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the cryonic trombone - peter blegvad and andy partridge lyrics

the cryonic trombone is made of solid silver, except the
mouthpiece which is stainless steel. a system of pipes and valves
circulates helium gas through it reducing the internal temperature to
0.6 degrees kelvin. before each session, the trombonist dries his lips
with a small fan heater. if there’s any humidity on them it will freeze
and separating him from his h*rn after the gig will require surgery
it’s high noon on the equator. a private airﬁeld. grumbling about
the heat, a group of scientists, military personnel and press barons are
gathered to witness a demonstration of the trombone’s power. a tall
woman in a white smock is describing the apparatus. the trombone is
fixed to a ‘faraday cage’, a box lined with tin and supported on air
springs taken from tanker lorries, to dampen vibrations which might
be translated into heat. the cage houses a super*insulated vacuum
flask known as a dewar after the scots scientist who pioneered low
temperature studies. inside the dewar sits the refrigerator which is
humming gently. the tall woman introduces the trombonist who
strides forward to desultory applause. wisps of vapour curl from the
plumbing around him. the moment has come * the trombonist ﬁlls his
lungs and meets the mouthpiece in a chaste kiss. even behind their
protective shields, the onlookers feel their body temperatures
plummet. a v.i.p. shivers as if touched by a corpse. the trombonist
gives his all in a ﬁnal blast and the crowd gasps. on the runway there
now stands a cone of frozen atmosphere, its vertex in the bell of the
h*rn, spreading to a height of three storeys where it begins to dissolve
thirty metres away. it will take all day to thaw, despite the heat
the booking agent draws the trombonist into a tent marked
private, while the dignitaries wander around the cone, marveling at
the exotic bird and insect life, the effects of light and shade, the radio
transmissions and clouds of old propeller*wash suspended in it. the
heat is forgotten. their voices are hushed, reverent. but suddenly their
trance is shattered. a disagreement over the trombonist’s fee has
erupted into violence. the buffet table has been overturned. a pitcher
lies in twinkling pieces, broken over the agent’s head. the furious
musician is being dragged away by guards. the woman in the smock
is making soothing sounds as she bandages the agent’s wound
through clenched t**th he’s hissing “that ungrateful little sh*t! he’ll
never work in this town again!”
there is no town for a hundred miles. the airﬁeld is surrounded by
jungle. but in his mind the agent is already back behind his desk in his
office with the means at his ﬁngertips to destroy the trombonist’s life

- peter blegvad and andy partridge lyrics

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