We’re not doing this for our health

News flash: our health care system is broken. That is to say, it is broken from the standpoint of the people who need medical treatment. From the industry investor standpoint, it’s working just fine. People are making a killing, quite literally, from COVID and other illnesses, lending credence to that line from our song Well, Well, Well: “from every misfortune a fortune is made.”

I say this on a week when women’s health is under attack to an even greater extent than usual. The Texas anti-abortion law, which the U.S. Supreme Court has allowed to go into effect, has effectively made abortion illegal in the lone star state, regardless of what their moronic governor claims. This inevitably will be followed with similar restrictions in other “red” states. But even under the best of circumstances, women have trouble accessing and affording care precisely because of the kind of system we still have.

Promises, promises

When he was running for president, Donald Trump promised that he would replace the ACA (“Obamacare”) with something much better, a plan that would cover everyone, etc. Of course, that was a transparent lie that he had no intention of even pretending to make good on. Then last year, when he was running for president, Joe Biden promised adding a public option to the ACA. No sign of that yet, either.

I don’t know what Biden’s plans are for the reconciliation package with respect to health care. What I do know is what he said during the campaign. Back then, he claimed that workers loved their employer-based healthcare and suggested that they had “negotiated” for it. I pointed out back then on my podcast Strange Sound that this was balderdash. Less than 15% of American workers (generously) have union contracts. No one other than a subset of unionists ever “negotiates” the particulars of their health coverage with their employer. The plain fact is that employers provide substandard coverage to their employees, by and large, and that it leaves tremendous gaps.

The six thousand dollar man

As some of you know, I spent about a week in the hospital at the height of the COVID first wave back in April 2020. (It was an ailment unrelated to COVID, as it happened.) After I got out, I got bills that amounted to about $6,000. Now let me be clear – if I did not have health insurance, provided by my employer, the cost would have been much higher. But with this great insurance that Joe Biden suggested I love so much, I was six grand out of pocket over an unexpected illness. I opted for a payment plan with the hospital (which, I should point out, receives a lot of public subsidy).

That is not the way it works in civilized countries. In civilized countries, they do their best to make you well, and that’s it. No bill, or none of any consequence. In Britain and France, I believe, they even give you money when you leave the hospital, under certain circumstances. Why are we not a civilized country? I don’t know. Ask Joe Biden. And every other president, for that matter.

I am fortunate that i had the resources to bear that cost with only minor sacrifices. Most people – including many with employer based coverage – are not that lucky. We need a system that works for those people, not the people who seek to profit from our misfortunes.

luv u,

jp

Check out our political opinion podcast, Strange Sound.

Another week on duty at the recycling center

2000 Years to Christmas

No, man … I think it starts like this. Or maybe it’s a little slower than that. But it’s in E for sure. What? It’s in A? Are you sure? Damn ….

You know, I’ve never been very good at total recall. I don’t think my time at the Cheney Hammer Mill has improved my memory, either. So, what the hell am I talking about? Well … I’m gonna tell you. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) and I have been pulling out the old numbers. No, I don’t mean numerals in Old English script. No, I don’t mean stale joints. I mean songs, damn it!

Sorry. That came out a little stronger than I meant it to be. Suffice to say that we’ve decided to take a few hours to dust off some items from our back catalog. It’s a catalogue of mostly Matt’s songs, as he is the more prolific writer, by far, but regardless of authorship, there’s a lot of shit in there. (And by “in there” I mean in a recondite side room of the hammer mill where they used to keep the machine tools.)

Invisible chestnuts

Now, of course, we have a process. Marvin finds a song in the machine room. He dusts it off, as I suggested earlier, and hands it to me. Because we don’t write songs out in standard notation (or any other kind, for that matter), it’s a little hard to get a grip on a thirty-year-old song, particularly when it only exists in the vaguest metaphysical sense.

I’ve often (or perhaps never) said that Marvin’s sole super power is his ability to carry around insubstantial things. Once I saw him pushing an invisible hand cart stacked ten high with invisible cases of Nehi cola. That makes him the ideal automaton for the job of retrieving song ideas from the dustbin of history. Lord knows, there’s likely to be a chestnut or two in there. Perhaps more.

Twang!

Entering fram-a-geddon

Okay, so once Marvin trundles in with a brass armload of decades-old songs, I get right to work. I pick up my superannuated Martin guitar and start twanging until the neighbors begin throwing things. That typically takes as long as five or six minutes. Then I close the window and start over, slapping the strings with my thumb and fingers like I just don’t effing care.

