the albatross helmet collective

BIO FOR EDGAR EVELYN:

Ee does not recall where or to whom he was born. His first memory was waking below deck of an Egyptian merchant ship about ten years ago. The captain of the ship told Ee that he was created in a tube, genetically engineered with gills, to be able to scrape barnacles off of the ships lower hull while it was on the water. Even though Ee could not see the gills anywhere on his body, he would do the job. He often wondered why he would almost die from drowning (seeing that he was supposed to breathe under water) before one of the crew would pull him up on the deck of the ship for the one daily meal of gull cakes, which gave Ee his love of albatross meat.

Every night some would play music, for the amusement of the crew. Ee befriended a tuba player named Ota, it was Ota that gave Ee his name. Knowing no English and Ee speaking only English (which was strange seeing that he was genetically engineered to work on an Egyptian merchant ship) Ota wrote two of the only letters in the English alphabet he knew, actually only one letter twice “Ee”, on a scrap piece of paper, pointing to Ee to denote that this would be his name. The sound of Ota’s beautiful tuba playing would move Ee to tears, and this would develop in him a love of music.

In time Ee became skeptical of the captain’s story about him being created with gills, coupled with him almost drowning everyday, he decided to escape. One night, docked in the port of Providence, he escaped, with only a dried piece of gull meat in his pocket, and Ota’s tuba under his arm, which he stole.

While in Providence he stumbled into a NY System hot wiener joint. There he met the manager, Tony, who took Ee under his wing. Tony was a kindly, sweaty man, who took Ee in during his time of need. It was Tony that decided Ee needed a real name. So he took the two letters, and called him Edgar (after his favorite musician Edgar Winter), Evelyn (after his dead teenage wife). Ee resides with Tony to this day.

In time Ee became an accomplished tuba player, he began playing sold out venues with his wonderful tuba solos. Eventually he was approached by a man who represented the one and only Ranji. With Ranji together with Mr. Phelps (Yes! Thee Mr. Phelps!), they collaborated and started “The Albatross Helmet Collective”.

Even though Ee has had much success, he is still a simple man. You can often see him in the streets of Providence busking with his tuba wearing a mumu (not because he is fat, purely for comfort) and a bag full of albatross jerky. And occasionally riding his bicycle, which he has named, “Golden Star the Unicorn”.

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BIO FOR RANJI 'THE HUMAN' BUTTERWORTH:

Ranji “The Human” Butterworth was conceived on March 16, 1883. He was born on October 2, 1978. You do the math. Actually, don’t bother.

His parents were Pakistani jugglers who were cursed with long gestation periods, but equally blessed with long lives and steadfast virility. On a trip to Sumatra to perform at the circus, they left him daily to sleep in a cage, which contained Sumatran sun bears that were absconded by a real life Dr. Moreau. (Professor Jimmy Sixpence) In fact, the good doctor never actually succeeded in turning the creatures into humans. But he did stumble upon a vile of sea monkeys, which he ultimately inseminated the female sun bear with. After several failed attempts, he sold them to the circus. However, he had never learned of their newly acquired intelligences. In the midst of a chaotic fire breaking out, they grabbed Ranji, unhinged the cage door and lumbered off into the sunset. It was in the jungle that they raised Ranji as their own.

Never being able to fully assimilate him into the sun bear clan, the nickname “The Human” was thrust upon him. When it became clear to all that Ranji belonged with the human world they urinated on him and let him go. At around the age of 13 Ranji then crawled on all fours to the nearest village where a local fisherman picked him up, for some reason taught him Swahili and gave him a new lease on life. Fortunately, his biological parents had tattooed his first name on his left kneecap. The fisherman transliterated it and today he is known as Ranji. (The surname Butterworth came from an empty bottle of maple syrup Ranji found while rooting around in a garbage can.) The fisherman died without Ranji ever learning his name. But on his gravestone he had inscribed, “Here lies A. Fisher”. From this point forward Ranji lived on his own.

