The value of bodily fluids

Covered in sewage is no way to be when you find yourself in the middle of the street, in the middle of Winnipeg, in the middle of Winter. Unfortunately, that is exactly where the small, but resourceful clan found themselves. They were soaked, and they needed shelter and quick. Sheila had the foresight to slather the thickest of the sludge on her bare arms, neck, and head. This seemed to provide a useful, albeit noxious barrier to the harsh winds. Ken, with his bullet wound found that his bleeding had slowed if not stopped. In addition, the bullet must have nicked his olfactory nerve as his sense of smell was non-existent. Bob, with blind-folded "CELLO" producer-cum -loudly in tow, used the Sundance "kid" as a shield to the elements. All Pingry could keep saying was "Bob, don't stand so F*%#ing close to me, man".
And Gail, shivering to the bone did not hesitate to break the side window of the closest car that appeared to have any kind of apparel in it. This later proved to be helpful.....

Rising Up to Paradise

They surged ahead, slipping and clawing their way through the acrid slime to where Sheila stood illuminated by two garish shafts of red and blue light. There was a grate overhead, old and filthy, which begrudgingly allowed the unsettling glow to ooze in and down a series of wet, rusty rungs like an electric fungus.

''What light?'' came a muffled voice from somewhere near the armpit of Gail's t-shirt. ''Uh, you can probably take that off, Ken...'' Gail retrieved her bloodied garment as Ken blinked painfully, eyes stinging but bullet wound now staunched.

''I don't like the look of this,'' growled Bob, ''But we've got no choice--we can't hang around in this disease-infested hole any longer, and Ken's cheek wound could rip open any minute. Y'all get on up that ladder.''

They clambered up and out, the clammy grate offering surprisingly little resistance.

The sight that met their eyes above ground was nearly as terrifying as the dank underworld below: an enormous, crackling sign screamed ''Winnipeg Central Cinemas,'' its excess light spilling across a larger-than-life poster featuring a sullen Asian beauty, a hideously bloodied cello case, and--Steve.

STEVE???

''Jesus GOD,'' bellowed Bob as his startled brain strained to absorb the fact that the boyish mug of his fellow gunslinger-cum-producer was now plastered all over Canada, if not the entire Western hemisphere. ''Pingry, what have you DONE!!''

''No, seriously, wait, it was just a little college project, I mean, I sent it to Sundance like AGES ago but never heard back, and...'' Steve gaped, transfixed at the glorious horror of the predicament.

Bob ripped Gail's shirt back off and tied it firmly around Steve's head. ''Dude, congratulations and all, but now every joker in TOWN knows your face. And you WOULD have to call it CELLO,'' he fumed, glaring at the telltale instrument case Steve was now fumbling to use as an oversized cane, having become both famous and blindfolded in under 4.5 seconds.

Bob cinched the shirt down tighter. ''Keep this on your head at ALL times, or we're DEAD,'' he hissed through gritted teeth, adding a somewhat embarrassed ''Sorry, Gail.''

A Way Out.

Gail managed to stop Ken's bleeding by tying her shirt around his face. The wound wasn't as bad as it looked. The bullet had entered his open mouth as he was blazing away, blasted a tooth, grazed the jawline and exited the cheek. He was going to be OK. Pain was another issue. The five of them trudged on through the sewer muck. Sheila had gone ahead, and soon they heard her call out from ahead... "LIGHT!" As they made their way to her, they could see her standing in a shaft of light. There it was, the way out.

on the conflict of tendencies...

in true art, the end is always the beginning.

String Section PA Problems SOLVED!

Amps, schmamps--batteries, schmatteries. Check out THESE puppies!!!!











It's perfection!! And here you can watch a clip of one being played: strohviolin-shop.com


But wait, there's more...

Stroh guitars for Bobby and....











Yes,
this is a
Stroh bass
for Kenworth.

I have yet to find a Stroh piano or drums, alas.

Anyway, whad'ya think, huh, huh? Let's grab convention by the cojones, discard those run of the mill things we're sawing away on and demand that the Getaway Driver arsenal reflect the true and splendid bizarreness of our collective selves!!

A Nod to Our Brothers

In the midst of our own landmark project--rich, deadly satisfying and now with a full head of steam--here's a nod to some blood brothers on the Getaway Trail.

If the Getaway Drivers were rocking a swampy Louisiana tavern, then a few of us got shot and took out the power supply as we fell, we might sound like these guys. Or maybe we wouldn't, but our stories sure do:

Pistol with half a grip
torn white satin slip
ten yards of dirty drapes
stack of old acetates
die cast toy truck
picture framed first buck
buckle latch diary
greasy bag of recipes...

Let the moon shine, let the skin crawl, let the monkey jump, let it all go...

Kieran Kane, Kevin Welch & Fats Kaplin; from the album Lost John Dean. The best $15 you'll spend anytime soon, guaranteed to bring you almost as much neural bliss as the blistering vocals and savage mando Bob and Ellie put down on Billy in the last 48 hours.

Fire & Grace

The sweet, intoxicating current of music, whiskey and cameraderie coursed through the six like medicine.

Tongues loosened, hearts warmed, wounds healed and the spectre of the past few months' devastating run of illness, bad luck and uncertainty began to fade, giving slow but steady way to a fundamental, defining realization:

They were good. DAMN good.

The audience of freethinkers, dignitaries and fellow musicians had sat transfixed in the dusky saloon as The Getaway Drivers scorched through songs of fire and ice, love and loss, sweetness and destruction, the stage transformed into a whirlwind of flesh, steel, weathered wood and determination. They sounded finer than fine, they sounded like The Next Big Thing...

They sounded like they meant it.