And it starts right here on the slopes of Mt. Haleakala, Maui. She was raised like Jimi, a Dostoyesvskian paisley girl, but somehow found herself trapped in a feedback loop slowly decaying before her ears. Her life is an enigmatic kind of thing beyond the reach of pop, and as she tries to hear the sound of one hand clapping, Collen is being torn down by the same hands she uses to please herself. She is an amatuer exhibitionist. Caught as David Koresh's bass player, Collen is slippin' on a phenomenon, trying to cut through the noise with five strings, three chords, and Bucchi Emecheta.
Content is consciously manipulable, process reveals the true person.
If you can give, please give. If you need, please take fairly. In the end, she was raised like Avant Garbage, a child of ideas and joyful noise, but somehow found herself trapped in an existence slowly decaying before her eyes. Her life is fueled by something beyond the capacity of language to convey.