The annual confluence continues: three rivers, five of a trio, jetsam washed up on a porch in the Paris of Appalachia.

Without gods or masters, we walked the Golden Triangle. We sat on Andy's couch. We found art. We found kisses and bikes grown into trees. We smiled on kayaks. We found lost second relatives. Then we locked out the world and put our findings, a year's worth of strivings and buried contrivings, into song.

Maybe someone looked into the lighted living room and wanted our lives. A fleeting thought: "Huh, what's that band doing in there? I should write a poem or something." Inside, it was dimly lit and funky, all thing-eat-thing and space gangplanks, underwater oceans and embryo ice rockets. It was really nowhere someone else should want to be.

Here we have for you our 27th year of a one-day no-practice songwriting extravaganza of almosts and missed hits from the ridiculous to the sublimely ridiculous.