I was in the Superfonics. That’s the greatest Rockabilly band name ever. We stunk, but man, could we name things.

The drummer was an ancient old dude, probably ten years younger than I am now, and he didn’t have a car or front teeth. I’m not sure if those two details are related. He got rid of most of his toms and cymbals, welded the remaining drums together, and bolted a big handle to the resultant apparatus. He’d ride the subway with it. He’d come in, plop the thing down, sit on a milk crate, and start playing. He was either a genius or a dullard.  The two guitar players were roommates, attending MIT. They were either geniuses, or very smart, I can’t remember which. They played everything  exactly like the records we copied. The singer — couldn’t.

[Oh, dear; look what I found in my junk drawer:]

I remember Chet’s. If I owned Hell and Chet’s Last Call, I’d live in Hell and rent out Chet’s.