In the beginning it didn't mean much. Just a broad brush stroke we hung on what we were doing. Outerspace... Clearly our space was collapsing... we wanted out. Vietnam...Kent State... Chicago... Nothing the Suits could say rebutted what we were seeing on the news, so we adjusted the soundtrack. To the pounding of bass and drums, we joined hands and vaulted their barricades. We set fire to everything, with searing lyric and scorching guitars, using the heat of the moment to thrust ourselves into the unknown. It was our solution. Rock it. And those that didn't play, danced. Entry for all. Plenty of room on the spaceship. We were a tribe, our sweat lodge was a roadhouse, and we called ourselves Outerspace...
Music was at the core, it bound us together. The rest was simply uncharted territory. No one knew what would happen, and that was good. We risked everything on ourselves. We slept wherever, and nourished ourselves with our energy. Our tribe grew; mutant dreamers making it up as we went. Outerspace became more than just our name, it became our life. We lived in Space. Here on earth, Watergate validated our suspicions, while Watkins Glen affirmed what Woodstock had envisioned. Our ship kept accelerating, but disco was more than a cloud on the horizon, it was the smoke of a distant fire. Rising from our ashes, the Suits had reappeared. They were co-opting all we had discovered for their own purpose.
We played on, but it soon became obvious that we could be replaced by a mirrored ball and a relentless bass line; it was then that we made our most important discovery. We learned that nothing could stop us, we had reached escape velocity and nothing but our own physical undoing would signal our end.
We surfed where there were no waves... and played boldly, where no band had before... in granite quarries and fields in the middle of nowhere; we kept the music coming. And we became our dreams, jettisoning what no longer had meaning while hanging tenaciously onto the joy at the center of it... We played... for all the right reasons... Money for nothing...
And looking in the rear view, yes, we made a mess of it. Somebody had to, or else it would have been simply business as usual. The anthems that had us charging into the streets are now being used to sell hamburgers. Far now from the big bang of our inception, we offer the enclosed intergalactic solution. Rocket. Climb into the cockpit... driving experience not required... and join the band!
Compton | Wailing Dave | Eliot | John
Klondike | Michael | Uncle Al