n an abandoned seaside town the women of the bordello wander out. Their punch-stained lips whistle whiskeyed melodies. Their limp boas leave a trail of old perfume.
A cowboy, hidden in the shadow of his ten-gallon, sips sassafras soda, for which he has traveled a great mile. You make your way from the old hotel set back on the dunes, stopping first for a continental breakfast in the chandeliered ballroom.
Hop on a sepia carousel. Bathe in the icy shore. Or just stroll along the crumbling boardwalk while echoes of Twizzle fill the summer air...
Recorded in 1999 over a period of several months, Twizzle's homemade CD combines theatrical vocals with warm, lush melodies and rhythm.
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