We were opening for the Dukes of the Stratosphere, that much I remember. It was hazy and impossible the way that most dreams are. Stage was made of thick wood planks. Cast iron stands held these mics that glowed a pale mint green. We were sure that we were in the right place. Just me and Jordyn back then, the original Chemical Spray. He had that low slung SG. My Rickenbacker had turned to mist in the dream. I heard the click of drum sticks and the hiss-snap of a high hat behind me. There she was, Alice of Bogata, our future drummer, the malevolent, relentless back-end had suddenly appeared like a hostile visitation determined to drag us into the pit.