Don’t quite know how to regive the little trilling, whistling noise I am thinking of. Phonetically, that is. If you were sitting in front of me, you would hear it. It is a noise that expresses the will to dominate, it says: I am going to win. But it is also a noise that seeks an echo, like a damned bat looking for it’s prey. It says: I’m on a roll, show me where you are, you little bastards, so I can bear down on you, and finish you off. I am a fruit bat, at the moment, though. I am enjoying an apricot, with a drop or two of wine to go with it. But even a fruit bat won’t say no to meat, if it should present itself.
Listening to The Floppy Boot Stomp, from Captain Beefheart.