Kinetic Vineyard is proud to announce we have just published Scott Cramer’s debut book of short stories, “Blameless; Nine Live of an Urban Warrior.”
What makes Scott’s writing so great is that he is the consummate storyteller. He writes with a flair that is at its base quite poetic, yet is still accessible. Sometimes writers who are defined as poetic are all show. You know the ones I am talking about. The authors who can put down beautiful words but after a page or two you realize you have no idea what they said.
Not so with Scott. He draws you in, keeping you wondering what will be the outcome in such stories as Shadowlife, the tale of a man who made the ultimate sacrifice for the woman he loves. He will hold your interest from the opening paragraph of Behavioral Science to the last page of the closing story, PILLMIND.
And while characters are always a product of the writer’s imagination, it’s difficult for a lot of authors to have 9 different characters in 9 different stories be so… different. All their stories are original and all their stories are extraordinary.
The book is available now through this link and now through 5/31/10, you can get 10% off by entering the code “FLOWERS” at check out.
It will be available later this summer through Amazon and other online retailers, but the easiest, best way to get it is through us!
Scott’s first book, “Blameless; Nine Lives of an Urban Warrior” has been published and will be available later this month for purchase through our site and then Amazon and other retailers will have it also.
The culmination of this collection of tales is bittersweet, as the catalyst for Scott going back to writing in earnest was the sudden and unexpected death of our friend, Lawrence. One of the things you could count on Lawrence for, was to get your butt moving, even if he himself didn’t always follow his own advice. Life is short, grab the ring when it comes around.
Scott’s always has stories to tell, and one of the delights of hanging out with him is the way he tells any story, whether it is something he experienced or witnessed on the train platform that week or a tale from his childhood. The rich luster he brings to what might be an otherwise simple tale is artistry in itself.
You won’t want to miss the book when it is available.
We’ll make sure you don’t!
The new website is almost ready to go up and the newest addition to this site is a “Featured Artist” or “Showcase” section.
Art takes all forms, as we’ve always said. You can be a great painter, photographer, graphic novelist, writer, chef or paint on the backs of tortoises. No matter what it is, it is your vision, your expertise and imagination, that brings your art to life.
For the forseeable future, showcasing will be FREE. It will be a way to get your work out there to the masses, with links back to your site or page. It will stay up for at least two weeks and then go into a “past features” section, so it is not gone. The hits keep rolling in!
If this sounds like something you would be interested in, and let’s face it, who doesn’t like free publicity? – then let us know. You can comment here, or email kickassart@kineticvineyard.com.
Come one, come all!
Why bother talking about the National Book Award winner? Who’s still talking about any of the industry award winners from last year? What happened in Hollywood, on Broadway, MTV, and I-Tunes last year is now just that, last year. While the majority of the mass media prize winners are a reflection of the current styles and cultural clichés, the notable literary events (not necessarily N.Y Times bestsellers) of any given year have a longer reach, though not as immediately pervasive as our more easily consumable culture – movies, theatre, music and the visual arts. To experience a literary event requires a higher degree of participation than most other art forms. Reading a novel typically demands more time, focus and investment of imagination than watching the movie taken from it. So, unlike the Oscars, Grammies, mega-tours, exhibits and film festivals, the heralding of a significant written work isn’t something bantered about the water cooler (at the unemployment office) or at cocktail parties, as the case may be. In order for our great books to live on, they must be read.
The 2009 National Book Award winner “Let the Great World Spin” by Colum McCann continues the tradition of a work that truly earns the top honors awarded in the field of literary prose.
McCann pinpoints his narrative explosion on the morning of August 7, 1974, when Philippe Petite unveiled his own unique masterpiece; a one time only performance, the tight-rope walk between the Twin Towers. A truly amazing feat never before done – certainly never to be repeated. Telling his story through the lens of this actual news event, Colum McCann introduces us to two brothers who come to New York from their native Ireland. From the vastly differing viewpoints of the brothers we’re brought to the main event of the narrative, the trial on the afternoon of August 7, 1974, of a prostitute who befriends one of the brothers. Through a varied and tragic array of characters, each allotted their own sections in the story, McCann narrates a first person viewpoint for each of his protagonists, from the judge presiding over Petite’s case (as well as the prostitute character) and his lonely, bereaved wife, to the multi-generational family of streetwalkers that play their glorious dramas out in the dog days of the year between eras; the very month Tricky Dick was banished from the land of the free. Through the ears and eyes of this metropolitan cast comes the unified voice of dissent; the haze of national malaise. Within the varied, yet finely drawn narrative shifts McCann never lets us forget the essentials; the image of Petite suspended between the towers, the smoking ruins of Viet-Nam and the Nixon administration. With every turn of the page the reader is imbued in the irrational, disconnected surrealist cartoon that was America in the summer of ’74. “Let the Great world Spin” is one of the few genuine, albeit oblique commentaries on post-911 America that resonates with the culture from which it sprang.
