The cheesy grin slapped across his lips and the wild-eyed glare twitch in some kind of amorphous ecstacy. Paterson lumbers forward and leers at satellite member Thomas Fehlmann.
Nobody takes much notice.
Apparently, they're used to his strange eccentricities and spasmodic mental aerobatics inside and outside of the studio. It's easy, too easy, to imagine him free-basing the aroma of the rings of Saturn or crawling through the halycon mists of Mars as he pours all of his energies into sonic soundscapes that crackle with methadrene dreams, perpetual dawns, humbacked basslines, skanking dub, acquatic squelches and pink fluffy clouds with traces of toxic blue resin. This is the foundation of Orblivion , The Orbs seventh journey in eight years into the fronds of the ultraworld. When we were doing gigs all of these people kept staring at me and asking me to move things. They thought I was a roadie.