We wish we had met at a juke joint at the end of some lonesome road, just past the city's edge. Or at a dive; full of the clack-clatter commotion of a bustling street. Music blasting, the drinks stiff, the clientele diverse. In the dark corners you could make out the ghosts of our past, as flashes of our future walked past the front door.
We wish that we could tell you Dylan had been watching. Bohnam was in the backroom. Johnny Greenwood was playing judge. Kim Deal and Thurston Moore were doubled over, laughing, as Beefheart granted us permission to borrow some words.
That would have been a nice way to put it. But, that is not how it was.
What we can tell you is Brown Bear has lost his right ear. Donkey's always judging, always watching. Driving, primal blasts and swirling chaos destroy us. Echo makes us vibrate. The cigarettes won't smoke themselves. The louder, the better. There's space enough for everyone in the spotlight, but no one cares enough to find the switch.