Fortunately, there are a variety of literary honors awarded annually, and again, I would contend that these prizes are more often than not deserved by the authors who win them. The first decade of the millennium has been as bleak and scary as many predicted; one bright ray of hope is the resurgence of the written word – literary fiction is coming on strong. The first decade of our new era has seen major contributions from such giants as Salman Rushdie, Philip Roth, Tom Robbins, Haruki Murakami and the late greats Kurt Vonnegut and David Foster Wallace, as well as brilliant newcomers such as Michael Chabon, Chuck Palahniuk, George Saunders and Heidi Julavits. The 2009 N.Y Times Book of the Year, Jonathan Lethem’s “Chronic City” is worth its own write-up (and fan club).
In an age of ever proliferating, omnipresent media sources the choices become increasingly complex. People’s fascination with technological manipulation has yet to run its course; but run the course it will, and during the intermission between the flash, twitters, bling, and the next big thing – the storytellers will have their say. Keep your eyes on the page.
In his latest novel “The Butt”, Will Self does that thing that he does. So brutally, horribly well. The rite that the primary storytellers since the dawn of language have practiced – telling a story through the eyes of an “everyman”, run through the filter of their own particular genius, to be sent out into the world as a mirror-shard reflection of itself.
A man flicks a cigarette butt (his last – he’s quitting) from the balcony of the hotel where he and his family are vacationing, located in an imagined Africa of the near future. The hot end of the discarded butt finds its way to the exposed scalp of the elderly vacationer on the floor below, causing serious injury. Within the cultural/legal confines of the newly chartered desert-lands, the butt flicker must stand trial, receive judgment and make reparations to the injured party, said party being not merely the victim of the head injury, but the vast desert tribe the gentleman has married into…
So begins the latest installment of life on planet Earth through the eyes of Will Self. This time he re-opens the can of worms through the scathing lens of commercial, politically sponsored oppression, in the example of ever restrictive smoking bans. As in his previous masterpiece “The Book of Dave” from 2006, Self speaks through a drab, morally confused protagonist from the lower-middle class of wherever they happen to be…an everyman. Like most unhappy people not endowed with charisma, the protagonists aren’t instantly likeable; they require understanding. Only through razor-sharp comic timing fused with a bottomless empathy can these characters emerge as…well not exactly heroes, let’s call them Everymen.
Self’s manipulation of language is, as always, dangerously deft. Yet again, he manages to slip new usages into the lexicon. For nearly twenty years, through novels, short stories and essays, he has pried open the English language, revealing newly discovered folds in the primordial clam.
Somewhat of a celebrity in the U.K, making regular appearances on British television in “Have I Got News For You” “Shooting Stars” and “Grumpy Old Men” Self is a much quieter presence in the U.S; his books hitting American shelves on the first run, then disappearing. Aside from some of the early titles reissued by Vintage, these great books (I don’t use this term lightly) are quickly banished into obscurity.
So run out and find a copy before it gets remaindered; that way you’ll have one less to seek out – even though “The Butt” was awarded the 2008 Bollinger Everyman Wodehouse Prize for comic fiction…
Other award winners are, “The Quantity Theory of Insanity” and “Tough, Tough Toys for Tough, Tough Boys” — amazing short story collections addressing the ills and challenges of humanity from the unhappy and jaded perspectives of characters who still dare to hope. Novels such as “The Book of Dave” and “How the Dead Live” take on the fundamental aspects of human civilization through a dark lens, buoyed up by humor and an uncanny sense of compassion. In the tradition of icons such as Philip K. Dick, William Burroughs and with “The Butt”, Joseph Conrad, Will Self is on a continuous journey into the heart of darkness, spinning through the ages – a man with a camera in the maelstrom. The sun rarely shines all the way through; the lighting used for the grotesque, comically illuminating dramas presented is language.
