Last of three nights at the Vanguard. Crowd out in the street, shoving and elbowing to catch one phrase of the shit going down inside. Ives is on his 86th chorus of some free shit Nielsen whipped up last night. No fucking cheese blintzes and belgian waffles with margarine here, this is real USDA prime grade stock, kicking and bleating and bleeding all over the stage. Buchanan is slaughtering it mercilessly, jesus man! Suddenly, Nielsen is laying down 13/8, is that it? A voice yells, "What fucking time signature is that?" and I think Scaramongos is in seven, Buchanan is in GOD KNOWS WHAT. I took way too much fucking acid for thirteen. I'm subdividing, 4-3-4-2, 4-4-4-1, 3-3-4-3, 2-2-1-3-1-2-2, 3-4-4-2, my brain stem is ticking. Ticking along with that god damn thirteen... Tick-tick---tick-ta-tick... I think Buchanan is on Europa. Even if there is fucking life on Europa, Buchanan is right there, squatting naked in the icy wasteland scaring the shit out of everything with his ride cymbal... tic-ka-t-t-tick---tick..... I'd stop the boat right now and get off, but we're in shark infested waters for sure, with Captain Ives at the helm. Scaramongos is up in the crow's nest, I'm using my secret decoder ring on his PCP induced chromatic frenzy: "LAMD AHOY" - well, close enough. Sitting at his abbatoir, the butcher Buchanan, is dropping huge flank steaks all over the deck and screaming at Nielsen. The sea ahead is riddled with people screaming and yelling "GO!" What the hell is my name, anyway? Beef blood is sloshing about and I carve out some fucking diminished thing, yeah, that's my fucking assault lick right there, and before the next wave rolls in, I've pasturized the changes with another stack of fourths. That's me, "T-Bone" Andrews, slipping around the deck, rough seas, I'm seasick and beef is everywhere - milking my solo for all it's worth, I hear Nielsen drop anchor, and through my stinging eyes I see Ives at the rudder-wheel of this bleeding heifer, steering in rare form. Mike "Rib-Eye" Andrews November 1, 1964