwhile, Five is behind the washer re-living Vietnam or whatever other fire alarm has gone off in his tiny little brain.

I say this out of deep, abiding love for Five, who is a magnificent hunter of laser pointers and his own tail.

Six just wants it all: ideally pettings, and food, and one when the other is not present. He curls up in the lap, on the chest, on the face if allowed. He is shameless: he is here, he is cat.


Off of my deathbed I go,
“up, get up” I tell myself, swear
through a broken heart. “Get up, go”

Put me back into the dirt back
into the mattress. “Get up,” at
the end of the world

I keep getting up.

And I will stand on broken knees will
wake straight solid out of fever dream.
Up, get up.


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