Sunlight grids quiver in the system. Read on! It's monk time - it's hop time. Don't read this. We said: don't read this. Let sapphires glide into the grooves. What is beat? What is beat today? And what is over-beat? And who the hell is going to melt the hot and cold world of tomorrow?

Listen, as Roger beats, Gary plucks, Dave pummels. And Eddie dreams hell's bass part. And Larry fingers the keys of the day after tomorrow. The monks believe in nothing. The monks believe that everything is possible. The monks give everything. Words are the outline of lies. Why do the monks produce their own words - for days on end, as the moon shines - until one word leads to another. Don't listen. Count from nine until blast off, then swim into the city's primeval forest. Black discs mirror colorful, shimmering illusions. This black circle, however, quivers within the system of our dear world - goodness gracious - the experiment, after all, is only beginning. Truth is habit-forming. Lying is the art of pleasing the other. The monks for their part, love . . .

Gary Burger plays guitar and was born in Minnesota. Roger Johnston, a Texan, gives his drums the works. Chicago boy: That is Larry Clark - crazy-fingers at the organ, for his father was no gangster, but a priest. And Dave Day has more than one banjo and more than one microphone built into each of his banjos. He claims that he was born in Washington. And Eddie Shaw, who hails from California, uses his bass guitar as he sees fit!

~ (From original liner notes of BLACK MONK TIME, 1965) ~