Long since disappeared into that void formed by too many moves — between houses, between towns, across one continent, then an ocean, and then back and forth within another continent (hopefully to stay put for a while (I'm tired of moving)) —are my copies of my high school yearbook. And more to good, I say, that that era of youth, but bad haircuts, has vanished from the evidence room.
But at least there is THE EXPERIMENTAL MUSIC YEARBOOK, here. No bad haircut photos in it, but plenty of good things to read, hear, watch.
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