Rickie has always enjoyed working on the Conway compound. Maybe it's the "tropical atmosphere" strangely nestled on the starting-to-be-seedy side of Hollywood. Leaving what passes for upscale shopping you're suddenly descending on a beeline course for East L.A. Up ahead looms the Pink Elephant car wash, and just before you pass under the rotating pink neon sign, you pull a quick right turn and then right again into a gated and secluded environment that is surprisingly lush by contrast. Ghostyhead was born there during long nocturnal sessions when the studio was lit solely by votive candles, some in tall red glass with pictures of saints and sufferings. A strange collection of carpets bearing astrological signs draped the overstuffed couches, and there was a distressed doll head that I dug from my garden while digging a pond. Both the carpets and the doll head made it into the Ghostyhead CD art. Those were halcyon nights. Incense spread ashes across the SSL board. Outside the palm trees rustled, and inside the magic replied. Now Mr. Nelson and Mr. Goldberg are back at it again, caressing the knobs and divining for synergy on Rickie's new foray into the musical unknown, just south of Melrose, just east of the bright paper baskets hanging from the storefronts on North Virgil.

- R. L. Pennyhead