He pulled up twenty minutes late in a blacked-out escalade. His team was waiting by the van for him, and upon arrival they shot into action, moving instruments and connecting cables and readying the space for a master.

Then they stepped into The Van, four of them, each as reservedly cool as the next, but none more so than Mr. Clark, who is tall and slender and has one of those hidden gazes, can’t tell if he’s laughing at me or digging what I’m sayin’ to him. The door shut, thereby passed a few minutes of jamming and tuning up, then show time. One song. One very long song. The guitar whailed and moaned, hissed and swooned, as the master bent his strings in ways unimaginable. The sounds would follow, jolted on a rope by magic fingers destined to twist and dip this auditory ejaculation up, up, up and over the pinnacle of what is awesone. Here we have a bad, bad man, doing something very cold with his bad man hands. He brought a band, of equally bad men, and they got together in a van, and they did the cold type of shit that bad men do. Then they hopped out of that van, one song in the books, then it was a quick photo and back into the escalade. This time their arms were laiden with Pax vaporisers, a gift from us to them, that the legnd seemed pretty excited about. You see, because he’s just a dude like you and I. He probalby brushes his teeth the same and washes himself the same but you know what? He don’t hop out of a Jam Van the same. Nope, he hopps out like it wasn’t no thing what he just did in there, like all the folks standin’ around mesmerized got it all wrong, it wasn’t nothin’ special… back in the Escolade and off to some fancy hotel to do rock star shit. He’s wrong though, it was something special, it was very, very special, but if he’d have thought so, well, he wouldn’t be a rock star then would he?