February 13, 2016



That darn mysticism of VALLEY can sure stink up the place.
BB is back, armed with fancy sticker pads and nubby erasers she plans to NEVER use.
Ariel is setting a fire to the recording material. She was fired last week, but we're keeping her around for morale. We suffer for our arse AKA still on the look-out for nimble fingers to wind tape. The tracks are setting in a train to somewhere with an inter-dimensional soundtrack - and we're providing the music - with WILDERNESS, a two-tape set of Valley music to inspire awe and pawing around.
The sounds wafting down the hallway from the studio carve out invisible strange into the walls, all the more sweeter the second time around as VALLEY flings its delicate body into stage two, with the further release of materials pertaining to the mystery event, and the evidence that Shalo P is a madman that should probably be locked up for good (or at least paddled).

After VALLEY closed, I half-expected free dinners every night,
but carrying this running chainsaw didn't win me too many pals either.


Now with the second exhibition of VALLEY closed forever, only the tangential elements of the project will persist in production until the time comes when full completion is all globbed in perfect pristine puddles at our feet.
Things aren't clean cuts in the real world. Closure isn't necessarily an objective either, when it boils down to extending that elusively glorious thrill.

(How really?)

Don't ask us, but keep on praying to your black glistening idols.

We wracked our brains and wrecked our minds to get close to something real.
All it produced was four sturdy walls that bleed at will, and a mirror on my desk that shivers, shatters, reassembles - repeatH. P. Lovecraft had it correct in a few respects: Deep Gods got that dope-ass wifi.

Bask in these failures that drove half the interns mad while out on the company picnic, some leaving to rest in the pale stone caves below the Falcon's Roost, only to come back changed - stretched motley by feasts of soiled seawater. The captain was found cooped in his cloister of stone coffins, amid tense spiders of sweat, and never-ending mental exhaustion. The girls gathered to draw straws as to who could spare the poor man's soul with a large stone's strike. THAT WAS CASUAL FRIDAY.


From the Desk of Shalo P :
(prolonged, anguished scream)

From the Desk of BB :
The sounds sure have been Delia Derbyshire all up in this piece, amid a gaggle of other ladies of strange sound. What if DD had been the inspiration for BB in TVG?

A taste: "B-Beginning as trainee studio manager, her troubles were compounded by an addiction to music inter-dimensional, coke-invoked seances, and a devastating preoccupation with a mysterious department within Television for Ghosts. Perhaps there's an avant-garde ballet of threads of tape... cascadin' some mad..."

ERR. In other news, we're chalking one up for responsibility. TVG has it's own official ledger for 2016. In accordance with Shalo P's perpetual deconstruction of tomorrow, all serious business is peppered with little musings and cryptic records, lest we forget that the mad boss nearly hovers on his shamefully airy persona. 

Your (psycho) ward,

San Francisco, California

We're opening up the store with new music and books for 2016 (and eternity's ceaseless loop).

BONUS : Here is a link of Shalo P Discussing Valley  

: )

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