For those not afraid to take a walk on the wild side, the writings of Will Self are revelatory; fear and comedy the guidelines. For the rest, Self serves an equally important function by drawing a line in the literary sands of contemporary fiction – the outermost edge.
I am all for the tech age. I could not live without my laptop, or an internet connection in my house. Our house is wireless and everyone uses a laptop. If cable goes out on the television, no big deal — but do not let the connectivity Gods take away my internet connection!
I read the New York Times on Sunday mornings online and get my news almost exclusively from the world wide web. I can’t recall the last time I watched the news on TV. It’s not because I am against TV. I watch a couple of regular shows and confess to being a “home improvement show” junkie. I just prefer to have my news at the instant level.
But the other day, while hanging out with my business partner and friend, Scott, we were talking about how many books each of us had procured (new or used or received through friends and family) in the previous two weeks. I believe his count was 7 and mine was at least 5.
As we looked around his small living room, filled to the ceiling with book cases, we both sighed and puzzled over the new age of not owning physical media. While I will occasionally read a book online, or download an audio book to my iPod, there is nothing like having a book in your hands.
Maybe it is because we are both writers, and grew up in households where our parents and family members read books. But both of us have a dream of one day owning a house with a library of floor to ceiling bookshelves, filled with the books we love.
We both give books freely to friends and occasionally, strangers. Books are meant to be loved and read and read again, and shared. Between us, we probably have 2,000, and I cannot think of NOT owning more.
It’s an obsession we share. I was thrilled when my son wanted books for his birthday. No matter that they were mostly business books; they were still books he would read and cherish and re-read again. They serve a greater purpose in his life. They brought him joy, the way a great classic brought my grandfather joy.
Who is to say that a book that teaches cannot be a joy? I was thrilled to the point of my friends making fun of me when I received the 15th edition of The Chicago Manual of Style. I know it is available on line, but it wouldn’t feel the same way.
I know that publishing is changing directions and that is, for the most part, a good thing. It means more people can get their written stories out there and people will be able to read them, whether online or in hard copy and paper back.
I will still read my news online, and blogs and magazine articles, but when everything is said and done, I still want to curl up with a good book, and put my laptop away for a while.
The other day on the way to work, while flipping through stations, the Beatles song “Can’t Buy Me Love” came on. Besides making me smile and sing, it also got me thinking about my childhood and my musical influences.
I was a little kid when the Beatles came on the scene. We didn’t have any Hannah Montana or Disney Channel manufactured pop and rock stars. We had bubble gum pop by the Archies, but no one really took them seriously. Later on we had the Monkees and while they will always hold a special place in my heart, again, a manufactured tv band. The Beatles were the real deal. Some kids from Liverpool working hard to make it big.
But this post is about being 5 years old and wanting the new Beatles album “A Hard Day’s Night” from Woolworth’s. Not the 45, the 12 inch vinyl record. I had a 9 year old sister who no doubt influenced my desire for this piece of music (and I will always be grateful to her for that) so when the newest album was out, my sister and I and our two friends sat in the backyard of my grandparent’s house and strategized as only children can, on how we could buy this record.
I believe at the time, albums were around $3.00 and we had already spent our allowance for the month. So we went to my grandmother for wisdom, and a loan.
No, she said, she would not loan us the money, but we could earn it. We sat forward from our perches on the kitchen stools, eager to hear her proposal. She would give us a penny for every stick we picked up in her backyard. My grandparent’s house sat on an acre of land so we had to survey the property and even though we didn’t see a lot of sticks, we took the deal.
A penny a stick, huh?
Yes, that’s right, she answered.
We shook on it to make it official.
Later that day we called my grandmother out to the backyard where we presented her with a wheelbarrow filled with sticks. I think she meant “substantial” sticks but since she wasn’t specific, she counted even the small spindly wisps we picked up that had blown into the garden.
422 was the final count.
Maybe you can’t buy love, but in 1965, 422 pennies bought you a Beatles album and have enough left over for candy.
He moves in circles. It began almost before he started and leaves ripples still. The family name this music was born to play; his elders, his own brothers – caught in the swing. Back and forth, up and down.
