"I had the great good fortune of first hearing the music you are holding (and about to behold) on the long gray ribbon of highway that connects Albuquerque, New Mexico with Window Rock, Arizona. My destination was the desert home of a Navajo Road Man who had given me a rare invitation to attend a Native American Church peyote ritual; and all night religious chant, the mysteries of which held me in a thrall of queasy anticipation. I had been warned of the peyote´s magic powers and also of its snakebite; its ability to send a man into retching convulsions instead of his intended destination into the spirit world of his ancestors. I drove west through the ancient lanscape, this music as the underscore of my journey into the simultaneous past and future.
   I think of Marks Snow´s collection of work here as a kind of ritual chant, too. Its rhythms and cadences as ribbons of floating road and highway through a mysterious world of the unexplained. Its spoken words as ghostly incantations, not unlike those experienced during the Road Man´s guidance from time and tether, into a summoned dreamworld of memory and history. Cut free from its original service to narrative, it becomes intensely personal, an expression of Mark´s spirit world. Redolent of magic powers and its own quesy thrall.
   Enjoy this music. Let it take you on a journey into a world where sound is sight; where destination is a reverberatory halation on a non-existent horizon. Far, far from you television set."