Why, you may ask, don’t I use a pick? Very simple, my friends. I don’t freaking know how, that’s why. Also, you can drop a pick, but try … just try to drop your thumb. Not so easy, is it? And before you ask, yes, my right thumb gets sore and calloused and all the rest of it. And yes, my chaotic framming sounds kind of extra twangy. But a dude has to do what a dude has to do. And dis dude does dat ding. (Yes, I said that. I’m ashamed of it, but I did, in fact, say that.)

Time for the round up

Like I said earlier, there are a few of my songs in that basket. One of them is called “Good Old Boys Round Up”, which was slated for our second album, International House, but never got off the ground. I think we started to record it, but it went all pear shaped. Not that there’s anything wrong with the shape of pears, but … anyway.

I’ve been jangling that sucker a bit and will likely do some “live” virtual recordings of that and other selections, then post them somewhere, somehow, maybe with some video, who the hell knows? Well … you’ll be the first to know.

It ain’t deja vu until it’s over again.

Quite a week in the history of American empire. I listened to the commentary unfold this week as the 40-year war in Afghanistan drew to a close and I was reminded of, well, 40 years ago. Around that time I read a collection of essays by Noam Chomsky unwrapping the reams of commentary that followed the end of another seemingly endless American war, the one in Vietnam. A lot of what he was writing about is just as true today as it was in the mid to late 1970s.

The collection was called Towards a New Cold War and I should probably re-read it. I suspect it would prove a useful guide to the dreck I am hearing on a daily basis from the mainstream media – specifically, in my case, from the panel on Morning Joe. That show is as close to the center of the imperial enterprise as any media property. They should rename it “The Blob Speaks” or something along those lines.

Bungling efforts to do good

One of the narratives that emerged from the disaster that was the Vietnam War was the myth of good intentions. It went something like this: we entered the conflict intending to save the Vietnamese, then things went wrong. Articulate opinion was making this case back in the mid to late seventies, and we are hearing their modern counterparts doing the same today with regard to Afghanistan.

I have seen minor variations on this theme. The most popular one, as far as I can tell, is the argument that we shouldn’t have tried to remake Afghanistan in our own image. In other words, the Afghans are too corrupt, ignorant, backward, etc., to appreciate our way of life, our mode of governance, etc. Our efforts to impose our innate goodness on them amounted to hubris, albeit a very benign variety of that vice. Ungrateful wretches!

Assessing the costs

Another subject of post-Vietnam reflection was the notion that the destruction was mutual. President Carter even framed Vietnam in those terms. As someone who lived through the war years, I must admit that I don’t recall the non-existent Vietnamese air force dropping napalm on my neighborhood or flattening my town with high explosives. Maybe I slept through it.

While I don’t want to minimize the suffering of our Afghanistan War vets – far from it – there’s no question but that Afghans bore the overwhelming brunt of the suffering through this conflict. They died in the hundreds of thousands, their country torn to pieces. We lost a lot of people, spent a lot of money, but have not felt the impacts of this war as much as Afghan families.

We care, damn it!

Then, of course, there’s the virtue signalling. Once the United States was out of Vietnam, we became obsessed with the fate of the people of Indochina. As people fled the destroyed remains of Vietnamese society, our opinion-makers used that as a cudgel against the newly unified government of Vietnam.

While the Morning Joe couch and other commentators now express concern for Afghan refugees, they said very little about Afghans over the past twenty years. The fact is, millions of Afghans have been displaced by this war, both internally and in neighboring countries, particularly Pakistan and Iran, since 2001. Want to help Afghan refugees? Look there first. And while you’re at it, consider helping refugees from our other wars in Iraq, Libya, and Yemen, for instance.

I could go on, but I’ll stop there. Suffice to say that I am glad we are ending this useless war. No more posts like the ten-year anniversary piece I did a decade ago, right? Let’s hope not.

luv u,

jp

Check out our political opinion podcast, Strange Sound.

If it frowns back, it must be a face

2000 Years to Christmas

I was starting to wonder about you. Did they put you in with other robots? Huh. That’s funny. I thought they had a special section for automatons. What is law enforcement coming to, for crying out loud?

Hi, Big Green fans. It’s your old friends Big Green, still living together, like most bands do, in the same shabby domicile. Not accomplishing much these days, frankly – just trying to keep the heat out and dancing on the rubble. Sometimes we spin a record or play a tape. Occasionally we record something. It’s a slow life, but an honest one …. honestly asinine.