Left to right, to and fro – sweeping the melodies wielded by the players; musicians who survived the war – went the swing. Cats from all over, stepping from the red-hot ledge of Dixieland foxtrots and the quickstepping waltz between world wars into the giddy void, to be swept up in the swing.
When the Jones’s moved into the neighborhood the Betty Booper’s had to cool out. Papa Jo put the cats on notice with his hi-hat. Philly Joe lit the fire under Miles’s ass and the whole scene got sucked into the deep velvet universe unfolding before us.
When Elvin finally hit the scene it was already in play – there were some nice gigs before J.C, but when the two met, all was revealed. The splash and then the swell, pushing rings into ripples into rhythm; J.C took an eternal breath, Elvin raised his mighty sticks, and when exhale and drumsticks came thundering down, such a thing was never heard. From the plains of Africa through the jungles of India could the rumblings be felt, in New York, Detroit, Chicago, Paris and Tokyo. A storm was unleashed; the sudden ferocity of which left the boundaries between antipodes vague – everything, including the swing (now a lot looser) encompassed within the expanding circles that Elvin was laying down.
A giant of a man, with shovels for hands; standing alone he wouldn’t seem to fit in the picture. Step back and listen to him and J.C together – it isn’t that he’s shrunk to fit the picture; the frame has disappeared entirely. McCoy is illuminated; his commentary lifting up the deep yellow rays that rescue us from the fiery red. A circle is a seamless bond – let anyone try to point to the corner where rhythm and melody meet.
Someone said he was busy. He was busy all right – turning the history of the world into every note, taking us deeper into the roots with every pulse. Miles and Bill were telling the story between the notes; Elvin and J.C were telling the story in the notes between the notes. The first is an unfolding, the tale that never ends; the latter the explosion from within, the fire that ever burns.
Of course, the work is never done. Elvin brought back the talking drum and took it to school. From etchings on the wall to the poetry of the spheres did the language of the drums open itself in all directions. This was no double-talk, this was quadruple and octuple talk, coming at you from fourths to sixty-fourths, always opening outward, the next stroke already in the wake of the last.
Someone said he was powerful. How powerful, you ask? Measure the distance between a crash of lightning and the merest sigh of a breeze and there’s your answer. Between the two can be heard the ceaseless conversation between Mother Nature and all of her children. Every time Elvin would pick up sticks or brushes this conversation was relayed back over time to the eternal now, expressed in concentric waves of wind and rain falling away from the fiery cauldron of all creation.
So, what happened after J.C?
The fire still burns – the rings spreading ever outward. Like when Bird passed; the pilot had been lit; the keepers of the flame were circled ‘round the fire, dancing the same old songs to a rhythm without end. Elvin didn’t have to look for Wayne and Joe; they were already in the circle. This is the time when the drum spoke loudest – the final phase of the Coltrane era was the point in music history when the cats who charted the map and plowed the fields of modern drumming were all right here, walking around on planet Earth at the same time. The greats are always fun to name – Papa Jo, Sonny Greer, Gene Krupa, Louie Bellson…and then Philly Joe, Art Blakey, Max Roach, Jimmy Cobb, up through Tony Williams, Billy Higgins, Jack DeJonnette, and Joe Chambers. And still, with all these cats running around, everyone wants to know if Elvin is available. Mingus wants him so badly; he has to transform one of his own protégées into a reasonable facsimile, until Elvin frees himself up for some sessions and a tour…
For all that didn’t happen – there were scores and scores – sessions with Wayne, Joe and McCoy; with Grant Green, Richard Davis, Art Pepper up through Oregon, Jan Hammer, Kenny Garret, Wynton Marsalis… The rings within rings; once you’re inside…that’s where you are.
A true believer? If you’ve ever been in a place where Elvin was playing, it’s changed you forever. Not nearly confined to his sweating, shining, beatific face – his whole body enthralled as he pushes the tune; there is a palpable ecstasy in his expression. A picture of joy.
Wayne Shorter, Joe Henderson and Pharaoh Saunders were the natural heirs to the Coltrane legacy – all tenor players. Perhaps the food chain begins with Elvin, the chain linking itself to itself, becoming a circle. Melody turns to harmony turns to pulse, a change then another pulse. Back to melody – now we have a rhythm, and the circle is made. Starting out from behind the beat and then pushing on top, landing in front, Elvin gives it eternity; setting each stroke, brush and tap into rippling motion. The last strokes from the final number at the end of the night are still ringing in the club long after Elvin’s in the green room smoking a cigarette while chugging water and the rest of the cats are packing their instruments.
