Eugene Carchesio's renown as a visual artist has unjustly eclipsed his extraordinary output as a soundmaker. Since the mid 80s, the Brisbane artist has steadfastly proliferated a sack full of barely released cassettes and cdrs under the D.N.E. moniker. Twenty years ago, he emptied his wallet to press 250 copies of the appropriately titled LP "47 Songs Humans Shouldn't Sing". Then compact discs arrived. The local pressing plant closed and the master tape went with it. Copies were circulated to friends. A handful made to England. A copy did the rounds in Dunedin. And then suddenly, the clutch of remaining copies disappeared. To a small legion, 47 Songs became a coveted item, its whacked miniaturism a visionary jolt of intuitive post punk energy. A suggestion of Ayler, a Chadbournesque styling, a No Wave propulsion. This was not a jazz album! These were 47 small constructions. Sound diamonds. Songs. Not for human tongue, yet instantly humable. Acoustic, yet coursing with electricity. Currents of energy running through its veins. D.N.E. Spiritual genetics.