This show has been cancelled.

Soooo…you want to know about Green, huh? This is their “bio.” You have to go down this street here. The lights are out and it’s dark. There’s a turn right up ahead and you can’t see around the bend. What are those echoes? I heard that. Let’s go in this door here. Hurry. This van is one of those yellow and white Volkswagen 60s kind that can go about sixty miles-per, but don’t push it. We’re out West, heading for the Cavern Club in L.A. John and I found Ben Turpin’s star on Hollywood Boulevard. Swirling smoke and tight tights. Mods and rockers. Vipers in the palms. Why isn’t Amsterdam around the corner? Where is the only place on earth that you can climb into the Milky Way? The old cantilever bridge levels into the Mikado. We saw the Queen. There was no code phrase. There was only a jaunt by Rembrandt’s house down to the coffee shop near the canal. Carnal carnivals and cricket in the square where the Saturday market is. I know why the Brabants and Brueghels and Vermeer’s shade walk down this brick-paved lane. Why in a candle-lit bar or in the hangman’s house do you look at me with silver cloud and sunshine in your eyes? We were the savant garde edge and cut our own throat. But we plastered it with rhythm and blues. And flowers grew from Birmingham to San Fran to Winnipeg to Hoboken and tumbled from the speakers.