Original recordings by NURSE WITH WOUND, mixed, processed and added to by THE HAFLER TRIO, Suitcase Studios, England. Published by United Dairies Music.
Special thanks are extended to Vivienne Walker, without whom this tape would have been impossible.

NURSE WITH WOUND and THE HAFLER TRIO HIT AGAIN!


The atmosphere at the recording sessions has changed - before,
they hit with 'A Missing Sense', and 'Astral Dustbin Dirge', the
sessions were hopeful. Now, Hits later, they're confident. You
don't need to listen at the sessions to tell that. You can tell
just by looking. Confidence everywhere. In everyone.

In Murray Fontana, The Arranger and Conductor. He's a lot busier
these days. He's a hot talent. Everybody's after him to do for
their boys what he did for The Wound Trio. 'Murray, what we want
is... well, you know, 'Astral Dustbin Dirge...' At the session,
Murray's all attention. Before him, seventeen yards of score
paper to become hit or miss records in three hours. A trombone
asks, 'Bar 59 ... E Flat?' Fontana, under a battered cap which
looks as if two taxidrivers once wrestled for it across
Paddington station, flips through his score to bar 59. His shirt
tail hangs two inches below his jacket. He was up all night
worrying out the brass lines. The horns are an added element
tonight, something different from the previous hit sessions. Why
Tamper? Fontana's confident. He shows off his callous on his
scoring hand. 'Busy? Whew!'

In Ken Brick, the accompanist. Pink-headed from the sun, chewing
gum, a snappy smile. Used to sharing jokes and ad libs with
Fontana about his thinning white hair, he wrote the music to
'Roses Are Green When I See Your Foot', and is feeling
confident. No runs in his Alpaca sweater either.

In Andrew M. McKenzie, the Producer. He's as aware as anybody
that what happens to these seventeen yards of score can mean the
difference between an million dollars and a busted golden egg.
He recorded his own hits a few years back -- 'Ex-Teenage Idol',
he calls himself. And then got into producing. His Northern
accent gets businesslike. 'Will ye lerrus hea thu riddum section
ownlee fro lettah eff'. In the control room the rhythm blasts
through three suspended-in-air hundred pound speakers. Its loud
enough to flatten visitors against the back wall. 'A tinee bit
moah peeahnoa', says the producer. The Engineer twists a dial.
'Bettah', says the producer. It doesn't sound any different. The
visitors nod in agreement. Better, they agree.
McKenzie, no tie, sleepy-eyed, in a metal-shiney off color suit,
tends his sound with care. 'Ohmygosh', he says, over and over,
in Geordie. He shoos away a kid standing by one of the speakers.
'You're blocking my triplets', he says. He's the envy of every
producer in town.

In Eddie Brackett, the Engineer. He fondles the row of dials on
the console in front of him, urging the monitor speakers up
towards the threshold of pain. He's the only Engineer in the
business who controls the crucial takes standing up, eyes so
intent on the VU meters in front of him that you'd think they
were windows in a starlet's dressing room.

In the orchestra. Always looking bored, as if they'd rather be
home watching re-runs of 'Mister Ed'. The arranger asks if the
Trumpets can blow into their stands to get more of an organ
sound on 'Homotopy'. The third trumpet replies in a tone you'd
like to hear from Mr. Wrigley if you'd asked him if he could
spare a stick of gum, 'I think so'. Like a convention of movie
extras, they seem to be practicing some sort of East Indian
unbugability. When Stapleton pretends to sprinkle a little J & B
on his hair as a tonic, a few of them chuckle. The bystanders,
they really laugh.

In Steven Stapleton. Black suede loafers and white sweat socks.
A rugged, great face that looks expressive even when its blank.
Always smoking. Sitting down when possible. He's shaved tonight;
a photographer is there, hoping to squeeze in the next cover
shot. The producer suggests that Stapleton delay a phrase at one
point. 'You're the boss', Steve says.
His muscular hands toss up a cigarette, he catches it in his
lips, and looks over at the photographer. 'You get that?' The
photographer hopes so. Steve's casual again: he radiates
confidence. But sweat is beginning to make rings on his polo
shirt. Its not all casual. As a matter of fact, its a special
kind of Hell they're all going through, making these recordings
for you.

