April 24, 2005:
Band meeting, somewhere in the midwest. They want to complain about the mix. "All you can hear is lead guitar!" Angry, blustering, pointing to a tiny, tinny boombox where a cheap cassette now plays.
They sputter and crackle, flaming out like spent fireworks, resentful perhaps most of all that you haven't said anything. Finally you do.
"Where was that boombox located while it was recording?" Puzzled looks, funny-looking on such an intelligent pair. They dunno.
"On stage, on top of the lead guitar amp." Then after a pause, "Out in the audience the mix sounded great."
Oh.
Next night in Austin they play a 12-minute improvisation that begins with Hammond Albert's wretched "Free Electric Band" and gets worse. After the show they're elated with themselves.
Time to be moving on.
My father sent me money and I spent it pretty fast
On a girl I met in Berkeley in a social science class
Yes and we learned about her body but her mind we did not know
Until deep rooted attitudes and morals began to show
She wanted to get married even though she never said
And I knew her well enough by now to see inside her head
She'd settle for suburbia and a little patch of land
So I gave her up for music and the Free Electric Band.