So what happens after Elvin?
Find a pool and jump in. He’s in there somewhere – you won’t see him, but he’s all around you. He moves in circles.
A work of fiction with a Jazz theme. By Scott, copyright belongs to Scott. Do not reprint without permission or byline.
RIFF
Somewhere a light flicks off as the opening brushes from “Bock to Bock” steal into the room like a cat. Light perfume-laced cigarette smoke swirls in the wake of the woman in the next room. Furtive lines are becoming shapes…sweet, buttery guitar notes bringing place and time together. A carelessly used copy of “The Killer Inside Me” lies on the small round glass table, an inflated corner almost pointing at the dregs of sherry floating in a snifter. The smoke in the room is bluer, more compact; the perfume comes on stronger – she is near.
Now comes the best part; the hanging space between notes. The pause between moments, when everything’s forgotten. An evening that drifts into an afternoon, which settles around a scene in a life that belongs to the swirling smoke, pushed by the exhalations of the woman and the pulse of the double-bass.
This is the moment when I forget the things that pin me down; nail me to a particular point on a line; my body is here, my past has been sealed off, my future is the “now” of whenever. The air has tipped toward the moist (she is near); the melody takes a poignant, almost sour turn – in this moment I can’t recall her face; her voice. I can’t recall which name she uses; which name I might have given her. The sound of the bass and the brushes makes the wood in the room come alive – the beaten floor breathing vigor into the grain in the chairs and vanity; pumping fresh sap through the densely packed bookcases; the sound of trees coming back to life. Somewhere buried in the folds of the backing piano comp lie all the things we barely tasted; an inexpressible sadness that comes from knowing, in those pedaled minor flashes, what was missed. The sadness of remembering that no one is knowable.
A wailing siren is born to the north, cutting a path through the afternoon, dying to the south, leaving the scene to the evening. I’m breathing the musk of her activity in the lengthening shadows, stirred by a memory that’s about to happen.
Guitar lines fall up and then down the stairs; no easy feat in a flat. The melody speaks the inevitable; yet it hasn’t occurred until the final stroke… The notes themselves are telling the same old story about how happy it is to be sad; that the difference between black and blue can be easier explained by wind through leaves, the look of a Bassett Hound drowsily lifting its head from a disturbed reverie. The sound of better times.
I can sense she is about to say something; it’s part of the song – this time. Now the guitar is pleading – one last time before the out-chorus, and it seems I’ve been cheated somehow. There was supposed to be more – like the way I remembered it. Hell, the spaces alone were enough to fill the yellowing rays of ten thousand late-summer afternoons.
It must be the ceiling fan. At first, it seems to be revolving very slowly; from here on the sofa the current is undetectable – but the blades are moving just ahead of the high-hat, cutting into the beat. With every revolution of the fan my dirty, sordid pile of a life comes rushing toward me.
The needle drops, the bass from nowhere – out of the shadows a piano; Paul Chambers and Bill Evans are in the house. In a few moments angling toward each other – they are the house. Entering in the wake of the definitive call and response, Miles greets oncoming darkness.
It’s alright, the sun has gone down.
She seems about to speak when Coltrane rushes in, afire. One of; perhaps our deepest intimacy lies in our mutual respect for the natural pause between moments. Beginnings and endings have a necessary place and time. Grinding her cigarette into a blown-glass dove; loosely crossing arms over a sigh only encourages Cannonball. Just because a fan blade is turning doesn’t mean that for the thousandth time the shouting is any less joyful. Will it be enough this time to carry us through?
Pondering this, Freddie Freeloader skips in from the hallway, sassing everybody in the first four bars. There’s more movement now; the window’s open, candles are lit. I almost suffocate on her fury. She knows – she has nine good minutes to vent, silently or otherwise – before Blue in Green.
It’s the saddest color ever known. Try looking someone in the eye while Miles plays the opening. Then, let Bill take you softly by the hand – he knocks gently – John answers with the sound of a broken man crying for his mother. Look at me now baby – look at me and I’ll tell you how it is. The floor doesn’t creak, the air doesn’t move, the room disappears.
