Nurse With Wound and The Hafler Trio Hit Again!
Nurse With Wound / The Hafler Trio
Details
1987 CS NL Staaltape ST00M
In regular cassette box
Track Listing
Side A
  1. Untitled
Side B
  1. Untitled
Sleeve Notes
Original recordings by NURSE WITH WOUND, mixed, processed and added to by THE HAFLER TRIO, Suitcase Studios, England. Published by United Dairies Music.
Special thanks are extended to Vivienne Walker, without whom this tape would have been impossible.
NURSE WITH WOUND and THE HAFLER TRIO HIT AGAIN!

The atmosphere at the recording sessions has changed - before, they hit with 'A Missing Sense', and 'Astral Dustbin Dirge', the sessions were hopeful. Now, Hits later, they're confident. You don't need to listen at the sessions to tell that. You can tell just by looking. Confidence everywhere. In everyone. In Murray Fontana, The Arranger and Conductor. He's a lot busier these days. He's a hot talent. Everybody's after him to do for their boys what he did for The Wound Trio. 'Murray, what we want is... well, you know, 'Astral Dustbin Dirge...' At the session, Murray's all attention. Before him, seventeen yards of score paper to become hit or miss records in three hours. A trombone asks, 'Bar 59 ... E Flat?' Fontana, under a battered cap which looks as if two taxidrivers once wrestled for it across Paddington station, flips through his score to bar 59. His shirt tail hangs two inches below his jacket. He was up all night worrying out the brass lines. The horns are an added element tonight, something different from the previous hit sessions. Why Tamper? Fontana's confident. He shows off his callous on his scoring hand. 'Busy? Whew!' In Ken Brick, the accompanist. Pink-headed from the sun, chewing gum, a snappy smile. Used to sharing jokes and ad libs with Fontana about his thinning white hair, he wrote the music to 'Roses Are Green When I See Your Foot', and is feeling confident. No runs in his Alpaca sweater either. In Andrew M. McKenzie, the Producer. He's as aware as anybody that what happens to these seventeen yards of score can mean the difference between an million dollars and a busted golden egg. He recorded his own hits a few years back -- 'Ex-Teenage Idol', he calls himself. And then got into producing. His Northern accent gets businesslike. 'Will ye lerrus hea thu riddum section ownlee fro lettah eff'. In the control room the rhythm blasts through three suspended-in-air hundred pound speakers. Its loud enough to flatten visitors against the back wall. 'A tinee bit moah peeahnoa', says the producer. The Engineer twists a dial. 'Bettah', says the producer. It doesn't sound any different. The visitors nod in agreement. Better, they agree. McKenzie, no tie, sleepy-eyed, in a metal-shiney off color suit, tends his sound with care. 'Ohmygosh', he says, over and over, in Geordie. He shoos away a kid standing by one of the speakers. 'You're blocking my triplets', he says. He's the envy of every producer in town. In Eddie Brackett, the Engineer. He fondles the row of dials on the console in front of him, urging the monitor speakers up towards the threshold of pain. He's the only Engineer in the business who controls the crucial takes standing up, eyes so intent on the VU meters in front of him that you'd think they were windows in a starlet's dressing room. In the orchestra. Always looking bored, as if they'd rather be home watching re-runs of 'Mister Ed'. The arranger asks if the Trumpets can blow into their stands to get more of an organ sound on 'Homotopy'. The third trumpet replies in a tone you'd like to hear from Mr. Wrigley if you'd asked him if he could spare a stick of gum, 'I think so'. Like a convention of movie extras, they seem to be practicing some sort of East Indian unbugability. When Stapleton pretends to sprinkle a little J & B on his hair as a tonic, a few of them chuckle. The bystanders, they really laugh. In Steven Stapleton. Black suede loafers and white sweat socks. A rugged, great face that looks expressive even when its blank. Always smoking. Sitting down when possible. He's shaved tonight; a photographer is there, hoping to squeeze in the next cover shot. The producer suggests that Stapleton delay a phrase at one point. 'You're the boss', Steve says. His muscular hands toss up a cigarette, he catches it in his lips, and looks over at the photographer. 'You get that?' The photographer hopes so. Steve's casual again: he radiates confidence. But sweat is beginning to make rings on his polo shirt. Its not all casual. As a matter of fact, its a special kind of Hell they're all going through, making these recordings for you. Babs Santini
The Murray Fontana Orchestra Plays The Hafler Trio
Nurse With Wound / The Hafler Trio
Details
1995 CD NL Staalplaat STCD028
1000 In oversize card sleeve
Track Listing
  1. Untitled
  2. Untitled
Sleeve Notes
Original recordings by THE MURRAY FONTANA ORCHESTRA, mixed, processed and added to by THE HAFLER TRIO, Suitcase Studios, England. Published by United Dairies Music.
Special thanks are extended to Vivienne Walker, without whom this tape would have been impossible.
NURSE WITH WOUND and THE HAFLER TRIO HIT AGAIN!

