It all started in 2005 when three nimble members of a dying ghost-stoner-tape-band decided to keep on playing and make something different from the riff-ritual-driven music they all had been playing for so far so good. One hot summer night Hank the Wife, High Hoe Silver and Turkish Delight met in an old damp industrial building not far from Möllan to see what was born from playing for fun and without pretense and when the mind of all band members are tuned into a certain feeling or mood. After some jam sessions the first unforeseeable child of the collaboration was born and named "Salma Hayek's Delayed Mexican Ultra Nipple". This song was to become the constitution of the Salma sound and set the feeling for the three following songs that held that similar mood. The naming of the songs became a game, almost a competition but foremost a playing with words that could communicate the feeling and ambience of the particular song. The taste of sound described in a sentence or the sentence for the song described in words. What went on in the heads of Salma while writing these songs? With the set of the four guiding songs, ”Salma Hayek's Delayed Mexican Ultra Nipple ” being one of them, the mindset, mindscape and other mental environments and concepts was staked out for future song creation. But we needed some more flavors for the tongue, more temperature and texture for the throat, quite simply some more shit in the machinery… so the quest for additional band members began….but remember. Like anybody can tell you, we're not a very nice band. We don't know the word. We have always admired the villain, the outlaw, the son of a bitch. We don’t like the clean-shaven boy with the necktie and the good job. We like desperate men, men with broken teeth and broken minds and broken ways. They interest us. They are full of surprises and explosions. We also like vile women, drunken cursing bitches with loose stockings and sloppy mascara faces. We're more interested in perverts than saints. We can relax with bums because we are bums. We don't like laws, morals, religions, rules. We don’t like to be shaped by society...So the quest to find the right kind of ball scratching addict that could contribute to the sound-map of Salma Gandhi would not be easy....The first test tube subject was a nice enough guy who had similarities with Sideshow Bob and played the sax like Lisa. He put on some nice puffs of sax on "Salma Hayek's Delayed Mexican Ultra Nipple" and: Poof!!! He vanished from the face of the earth!??! We're quite sure he was taken secretly against his will by apparently nonhuman entities and subjected to complex physical and psychological procedures. (Yo! Call us if you read this! Long time...). The next subject would be Mr. Math. Mr. Math was a clean cut man with a regular job working with MFP's, MFD's and AIO's day in, day out. But when night time came so did the monster. The monster of organic organ psycho-impro-magic! He put some groovy gravy on "Lambadian Knights with Arabian Tights". Mr. Math walked with us for six months, turned off the path, went into the winding woods, hid under a rock, licked a snail and vanish the face....(call us if you read this....long time...) So now it was the year 2007... We felt a dodgy pattern, a conspiracy, the smell of musty mustard ... 2008 (the dark days) became 2009 (the even darker days) and Salma Gandalf lost the thrill to live. High Hoe Silo, Turkish De-lite and Hank the Pink wandered around aimlessly the empty cold streets of Malmo peering through the vast darkness and crying in the rain. One day when the trio were limping down Nobelvägen, Hank suddenly froze, pointed and exclaimed: "Hey guys look! Isn't that Luke Skywalker? Petstalker? Masterfarter?” "No, it’s just a guy jumping up and down in a pile of dog shit" wheezed Turkish. "But he looks like a sad old hungry zombie just like us" murmured High Ho and scratched ass. "Hungry for dog shit perhaps? huhuhu.." burped Gel Mibson from the bushes behind them, where he was doing beverage and pills. As it turned out later this was not Luke Skywalker but the beast Hof Hoffa and the reason for his jumping up and down in a pile of dog shit was the frustration not having anyone to play with. ”I´m not having anyone to play with” he bleated. Now this resulted in Salma Gandhi rising from the grave, aftershave, Kunta Kinte was a slave with the handsome Hof Hoffa swinging the guitar from stage left. But there was still something missing. Salma Gandhi felt like a castle without windows, a crow without wings or a dog without an anus to lick up. They needed someone to fill out the corners, someone to swallow the words and shit them out….with a German accent. So they contacted the humble shark Baron Von Herring who had played the organ on "Salma Hayek’s Delayed Mexican Ultra Nipple" years before. Baron Von Herring made a sacrifice of herrings to the God of Herrings and mixed them with rat-piss in a tin bin and forgot about it and accepted the offer to join the band. The proud statues in bronze on the boulevard of music now being Hank the Wife, High Hoe Silver, Turkish Delight, the volatile Hoff Hoffa and Baron Von Herring from now on referred to as Salma Gandhi or S.G. or furry small animals with tiny sharp teeth… This great band, carved out by knife, squatted upon the nakedness of the earth, that ancient part of the world´s nebula, and poured upon the ground the worm-eaten hours of its sand. Amid this rhythmical silence, “The Quest for Nonsense Never Ends” was born, underneath the spiral-painted tapestry, love like infinite series of numbers, a possessed heart capable of pumping out with its open and closed fist the projection of circling sound. The year twenty eleven the silver disc containing the collected collective brain map from our first four years divided in six neurologic pieces (and "Salma Hayek's Delayed Mexican Ultra Nipple" not being one of them) and with the pataphysical collaboration of Must Rehab’s colorful sound glue, Dr. Jovan’s plucky psychosis and Dr. Krakow’s nursery drawings was released for the sleeping masses on our own Red Eye Syndicate label. No success...We thought thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, surrounded by gnarled steel roots of trees of machinery, the oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, no fish in that stream....Booom! We got signed! Transubstans Records. Happy. Jolly. Good. S.G crouched over the baboon, spreading his four limbs out on the ground and slowly strangling him from behind. The baboon made a sign that he wished to speak, and, when we relaxed the grip of our fingers, he said two words: ”Ha ha!” and these were the last two words he uttered.