James Gurley back home in Detroit at the Grande Ballroom and losing his psychedelic mind on a guitar solo. I had a pal way back in the 80’s who used to come around and service our xerox machines at work, he’d lived in the Motor City in the sixties and went through all his cash and brain cells every night at the Grande. Said he’d been at this show. He’d been at every show, but he was at this show for sure. I asked him how it was. He had no idea, he’d been so high. Lights and sounds, he said. No one ever seemed to remember anything back then except lights and sounds. I loved that guy. We’d talk and talk and I’d get nothing done. But that’s how you get material, you find yourself a story teller and plunk yourself down and listen. Alas, he died in a motorcycle accident not long afterward. Thus do a million stories disappear.