Name and a face

I was just getting a debriefing from Marvin (my personal robot assistant) on his latest expedition to the corner store. This time it took him fourteen hours, thirty-seven minutes, and twelve seconds. (No, I wasn’t timing him – he has a digital chronometer built into his face plate.) Last time he was a few minutes quicker, but that was the day his battery ran out.

Speaking of faceplates, apparently the cops picked Marvin up on his way back from the store. Apparently they got that facial recognition software for Christmas this year and they wanted to try it out on somebody. Now, as it’s a system designed by white people, it’s not surprising that it doesn’t work with non-white people. But robots? You’d think a piece of software could parse the sculpted brass plate that passes for Marvin’s mug, but you’d be wrong.

The almost-inmate

Okay, so, apparently Marvin’s …. uh …. face set off an alarm in the police computer downtown. The stupid software thought he was this OTHER robot that did nasty things downtown. (I think he picked yet another robot’s pocket.) In any case, they hauled Marvin in and started questioning him mercilessly.

Now, Marvin’s pretty good with interrogations. Sometimes he pulls the Captain Pike trick – you know, flash one for yes, two for no. (He can move forward. Backward a little.) I have to say, that flashing light routine really pisses the cops off big time. I’m not certain, but they may have knocked him around a bit. They’re just fishing for a consent decree.

Dudes, that just ain't him.

Suspect null set – try again

After fourteen hours, they finally got the idea that Marvin was not the android they were looking for. And no, it wasn’t the result of some cheap-ass Jedi mind trick. They printed up a photo of the suspect, and frankly, even a blind man could see that they had the wrong bot.

When they released him, though, they picked up the mansizedtuber on the rebound. They’re just grasping at straws – or husks, more properly – at this point. All I can say is that if they try to waterboard that mo-fo, he’ll just ask for more.

Adding some pounds to the white man’s burden.

Once in a somewhat long while, there are those moments when the forces that animate our society can’t help but reveal themselves. The late Alexander Cockburn once described it as being like turning on the kitchen light in the middle of the night and seeing all the cockroaches before they scatter. It’s a bit like that.

The epic fail of the Afghanistan adventure is one of those. The Taliban has been running the country for a little over a week, and what are we hearing? That a third of the country lives in abject poverty and half of the children are severely malnourished. That, my friends, didn’t happen over the last ten days. Where was that news a month ago? Two months ago? Fifteen years ago?

The wrong ordinance

In the first glorious year of the reign of Trump the Malodorous, our dear, fat leader made a point of dropping a big bomb on Afghanistan. It was one of those “daisy cutter” bunker-buster type bombs – I did a post about it back in 2017. This “mother of all bombs” was the largest non-nuclear bomb ever exploded, supposedly, and was used for demonstration purposes, mostly.

Of course, it was just the latest in a long line of ordinance dropped on Afghanistan since 2001. 2018 and 2019 saw a lot of bombing, and a lot of civilian casualties, as the Trumpists cynically sought to bring the Taliban to the table. Given that half of the nation’s children were starving even then, the things we should have been dropping were pallets of food and water. Is this what Tony Blair came out of retirement to tell us? No, I thought not.

Play it again, Uncle Sam

Amazingly, I have heard more than one T.V. commentator suggest starting all over in Afghanistan. What I mean is, I’ve heard them suggest that we start supporting insurgents against the Taliban. This is literally how we started this bullshit back in the Carter administration. Back then, we were using Afghans as bludgeons against the Soviets so that they would pull back from eastern Europe.

What is our imperial game now? Veto power over the mineral reserves in Afghanistan, so we can deny it to, say, the Chinese if we have a mind to? Lord effing knows. All I can be sure of is that we are not finished with Afghanistan, even if we have zero interest in Afghans. And with the recent attack that killed 13 U.S. troops and a bunch of civilians, the bleeding hasn’t stopped either.

Bring them here

I’ve heard Tucker Carlson and other racists complain about bringing Afghans to America, describing it as an invasion, etc. That sounds like a good reason to bring them here – if only to make Tucker unhappy. We’ve got a refugee center here in Utica, NY – why not process some of them through there? Sounds like a good idea to me.

Side benefit: it would probably make Claudia Tenney’s head explode, too.

luv u,

jp

Check out our political opinion podcast, Strange Sound.

