Legend has it I'm a goddamned monster. Those who talk, the myth makers, cloak me in black and pull me from the dredges, lock me in chains and cast me into middle Earth. One theory pits me against the Loch Ness. The truth is I come from the back roads and wild woods of Urbania. You know me. You've seen me. But everyone wants a story.
In the eighties, I found the Culos brothers. Down in their mom's basement they'd run around banging on things, merrily making chaos. The concrete room symphonic, full of sweat and soil and steam, bouncing those beats into a warm, living thing.
Chris went on to make a name for himself in a rock and roll band. Rob stayed quiet for the most part, tinkering and cultivating and planting seeds along the way. But it's just the craziest thing, or so they say. Because though I kept a low profile and never stuck my neck too far out and mainly kept to myself, I never went away.
And then, just like that, one unassuming summer afternoon, those brothers met up in a sunlit room above an old warehouse just outside of downtown and when all seemed quiet, when the stone stopped echoing and the wood stopped creaking, in walked Danny Chaimson.
Cord is a funny word. In a way it's an idea of some collective consciousness. But there I go talking, getting all mythical, when for the life of me I swear, I'm anything but.