The receiver crackled to life once more, the signal bounced from distant satellites and filtered through the upper reaches of the stratosphere. A voice, barely recognisable, the message cryptic, and in the background - a poolside, or else, birdsong? Inconclusive, in the wake of a cocktail that tasted, said the second go-go dancer, 'Kinda funny', before melting into the hot midnight crowd, an abstract composition of sound and colour, drums and motion. And now the journey from stage door to receding yellow cab became epic in both scope and scale, cacti or maybe fire hydrants swerving recklessly across his path. Images collided, spinning fragments of a story he couldn't quite remember, or never really knew. The Beat Hotel, the school of abstract music, and Stanley Terrace, 'musician', 32, who knew so much and told so little - that at least was clear. And in his hand the receiver, unheard -
"You were right all along, we found them, we found them all!”
from 'High Orbit', Alberto Travelli