An early press release:

Late/night. Walking, hitching, running when necessary, I had finally made my way out f the dreaded Valley. My domicile lay deep in Hollywood where the spit, sweat and slime grapple mano a mano in the streets. I'd just passed Barham where I hoped to catch a non-lethal ride from some freeway weary automaniac. Then I heard that damned music. To this day it haunts me. It seemed to emanate from the dark hills over my shoulder. Pounding, surrounding, the music cut one way, then another like some psychotic halfback on a field of pure hell; guitar that contradicted itself every step of the way, sax lines that were probably written with a shotgun. And that beat: pounding snapping. I'd forgotten my ride altogether now. I ran from house to alley, tracking that noise. Then quite clearly I heard a voice:

One more breakthrough
You send me the message
High overhead in afterimage...

I searched awhile longer in vain, thinking "they must have tolerant neighbors" as the music continued. I stuck out my thumb at the darkening thoroughfare and a car was pulling up when I heard a clatter behind me. Drumsticks, hurled from somewhere in the hills. Forsaking a sure ride, I turned in a daze, bent over and picked up the sticks. A word was imprinted in them. It said "Afterimage."

Fade in, pull in that station
Just a memory a short duration
One more breakthrough
You send me the message
High overhead in afterimage .