Hmuhnah hmuhnah, Dear Reader,
How shall I begin?
Somewhere in the middle...
About the Contractions...
I was introduced to Debbie the drummer by a musical matchmaker. I was tired of acoustic coffee house/neighborhood bar music-making. By very good luck I had acquired a Cordovox...

This rosey memoir is a good story and very probably grossly inaccurate, but that's what history is, with little documentation. As one of my authors says, history is really made by the broken shoelace, the flooded road, and...

How apt. This title: Three.
I "had" recently signed a long lease on a building in the Mission. The top floor was to be my residence and the street level a recording studio. A friend of a friend was a sculptor and I agreed to throw an art opening before the space was filled with a big, clumsy, expensive, badly timed, ungainly, traumatic,..

Iguana was a rehearsal studio next to the original Stud across the street from Hamburger Mary's. This was during the Plague, though I was insensitive. (More precisely, I was afraid.) I only thought of south of Market as my personal berlin of art and excess...

We practiced frequently. We had a storage space at the studio, so Debbie kept her drums, I my amp (another autobiography: "I, My Amp"), and Kathy her bass rig, a largish thing, an Acoustic, some name like that, maybe an Ampeg.
Well, in the heat of our loud, loud, loud rehearsals, Kathy would turn to her amp...