I remember turning away from the brick building, Rick Pelletier’s studio, the Parlour. I remember looking toward the milky, uncertain skyline of Providence. I also remember being startled—just then—by a commuter train hurtling by, but as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. The gentler sounds of Pawtucket—outside the Parlour—fell back into place.

It was mid-afternoon, April, and Rick from Six Finger Satellite was recording some Poem Rocket music that wouldn’t be released for over two decades. I wasn’t wise to any of this, standing there, dumb as ever, in the fog of day with my mind floating just outside my skull. The Rhode Island flora was still very brown, despite the spring, and it was warm. I remember turning my back on Providence, moving back toward the Parlour, which was all mysterious and box-like. I don’t remember there being any windows, only a door. A feeling came over me as I opened the door, like I had been there before. There was a wall of sound inside, but you could move through it. Maybe this déjà vu feeling from 1999 is happening because I’m remembering it?

Back inside the Parlour, I remember this: It was all about the music. Save for conceptual song titles, there wasn’t a solidified lyric on paper or a melodic line in mind. I was playing bass—not my usual instrument— on “A.R.P. (Air Raid Protection),” and I remember picking up Sand’s red Fender bass. And Sand was playing my Gibson hollow body. All of that felt a bit strange ... And what surfaced from the waves of sound inside the Parlour? A visceral intensity, an unrelenting mood. Inside this memory, I had my back to the glass of the studio booth And just like the practice space, Knowlton was across from me; Sand was to my left; and P-Go to my right. The lyrics came later. At that moment there were no words, only a raw improvisational feeling. I remember grinding out the repetitive bass line, thoroughly enjoying the driving crests and lolling troughs of dynamic variation: Louder growing softer, softer growing louder.