Matt Harding - "Stay Always". You know something is going to happen. You're not sure what it is but you're sure it's going to happen. Certain. You see its signals in the white of clouds, in the red glare of sunsets. You see it in the ripple in the flags. Every glance is a harbinger. Something is going to happen and you are going to have to seize it at that moment, wrap hands around it, make it stay forever. Something is going to happen; prepare your traps. [blog/myspace/buy

Tom Zé - "Defeito 2: Curiosidade". Carlos unlocked the recording studio's red steel door, just as he had done ten or fifteen times a week for the past sixteen years. He pressed the code on the security pad, flicked on the three light-switches. He booted up the machines. He was a precise sitter. He sat down precisely, on the rolling chair behind the mixing desk. He stared through the studio glass at the empty stage. His client would not arrive for 22 minutes. Really, the client would not arrive for 52 minutes. Bands are always late.

Once the musicians had arrived, Carlos helped them to set up. It was always different and yet always the same. He made a note that he needed to vacuum the studio's carpet. Carlos undid his top shirt button and nodded to the percussionist to begin. He watched the red and green LEDs, the flickering needles. His fingertips rested on black sliders. He watched the musicians with calm, blackbird eyes.

Later, he spooled back the session and pressed play. The song came out on tiptoes.

"What is that?" said Manuel, who plays the bass guitar.

"What is what?" said Carlos.

"What is that voice?" said Suzi, who plays rhythm guitar.

"It is the singer," said Carlos. "You."

"Not that voice," said the singer. "The other voice. The little voice."

Carlos started the song again. This time he heard it immediately, of course he heard it, the gibbering little voice that had snuck into his microphones. Carlos stared at his flickering needles. "I do not know," he said. "Was it one of you?"

"No," said the band-members, jumbling and together.

"Hmm," said Carlos. He slid sliders, pressed buttons, turned knobs. He tried to isolate the voice and eliminate it. He could not.

"What is it?" said Manuel.

"I do not know," said Carlos.

"It sounds like a gremlin," said the singer. "Your studio has gremlins."

"It did not have gremlins before," said Carlos.

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