I’m sitting on Deep Purple’s jet waiting to take off from Detroit Metro. The accomodations are luxurious, and the general mood is a Saturday afternoon junior high school field trip. Somebody slips a videocassette of Fat Gty with Stacy Keach into the TV and the sense of disjuncture is mildly aphasing — I dunno whether to watch the flick, look out the window or try to interview their manager. There’s the sense that I wanna get everything in at once, though maybe that’s because I know there’s only so much information culled once I succumb to the magnetism of that bar over the left wing. Or maybe I’m trying too hard. Everybody is having a good time, neither partying it up nor creaking through seeming mornings after. What about all those tales of sleaze and distorto of these things? Maybe I am on a field trip.

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