Inspired by the late 70s punk scene and lit by a nagging call to music making and band association, Amos set his course. And ours. Some sort of execution mandate and mysterious ability to form a thing. Written down and visioned, willed into existence. Proposed and agreed to, declared and acknowledged, a done deal.
Every mountain needs a pass, every bird needs wings, and every band needs a bandleader. A foul-mouthed, demanding, sweating, spitting tyrant. He was none of those things. His initial recruitment focused on the leftover husks of the Men From Nantucket, a guitar constructor of wild talent, a young bass prodigy, and a list of possible drummers. So backwards and unconventional, upfront and invading, outlandish and gutty.
Any band with an ounce of a drop of a chance to do anything groovy or spastic or clean or dirty must have a name. Amos immediately voted to dust off Some Dude Named Amos, his cover band of the late teens and early 20s, like voting mattered in a band. Already been done, no do overs in music, no Jefferson Airplane becoming Starship crap. Mork Square, the lead guitarist, offered Metallic Salmon, Forever In Cream Jeans, and others; I offered up Eye Crust, Squizz, and Pee Cans. No telling where this whacko band of limping, brain demolished, blind, and deaf bandits land, probably be a big flop, but maybe not, we got Austin The Bassist.
