Ah my. Where to begin?
I could recite the storied history of the band, chronologically, leaving out no details and dishing the dirt like an army of gravediggers. A writer,
however, must protect his or her sources and therefore the true juice of this epic will remain concealed. I will, though, seek to paint the picture that colors my mind (and perhaps a few others’ as well) when I hear these songs and suffer the onslaught of a million memories rushing by like I was stuck out on the race track, in nothing but my underwear, at the Indy 500. Imagine
if you will, a band of individuals weighted by their youth, a despot desert heat, and a singular collective musical voice. A voice as devoid of
formula as it was dripping with the stuff that gets conjured when the only thing that matters to the mind is the music and the moment. We let the other
bands worry about trends. We simply played our asses off, cover charge or no, beer or no, morning, noon, or night, from Tempe to Bisbee to Las Cruses
and back like some troubadour spaghetti western. Under the guidance of Dennis’ music and lyrics, us Wilsons manned the ship under the rough seas of desert rock, grunge, funk metal, and general college town apathy and sailed on. To where, you ask? Well, into that Sargasso region know as obscurity, but our efforts, never the less, have lived on, as you now can bear witness to with the cd you hold in your hands. Yes, we have lived on, not unlike a squashed cockroach that somehow manages to crawl away with its innards dragging behind it. Yes, a cockroach. But what a fucking mighty rocking cockroach we were...