"Dirty Bread" runs through my veins like blood. And through my arteries too. I was just fourteen when I first heard Savvopoulos at Kyttaro. November '72, dictatorship. He was presenting "Dirty Bread" live. We were witnesses to a birth. The record was released two months later.

It never crossed my mind that dirty bread symbolized death, as Savvopoulos has claimed. For me, dirty bread was a way to see the world differently around you. A code, a password. And a cry of protest. The circumstances demanded "our terrible speech to burst forth like a black spirit."

Kyttaro was a catacomb and Savvopoulos was -still- a guru. "Dirty Bread" was and remains an inflorescence of precious oracles.