The brushes coming up behind Mr. Kelly’s trill turns out to be the only possible way to go on. The fan resumes, the boards, girders, plaster and nails settle back into place, and now everything’s moving again; chugging along the eternal track. If she was sitting, she isn’t any more, and this is the countdown. Without words can we bring it back? Without words can we move beyond?
What are these dead men trying to say?
That beauty lies in sorrow. Let in misery, and there you’ll find joy. Mr. Kelly riding up and down those keys is telling us it never ends.
If today is the last day, then tomorrow is the first. Within the spaces of Flamenco Sketches lies the answer to every unasked question. She’s somewhere behind me, clutching her wrists, drawing a deep breath, remembering things in no particular order, bits and scenes flashing past on the roulette wheel, our life together the steel marble skidding from number to number. A gust of night air gets tangled up in John’s horn; a candle goes out.
Six minutes of eternity left.
So…I’m digging around one day in my bag of Canadian Rock. Ok, I don’t really have a bag with genre/region specific musical contents. For that matter, is there really such a thing as Canadian rock?
Perhaps we’re off to a bad start. One of the never-ending tortures of global culture consumption is the “hole in the wall syndrome” lurking around every corner.
Walking on this side of a particular street, two doors north of the dry cleaner’s with the running stork on the overhead sign – that smell. Turns out it was Szechwan duck, and now you can’t walk this block without the nagging void…
If the archivists ultimately decide that there is in fact such a thing as a Canadian-rock genre, then the 35 years-in-the-running Rush would have to sweep in under the grandfather clause as de facto grandfathers to the Canadian rock scene; not counting Neil Young, the cantankerous great-uncle.
“Moving Pictures” released in 1981, saw Rush at the height of their influence and popularity. Following an epic series of comic delays, I arrived about ten or so minutes late to the Chicago Amphitheater for the opening band on the “Moving Pictures” tour.
Long before eventually finding our section I became permanently lost; overwhelmed by the heady roar of a monster sound that got people running to their seats. Thousands of blurry stitches, weaving through the menacing cavern, while being pummeled by a lead-heavy rock band spinning enough polish to be clearly heard – pushing enough watts to shake plaster from the acres of cement enclosing us. Everyone in such a focused hurry, and me being the youngest in the crowd – I didn’t bother to ask; I figured the answer lay just ahead – when they played the “hit” or lead-track or whatever from their latest record that the promoters thought Rush fans should run out and buy.
For the next forty or so minutes these guys – a four-piece – thundered forth a set of originals; clever-like-a-fox lyrics belted out in a rich tenor, built to stadium scale, over tricky rock licks with BIG chops. This was the gladiatorial “arena” phase in rock – punk was back on thin ground, and everyone showed up to see if you could play. Finally, for the encore (you bet there was an encore for the opener of one of the world’s biggest touring bands) Geddy Lee himself joins the mystery band, and they proceed to close the set with the immortal, though barely remembered “Battlescar.”
After a ten minute pause, the main act comes on and blah, blah, blah…
Max Webster was founded in 1973 by singer, lyricist, guitarist Kim Mitchell. Morphing through several early line-up switches, the band gelled for about a minute in 1977 or thereabouts, and began touring Canada. There were only a handful of records; from the self titled “Max Webster” to 1981’s “Universal Juveniles” was a regrettably short trip. Regrettable still, is the obscurity of these amazingly crafted albums; each brimming with hooks, licks and runs that pop off of the grooves.
My latest copies of “Mutiny Up My Sleeve” and “High Class In Borrowed Shoes” from ’77 and ’78 respectively, had to be purchased online as imports – not too expensive – what disturbed me was the lack of availability. Sure the world gets bigger and deeper, while the planet gets smaller and thinner – as time passes the archives yawn greater.
Such a shame so many would-be fans blinked during the Max Webster frame. Which only goes to show – even the brightest stars were dimmed in the murk of the bloated, corporate stadium rock scene. Well, back in the 70s, Rush liked ‘em…and they had lots of fans.
In the 80’s Kim Mitchell did what the times called for, and began a moderately successful, FM-friendly career.
So ends the road of so many notables from the 70’s; in the “Where are they now?” bin. If you happen to be in or driving through Toronto, tune in to Q107 Radio – Kim Mitchell does the afternoon show. If you can reach him there at the station, ask him where in town Max Webster albums can be found…
by flypcyd
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