I had such a great Beatle Weekend that I’m just not ready to let go. When last we checked in on our 1988 expedition westward, we were causing a ruckus in Albuquerque. Next stop: Phoenix. We arrived the night before our show, and were grateful when our local promoter offered to put us up. Here’s a tip for you young touring bands out there–do your best to determine, and I can’t stress this next part enough, before your arrival to what extent your destination will evoke Grey Gardens. The unmistakable odor of cat piss was unmistakable. Georgia slept in the van. Woke up, got out of bed, lined up some busy-work promo and made our escape, over-explaining to our hosts that we were trying to reach the local college radio station to set up an interview. We found a sympathetic ear: “Good luck! Those request lines are always busy.” With nothing but time to kill, we played 18 holes of mini-golf at Castles ‘n’ Coasters, drawn inexorably to the Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds-quoting Hippy House. At the show, did I dream that someone got on stage and started ranting into Stephan’s microphone during “For the Turnstiles,” and that the house sound man, finally hearing something he enjoyed, didn’t kill the channel? Apparently so–my notes tell me we didn’t play “For the Turnstiles” that night.