                                                    Babs Santini

Original recordings by THE MURRAY FONTANA ORCHESTRA, mixed, processed and added to by THE HAFLER TRIO, Suitcase Studios, England. Published by United Dairies Music.
Special thanks are extended to Vivienne Walker, without whom this tape would have been impossible.

NURSE WITH WOUND and THE HAFLER TRIO HIT AGAIN!


The atmosphere at the recording sessions has changed - before,
they hit with 'A Missing Sense', and 'Astral Dustbin Dirge', the
sessions were hopeful. Now, Hits later, they're confident. You
don't need to listen at the sessions to tell that. You can tell
just by looking. Confidence everywhere. In everyone.

In Murray Fontana, The Arranger and Conductor. He's a lot busier
these days. He's a hot talent. Everybody's after him to do for
their boys what he did for The Wound Trio. 'Murray, what we want
is... well, you know, 'Astral Dustbin Dirge...' At the session,
Murray's all attention. Before him, seventeen yards of score
paper to become hit or miss records in three hours. A trombone
asks, 'Bar 59 ... E Flat?' Fontana, under a battered cap which
looks as if two taxidrivers once wrestled for it across
Paddington station, flips through his score to bar 59. His shirt
tail hangs two inches below his jacket. He was up all night
worrying out the brass lines. The horns are an added element
tonight, something different from the previous hit sessions. Why
Tamper? Fontana's confident. He shows off his callous on his
scoring hand. 'Busy? Whew!'

In Ken Brick, the accompanist. Pink-headed from the sun, chewing
gum, a snappy smile. Used to sharing jokes and ad libs with
Fontana about his thinning white hair, he wrote the music to
'Roses Are Green When I See Your Foot', and is feeling
confident. No runs in his Alpaca sweater either.

In Andrew M. McKenzie, the Producer. He's as aware as anybody
that what happens to these seventeen yards of score can mean the
difference between an million dollars and a busted golden egg.
He recorded his own hits a few years back -- 'Ex-Teenage Idol',
he calls himself. And then got into producing. His Northern
accent gets businesslike. 'Will ye lerrus hea thu riddum section
ownlee fro lettah eff'. In the control room the rhythm blasts
through three suspended-in-air hundred pound speakers. Its loud
enough to flatten visitors against the back wall. 'A tinee bit
moah peeahnoa', says the producer. The Engineer twists a dial.
'Bettah', says the producer. It doesn't sound any different. The
visitors nod in agreement. Better, they agree.
McKenzie, no tie, sleepy-eyed, in a metal-shiney off color suit,
tends his sound with care. 'Ohmygosh', he says, over and over,
in Geordie. He shoos away a kid standing by one of the speakers.
'You're blocking my triplets', he says. He's the envy of every
producer in town.

In Eddie Brackett, the Engineer. He fondles the row of dials on
the console in front of him, urging the monitor speakers up
towards the threshold of pain. He's the only Engineer in the
business who controls the crucial takes standing up, eyes so
intent on the VU meters in front of him that you'd think they
were windows in a starlet's dressing room.

In the orchestra. Always looking bored, as if they'd rather be
home watching re-runs of 'Mister Ed'. The arranger asks if the
Trumpets can blow into their stands to get more of an organ
sound on 'Homotopy'. The third trumpet replies in a tone you'd
like to hear from Mr. Wrigley if you'd asked him if he could
spare a stick of gum, 'I think so'. Like a convention of movie
extras, they seem to be practicing some sort of East Indian
unbugability. When Bisquet pretends to sprinkle a little J & B
on his hair as a tonic, a few of them chuckle. The bystanders,
they really laugh.

In Reginald Bisquet. Black suede loafers and white sweat socks.
A rugged, great face that looks expressive even when its blank.
Always smoking. Sitting down when possible. He's shaved tonight;
a photographer is there, hoping to squeeze in the next cover
shot. The producer suggests that Stapleton delay a phrase at one
point. 'You're the boss', Steve says.
His muscular hands toss up a cigarette, he catches it in his
lips, and looks over at the photographer. 'You get that?' The
photographer hopes so. Steve's casual again: he radiates
confidence. But sweat is beginning to make rings on his polo
shirt. Its not all casual. As a matter of fact, its a special
kind of Hell they're all going through, making these recordings
for you.

                                                    Babs Santini