The atmosphere at the recording sessions has changed - before, they hit with 'A Missing Sense', and 'Astral Dustbin Dirge', the sessions were hopeful. Now, Hits later, they're confident. You don't need to listen at the sessions to tell that. You can tell just by looking. Confidence everywhere. In everyone. In Murray Fontana, The Arranger and Conductor. He's a lot busier these days. He's a hot talent. Everybody's after him to do for their boys what he did for The Wound Trio. 'Murray, what we want is... well, you know, 'Astral Dustbin Dirge...' At the session, Murray's all attention. Before him, seventeen yards of score paper to become hit or miss records in three hours. A trombone asks, 'Bar 59 ... E Flat?' Fontana, under a battered cap which looks as if two taxidrivers once wrestled for it across Paddington station, flips through his score to bar 59. His shirt tail hangs two inches below his jacket. He was up all night worrying out the brass lines. The horns are an added element tonight, something different from the previous hit sessions. Why Tamper? Fontana's confident. He shows off his callous on his scoring hand. 'Busy? Whew!' In Ken Brick, the accompanist. Pink-headed from the sun, chewing gum, a snappy smile. Used to sharing jokes and ad libs with Fontana about his thinning white hair, he wrote the music to 'Roses Are Green When I See Your Foot', and is feeling confident. No runs in his Alpaca sweater either. In Andrew M. McKenzie, the Producer. He's as aware as anybody that what happens to these seventeen yards of score can mean the difference between an million dollars and a busted golden egg. He recorded his own hits a few years back -- 'Ex-Teenage Idol', he calls himself. And then got into producing. His Northern accent gets businesslike. 'Will ye lerrus hea thu riddum section ownlee fro lettah eff'. In the control room the rhythm blasts through three suspended-in-air hundred pound speakers. Its loud enough to flatten visitors against the back wall. 'A tinee bit moah peeahnoa', says the producer. The Engineer twists a dial. 'Bettah', says the producer. It doesn't sound any different. The visitors nod in agreement. Better, they agree. McKenzie, no tie, sleepy-eyed, in a metal-shiney off color suit, tends his sound with care. 'Ohmygosh', he says, over and over, in Geordie. He shoos away a kid standing by one of the speakers. 'You're blocking my triplets', he says. He's the envy of every producer in town. In Eddie Brackett, the Engineer. He fondles the row of dials on the console in front of him, urging the monitor speakers up towards the threshold of pain. He's the only Engineer in the business who controls the crucial takes standing up, eyes so intent on the VU meters in front of him that you'd think they were windows in a starlet's dressing room. In the orchestra. Always looking bored, as if they'd rather be home watching re-runs of 'Mister Ed'. The arranger asks if the Trumpets can blow into their stands to get more of an organ sound on 'Homotopy'. The third trumpet replies in a tone you'd like to hear from Mr. Wrigley if you'd asked him if he could spare a stick of gum, 'I think so'. Like a convention of movie extras, they seem to be practicing some sort of East Indian unbugability. When Bisquet pretends to sprinkle a little J & B on his hair as a tonic, a few of them chuckle. The bystanders, they really laugh. In Reginald Bisquet. Black suede loafers and white sweat socks. A rugged, great face that looks expressive even when its blank. Always smoking. Sitting down when possible. He's shaved tonight; a photographer is there, hoping to squeeze in the next cover shot. The producer suggests that Stapleton delay a phrase at one point. 'You're the boss', Steve says. His muscular hands toss up a cigarette, he catches it in his lips, and looks over at the photographer. 'You get that?' The photographer hopes so. Steve's casual again: he radiates confidence. But sweat is beginning to make rings on his polo shirt. Its not all casual. As a matter of fact, its a special kind of Hell they're all going through, making these recordings for you. Babs Santini
Notes
Steven would only allow Staalplaat to re-release this if they removed all mention of himself and Nurse With Wound.

My scanner does not reproduce flourescent colours correctly.