The set began with a dim-witted security guard clotheslining Ben Wolcott just as he'd cradled my dad's diesel-powered leaf blower in his arms. Luckily, Ben was fairly, uhh, loose (we commonly indulged in the odd n*rc*tic vice back in the day), so the lunging buffoon's assault failed to cause grave injury. Rat had sufficient foresight to run our gear through the backline instead of the house PA; although though the club quickly pulled the plug on us, we couldn't be silenced without darkening the entire complex. (Brilliant...) My mic was lost when the manager gave us the hook, but I could still be heard shouting through the din...

So, here it is: TLASILA in transition, with 30-minuten mannercreme and Vedder Vedder Bedwetter under our stylish Tory Burch patent leather bandoliers (and Prostitution Heute!, "Helen Butte" vs. Masonna Pussy Badsmell, the initial, eventually unreleased version of Where a Horse Has Been Standing and Where You Belong, and two hours of Wigmaker rough mixes in the can or in queue), veterans of two national tours and a fuckload of (frequently catastrophic) Florida gigs, but nonetheless loathed, gouged, trampled upon and given no option but to open for violently poor, profoundly generic blues, boogie, industrial and metal outfits, all of whom vanished soon after.

Perfection!