A really, really bad week for a camping holiday

2000 Years to Christmas

Did you pack the sleeping bags? Good, good. How about the hurricane lamps? Excellent. Now there was something else we were planning to bring along. What the hell was it? Oh, right. Marshmallows.

Well, it is August, and as you know, most of the world goes on vacation during the course of this high summer month. (I mean most of the northern hemisphere, of course. Below the equator it’s freaking winter.) Big Green is no exception. While the French bug out on August 1, we typically wait until August 21st just to give them a head start. Not that they have anything to worry about – we seldom get beyond the stage of packing our stuff before the wheels come off.

Faulty transport technologies

Okay, so, that wasn’t a metaphor. The wheels actually came off of our rented vehicle. Not surprising, given the liberal terms they offered us. Faced with the prospect of embarking on a walking vacation, we obviously started looking into other options. Now, not everyone has access to a mad scientist, and while it’s tempting to just ask the dude to whip together some kind of land rover hover craft, we don’t want to take the easy way out. (Besides, Mitch Macaphee, our mad science advisor, is in Madagascar for a conference.)

My first thought was to press-gang Marvin (my personal robot assistant) into hitching himself up to a donkey cart and pulling us along. He has solar batteries and motorized feet, so it’s not as far-fetched as it seems. Well, when he refused, we were left with few good options. The only ones worth considering were, hitch anti-Lincoln up to a donkey cart, or settle for a stay-cation in the Cheney Hammer Mill courtyard.

Face it, man. It's too tough to toast 'em.

Free water from the sky-gods

I hate to say that the wheels came off of our stay-cation plans, but they kind of did, even though technically speaking, wheels were not required. As soon as we pitched our tent in the courtyard, it started coming down … in buckets. Again – not a metaphor. It was literally raining buckets! Now I know that rain is a blessing in many parts of the world. But too much of a good thing is, well … not a good thing.

You couldn’t describe what happened next as anything like a vacation. I’m basing that on firm metrics. For instance, there was no recurring campfire. No s’mores were made. (Marvin tried to make the s’mores work, but water and graham crackers don’t mix.) No one carved a birch bark canoe. I know these aren’t universally recognized benchmarks, but they give you a rough picture. Bloody weather!

You can’t go home again

The fact is, when you’re home, you can’t go home again. Though, interestingly, when you open a door, you can close it … again. In any case, slinking back home from a failed stay-cation took about two minutes. Hardly a walk of shame. (I think the minimum length for a walk of shame is five minutes, but don’t quote me.)

A short ending to the longest war

There’s a lot that’s been said about what happened in Afghanistan over the past couple of weeks. Most of what you’ll hear on cable talk shows is a brand of imperial outrage that would be hard to mock with any justice. I would need a pith helmet and some bad white shorts, for starters. As I’ve said in previous posts, the imperial world view runs deep in our commercial media. It’s like the setting moon illusion – they just can’t help but see things that way.

I’ve got a few thoughts on this issue. Don’t expect to see me invited onto any daytime news shows anytime soon. What I’m about to say would likely make heads explode on Morning Joe.

First, do no harm

A lot of the criticism of Biden’s withdrawal from Afghanistan is deserved by this administration. I’ve said often enough that their foreign policy is abysmal, and now they’ve managed to make a mess of practically the only part of it that I agreed with. They’ve known this day was coming since before the inauguration – what the hell were they thinking?

I think the most reasonable explanation is that the Biden administration is terrified of taking in too many refugees. Sam Seder said this on Majority Report a few days ago. It’s like they don’t want to be yelled at by Republicans, so they let these Afghanis swing in the wind. That’s the thanks you get for working with us. You’re welcome, people of Afghanistan!

Bravery and cowardice defined

Another thing I’ve heard is outrage that Biden suggested the Afghan government forces didn’t fight hard enough. This is where the imperial worldview is crucial. Most television commentators I’ve seen appear to consider fealty to American war aims as the standard by which to judge bravery or cowardice.

Let’s face it – many Afghans took part in the U.S. supported military because they needed money. There’s nothing wrong with that. If they folded in the face of the Taliban advance, it’s because they didn’t want to be the last people to die defending a government that no one believes in. Who can blame them?

We always take this condescending view of our allies in-country whenever we invade and occupy another nation. The same stuff was said about the Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN), or the South Vietnamese forces. Somehow we expect these folks to fight to the death for our national objectives, and that’s plainly irrational.

