Kid 606 is in Southern Cali on a passenger train headed from his home turf, San Diego, up to Anaheim, where he's performing later in the night. He's talking on his cell phone, but it keeps cutting out. He gets on a roll talking about performing, remixing or composing his laptop electronic music, and his mind is running faster than his mouth can, but then the signal starts to clip and clutter, break into tiny bubbles of sound, a digitized tin muffle filled with a cloudy satellite hiss, until silence falls, followed by a dial tone on the other end. This happens half-a-dozen times during a half-hour conversation: Clip. Scramble. Cut. What? Dial tone. He always continues exactly where he left off; right now he's talking about opening for the Butthole Surfers, which he'll be doing at the Galaxy next week, and the difference between playing for rock fans... More >>>
In a musical world in which anonymity is the rule and mystery as much a goal as the music, geeks starved for a role model got one when they started obsessing over Kid 606.