His musical skills came from spending hours at school listening to a homeless man whistle outside the window. Ranji was mesmerized by the haunting melodies that would flow form the crusty lips of the beloved indigent. Little did he know that this man was Peter Xwad, an olive oil tycoon who liked to spend his vacations pretending to be poor. When Ranji came up to him to request some tunes and tap along. The man took a shining to him and asked Ranji if he would like to return to Canada with him and be his personal toenail clipper. Ranji jumped at the chance, as he was very fond of cuticles and all that entailed.

It was on the long submarine trip home where he learned a large catalog of popular music by such hit makers as William Shatner, Charles Asnevour and the Banana Splitz. He was also taught a multitude of ways to play the internal workings of a submarine and pretty much any room with a pair of chop sticks.

Upon arriving in Canada his benefactor Mr. Xwad died of a gall bladder attack right after signing his estate over to Ranji on the short plane ride from the coast. Fortunate for Ranji, Peter’s lawyers were there to officiate the proceedings. With all this newfound money, Ranji built a recording studio made entirely of aluminum and other alloys. He moved in there out of an obsession with clanging sounds and kept the tapes rolling 24/7. These recordings never made it beyond the studio after Ranji received some medical attention for hearing loss and O.C.D.

It was a particularly smelly day in August 1999 when Ranji received a phone call from his manager about an offer to collaborate with the 2 world-renowned recording artists, Edgar Evelyn & Mr. Phelps. Having burned all his bridges with most of his colleagues, due to destroying their homes attempting to perform concertos with numchucks, he welcomed the effort. During this time he picked up some new musical instruments, thanks to the introductions of Phelps & Evelyn.

One day, in a fit of boredom, Ranji banged on some World War One army hats, Edgar was eating an albatross sandwich and Mr. Phelps was sitting on the studio toilet waiting for inspiration. It was then that the thrilling project known as “The Albatross Helmet Collective” was born. It would be nine years before they unveiled the work, “Children of the Fruit”.

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BIO FOR MR. PHELPS:

Deep in the concrete forests of Providence, RI is where the singularly talented Mr. Phelps sprung to creative life over four decades ago. Spawned by parents who made a living by breeding danger and science textbooks, Mr. Phelps was open to almost anything involving the use of science and culture.

Having discovered the beauty of chaos inflected by holding a hollow body guitar up against an amplifier, Mr. Phelps decided to pursue a life of making sounds. No youth ever wanted to play with the young Phelps as he was almost always immersed in the mechanics of sonic stimuli. Preferring to never use his given name (it evokes memories of the Balkan states) he always uses the title/threat; “Mr. Phelps”.

Mr. Phelps tends toward fashion excess and can often be found lilting around the manse in a splendid China Red smoking jacket replete with apricot ascot and corduroy slippers.

The Phelps (a first person device designed to stun the opponent) has often holed himself up in isolation as he hammered out complex diversions from the proper way to play a musical scale. From the pseudo science of this outing, Mr. Phelps developed what his limited fan base would come to describe as “the Phelps Scale”, a polyphonic scale built, not on the progression of notes in relation to their root, but a line of notes played as independent entities. Of course most non-Phelps aficionados called it noise, but those in the know pulled out much enjoyment from this audio morass.

This bio will not bore you, gentle reader, with the unnecessary details of how the triumvirate of Butterworth, Phelps and Even got together, suffice to say it involved a burning car, the head of Ronald McDonald and several nights in a police lock up. Anyways, slow pulses of light from a laser beam playing softly against a large mannequin stolen from a Target store is usually enough to provide ample music inspiration from this cabal of musical thugs.

Mr. Phelps does not believe in reflexology, crystal therapy and other tonics espoused by New-Age adherents.

Mr. Phelps loves the sound of breaking glass.

Evan Even, Butterworth and Phelps can often be seen pogo sticking thru the slums of North Jersey trying to spread cheer and whimsy in an otherwise gray and dismal existential moment.

Phelps likes to eat breakfast anytime of the day and follows and intricate 30 hour day which creates a weird overlapping calendar scheduling nightmare for everyone close to him.

Phelps also suffers huge weight fluctuations. Phelps enjoys screaming for several hours every night.