Let them in

There’s no question but that we owe a massive debt to all Afghans for using their country mercilessly over the course of the last 45 years, first to bludgeon the Soviets, and later to satisfy post-9/11 bloodlust. The least we can do, at this point, is bring a large number of refugees stateside. I know Tucker Carlson and various other white supremacists think that this is some kind of “great replacement” conspiracy, but fuck those guys. If we suddenly care about Afghans, we should help the ones who need help.

luv u,

jp

Check out our political opinion podcast, Strange Sound.

The rest of the rest of the story

2000 Years to Christmas

Editor’s note: There is no editor for this blog. I’m the night janitor, emptying the trash cans and spreading the refuse thin enough on the floor that no one notices. I’m on my smoke break, but I’m taking this opportunity to say that what follows is the rest of that lame interview with Big Green co-founder Joe Perry.

Part one: The bad van

Marvin: Rumor has it that Big Green and its various precursors had some of the worst vehicles in the history of indie bands. That’s quite a distinction. Care to expand on that?

JP: Glad to, Marvin. Of course, back when we were just starting out, a bunch of dewy-eyed kids with a song in our hearts and a sandwich in our hip pockets, we had a 1973 C-10 pickup with a cap on the bed. It had gaping holes, rust, primer, five different shades of orange paint, etc. In fact, it had so many pieces missing, we called it “Ruck” (i.e. not quite a truck).

I’ll spare you the grisly details of driving Ruck to gigs. Suffice to say that, at least once, I had to crawl under the sucker at the traffic light on the intersection of Central Ave and Lark in Albany, NY and tighten the gearshift linkage, which kept unscrewing itself. Once was enough.

Then we had Moby, a 1970 Econoline Supervan, former ambulance, that I bought at auction. It had duct tape over the “Ambulance” decal on the hood. On a good day it got 11 miles per gallon. It …. was a bad van.

Finally, we had a brown, mid-eighties Econoline that we took on the road a few times, including a gig up at Middlebury College. It was in January and the heat didn’t work, so we were frozen solid by the time we got home. To make matters worse, it would stall at idle. It was, in short, another bad van. I sold it, nameless, to lettuce man.

Marvin: Sad end to a sad story.

JP: The hell it is. Move on!

What, this again?

Shifting the Marlboro stacks

Marvin: Perhaps even worse than your vehicles were your PA systems. Can you talk about that a bit.

JP: I could, but you probably wouldn’t understand what I’m saying because the PA system sucks so bad.

Marvin: What was that? I can’t hear you!

JP: Back in the seventies, when the skies were black with flocks of hooting pterodactyls, we invested in a small PA. No, not the kind you see these days, with powered speakers, etc. This was a Marlboro PA, with two boxy speakers and what looked like a cheap knock-off fender guitar head with four volume pots. Pro tip: pull the volume pot and you get reverb!

Okay, so we moved to Albany and had to get something marginally better than the twin kazoos. And we did just that. We bought two of those old Shure tower speakers, with like half-a-dozen five-inch speakers in a vertical array. And when that didn’t work, we got two Cerwin-Vega 15″ cabinets that we used for years after that. The Marlboro stacks became our monitors.

Marvin: Where are they now?

JP: I’m sitting on them. They make a jolly comfortable chesterfield.

Missed us by that much: nuclear brinkmanship

This week was the 76th anniversary of our having dropped the A-bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Seems like yesterday, doesn’t it? What an insane thing to do – though to be frank, at that point in the war our bombers were laying waste to Japanese cities with conventional bombs, including a 1000 plane raid on Tokyo. (The commander liked the number.)

When we pay homage to those whose lives were lost or permanently altered by this episode, we do so in the knowledge that things went from bad to worse over the years that followed. The system we set up over the arc of the Cold War was aptly described as a “Doomsday Machine”. Whistleblower Daniel Ellsberg reviews this system in great detail in his recent book, The Doomsday Machine: Confessions of a Nuclear War Planner.

Planning for first strike/use

One thing that wasn’t particularly surprising about Ellsberg’s book was the fact that U.S. nuclear policy has always been based on the idea of first strike or first use. The reasoning is pretty simple – launch an overwhelming strike that eliminates the enemy’s ability to launch their own attack, partly by targeting their nuclear arsenal. The other component is that of blackmail, in essence – do as we say or we will blow up your cities.

What Ellsberg makes clear is that their actual plan in the 1950s and early 60s was, in the event of a general war, to bomb both the Soviet Union and the People’s Republic of China to smithereens, even if the Chinese were not a party to the conflict. Of course, we know now (and they likely knew then) that any large exchange of H-bombs would result in virtual omnicide, but our war planners tried not to dwell on that notion.

