Truthfully, he sounds
like a god, as yet un-
rehearsed. I want him
to play taps at my
funeral, and he will
last. Um. Todd makes
like he's cool while all
the other people are
angling like snakes,
in the pit, the pit of
Gold, the pits of
Todd. Todd is still
twelve years old,
but he smells like
a Liar, or his sister's
cunt. Todd plays a Lire,
he plays a godamned
Glass Harmonica.
Todd makes Duke jump
out of his whirlwind fuck
long enough, just to look
around.
Todd sings better than, almost everyone.
He does Marvin Gaye, better than Marvin
Gaye. Todd cracks Easter eggs on the floor
like a retard, or second grader. Todd is truly
spastic. Todd mounts the very largest stages
as if he is, well, God, finding the largest prisms
from which to announce, and re-pronounce his
Todd - like self.
Todd is like a critic, talking to himself. Duke agrees
that Todd could easily carry his very own seventeen
piece band. Todd understands sounds that are different
from other sounds. He is kindof Frank Zappa, or Herbie
Hancock, only without all the. . . mustard?

Todd is a technical Wizard. Hey person, you with your
lap-top. Yeah, you. How many notes can you parse, or
make light of, eh fuck? Todd, you are better than my
earphones, on Monday night, with a light cup of coffee.
Your everlasting fan,
Greg Rundgren