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Mr. Bungle

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Look, there isn't any possible way to cure anyone's metaphysical dissatisfaction, because what we're dealing with here is a cosmological riddle, the likes of which no one is prepared to deal with. Have you ever had a hair shirt woven into your skin? Yes, you have, because you and your generic code are the fabric which accumulates into self-organized garments that grasp onto the dead tree of non-being. Well, we're no different than you, now, are we? Except that we don't pretend to answer to the insoluble with hackney Q & A sessions which ignorantly endeavor to "get to the bottom of it".

The thing that links us all together, whether we're career journalists, tattooed chain-smoking rockers, elitist hipsters, pig-headed hippies, jaded intellectuals, clueless music industry people, art-rock dinosaurs or wide-eyed noise enthusiasts, is not some romantic love of eclecticism through music, or the overcoming of some imagined social barriers through "radical sound." No, the only thing that links us, you and I and everyone, is that none of us will solve the riddle of life outside of time and space by using means within time and space.

So let's not bore each other with anymore desperate and ill-fated attempts at this "reality hunting", huh?

Ok, we'll spill a few beans into your bowl. We lost a great deal of fluids in the grooves, glass and chrome which Warner Bros. Records has so decidedly manufactured for you. You see, the noncommittal behavior of recently-X'd band members and producers (and our former privately-trained marketing director/prosthetician) has solved a few of our own little riddles while creating new ones for you. Now they're in your world. Sorry.

We are absolutely thrilled with the opportunity to play danceable funk-metal for anyone who was frozen in ice four years ago.

There is a real story behind the recording of this record. But you know what's kinda rough? This: Good luck getting it out of us. We're under oath to a tree that will someday die. But the contract we wrote up, with the help of Warner Bros. Records and the tree's attorneys, states, hitherto and heretofore, that we're supposed to maintain a couple of secrets, last spoken of in the dark, damp confines of the forest. This mighty giant might at any time fall, and with it will come the telling of many stories. The oath will be broken. Whether it is told on the forest floor or the floor boards of an A-frame house on Sturgeon Bay, or on the very paper with which you wipe your loins, the vast knowledge held now in the rings of this healthy fir will spill gloriously onto the pages of Spin and the pages of Details, into the columns of Option and the fine print of bloody Kerrang and the splendid italic font found in Rolling Stone. Put down your axes and relax, the story will be told.

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