Planes, trains, and autonomous vehicles

This insane “war” plan – really, an annihilation plan – was built on the flimsiest platform back in the 1950s. Supposedly only the president could give the order to use nuclear weapons. That authority, according to Ellsberg, was delegated to regional commanders, either explicitly or implicitly (there was supposedly a letter from Eisenhower to his commanders setting out the authority, though no one seemed to be able to produce a copy).

The plan relied on bombers back then and a very unreliable global communication system that could be disrupted by the weather. Later on, it was ICBMs with MIRV’ed warheads (multiple independent H-bomb warheads in a single missile), but the game was the same – use them or lose them.

It got to such a point of madness that during the Carter administration, planners seriously considered a massive construction project out west to support the MX missile program. It was like an enormous shell game, with thousands of miles of track, mobile launchers, bunkers, pools, fake missiles, all to throw the Soviets off.

Still crazy after all these years

Suffice to say that we still live with the remnants of this madness. After a number of close calls, when the entire ramshackle enterprise almost came crashing down on us all, we are still apparently willing to extend the life of these weapons yet another generation.

The longer these weapons exist, the greater the danger that they will be used. If our leaders really wanted to keep us safe, they would take the lead in ending the nuclear standoff once and for all. Their failure to do so speaks volumes.

luv u,

jp

Check out our political opinion podcast, Strange Sound.

Stepping into eden, yeah, brother.

2000 Years to Christmas

Gather ’round, you kids. I’m going to tell you a tale of woe from long ago. A story so dumb it leaves you numb. A fable so …. oh, never mind.

The years are catching up with us a bit, here in Big Green-land. And as you get older, you tend to look back a bit more. Makes sense, right? No point in looking back when you’re three years old. Even less point in looking forward when you’re ninety. But you know what they say – foresight is everything, and hindsight is everything else.

The plain fact is, sometimes this stuff just pops into my head. I’ll be hanging around the kitchen of the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, having a cup of borrowed tea, when suddenly I’m transported into the past. And no, it’s not the fault of Trevor James Constable’s Orgone Generating Machine. No, sir – it’s just the restlessness of an idle mind. And they don’t get much more idle than mine.

In a distant dive, long, long ago

Anywho, I was thinking of a time back in the early nineties when we were still playing clubs. Back then, the indie rock club scene was not yet much of a thing here in upstate New York, so it was hard to find places that would cater to original songs. And yea, your friends in Big Green had no abandoned mill in which to shelter, and they were sore afraid. So it is written.

Our group was my illustrious brother Matt and I, plus John White on drums and Ace guitarist Tony Butera. We started running out of Big Green work, so we decided to go back to some of the same clubs under an assumed identity. Not the first time we tried this, of course, but this time around, we actually got a few gigs. (Sometimes it makes sense to go under cover.)

Who's Herbert?

Laughed out of Utica

Anyway, we decided to call ourselves “The Space Hippies.” This was after a group of ne’er-do-well intergalactic hipsters that appeared on a Star Trek episode named The Way To Eden. (Not to be confused with the motorcycle freaks that threatened to blow up the nameless planet that the Space Family Robinson had crashed on in the 3rd and final season of Lost In Space – an episode nonsensically named Collision of the Planets.) They played twangy space guitars and, well … that seemed like a good thing to us.

Of course, it wasn’t smooth sailing. In fact, one of the first club owners Tony called to ask for a booking told him, “I can’t hire a band called The Space Hippies. It I did that, I’d be laughed out of Utica.” That was when I got the strong feeling that we should change the cover band’s name to Laughed Out of Utica. (I got voted down on that one, damn it!)

Tunes with psychological issues

Fact is, we did work a bit with the Space Hippies, though I think we kept changing the name so we could double dip, Jethro Tull-style. One club we got booked into was a place called Looney Tunes on NY Route 5. I’ve got a cassette tape of one of the nights we played there. The quality is pretty bad, but you can basically hear us framming away at those rock covers. I included one track from this tape on the July 2019 episode of our THIS IS BIG GREEN podcast. The song was a Matt Perry number titled “How ‘Bout The War”. (Tony plays a screaming solo on this and, basically, every track on the tape. What a madman.)

What else do I remember about the Space Hippies’ premiere gig? Let’s see. There was dogshit on the stage when we were loading in. I think it was a welcome gift from the club owner. Ah, those were the days.

Official site of the band Big Green