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by Out of Dust

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The fourth album from Out of Dust (Osaka, Japan) is dark, introspective and hard-hitting. A full album of live composition (all recorded as improvisation on 04/28/2015) with Poetry by Peter Ramos.
Dark jazz/free- jazz/ experimental rock/ spoken word

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released June 24, 2015

Garry Lindon- fretless bass
Mark Elshout-trumpet, clarinet, saxophone, french horn, trombone
James Barrett- trumpet, flugel horn, recorder, melodica
Jesse Forest - guitar
Eric Wiegmann- drums/spoken word
Poetry/lyrics- Peter Ramos
Cover Art- Matthew Lindon/ Eric Wiegmann- assistant
Mix Mastering: Garry Lindon, Loopline Records- Osaka,Japan

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From Out Of Dust Osaka, Japan

Garry Lindon (fretless bass)
Mark Elshout (trumpet, saxophone, clarinet, trombone, frenchhorn) Vladimir Jocic (guitar,
Jesse Forest (guitar)
Eric Wiegmann (drums)

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Track Name: Defacing the Page
History


By the X-ing light
covered with rust, what’s left

of the brakeman-shack
lingers a moment,

weathered, worn down to dull
silver paper on which—lick me

or Todd + Becky Forever—children
take their turns

defacing the page, making it
more itself than ever.

-Peter Ramos "History" from Please Do Not Feed the Ghosts
used with permission
Track Name: See If You Can Look Away
Into The Mystic



Torn, caked and stuck together, those pictures—too loud to breathe easily around—
put a stop to us, gently pulling each one out of his childhood, as from a molting
or a glove. We stared for hours, feeling sour-bellied and dizzy, something like sadness but twisted, electric. Trees rose up and up beside us to their leafy, sunblown ceiling. Looking carefully by their gouty roots you’d have seen puffballs and earthstars or stinkhorns thrusting up from the loam. A biologist would find diatoms and water-blooms drifting over the silt. Not us. Even the birdsong and creek-murmur ceased. Shadows lengthened, the world was new. Go back there yourself: see if you can look away.
by Peter Ramos "Into the Mystic" from Television Snow
used with permission
Track Name: Ten Cent Shots
John Berryman in my Dreams


Blacking out in some basement café, crowded
And alone in the sad mid century, I come back & go on
Hunting powder-puff angels, the pan-caked faces

Under bangs cut straight, the puckered mouths wet
With lipstick. Then do I move through night, glass
After each empty glass—am I all right?

Sure be: Henry's famous, even hip.
The kids pick me out in the dimmest bars
Or slopping late in the Chinese joints

Of Boston, on the make. It's always time
To get stuffed. Here's the edge of awake—
Cocktails, pack of matches, somebody's face

Watery-familiar. Hi there, stranger.
Here's to being up for something beautiful,
Regrettable and sore.
by Peter Ramos "John Berryman in my Dreams" from Please Do Not Feed the Ghost
Used with permission