Well, you can flush all of that business, because there’s no way in hell this stuff came from anywhere other than sunny Southern California, and from a part of it too remote from L.A. for its residents to make themselves heard by the Angelenos no matter how loud they shouted. It’s just Peter, singing and banging on a Casio with, I’m guessing, a 50-tone bank and 16 rhythms: he favors the cheesy disco beats. Recorded from February-June 1988 in the dark unkillable heart of Chino, it is a very loud exclamation point at the end of the accepted maxim that you don’t need glossy production when you’ve got raw talent. The melodies come into being as the songs go along; you can hear small improvised flourishes become The Actual Song in real time as it’s being recorded. The singing, which would later find its pretty and natural range, is slightly nasal and unconcerned with how you feel about it: as Frank N. Furter says when Janet shrugs at his creation Rocky’s physique, “I didn’t make him...for you!”