The Devils’ story is reasonably well documented – on fan sites; in two encyclopedias of rock; in one vapid, photo-dense volume issued from a British fly-by-night publisher. So I won’t burn a lot of space rehashing it.
But a montage of memories from that Devilish period might prove illustrative of whatever point I’m trying to make. And might provide textures heretofore unavailable to the public, should anyone still give a shit.
So here are 31 memories, in glorious disarray. One for every year I’ve endured.
1. Someone clinging to my leg on the sidewalk outside the Scala in London, weeping, sobbing out, “I just want to be you.”
2. Our drummer Vince laughing and threatening a bloated wax dummy in a Tribeca gallery with his lit Zippo. Then getting too close and the thing going up like a drum of rubbing alcohol.
