This album was done at Kingsnake Studios, a bustling birth canal of Blues located in a barn behind Bob Greenlee's house, in Sanford, Florida. Bob, president of Kingsnake Records, had heard my first album, "Gimme' A Dollar" and invited me down to talk about doing a record at his place. So the next day, I dressed in a casual business attire, grabbed my clipboard, and headed towards the blues dynasty know to all as "Kingsnake." When I finally took the documented right turn off of state road 46, I came to a side road and took it. My Chevy Impala "ka-flumped" off of the pavement and went careening down a dried mud road, heavily shadowed by thick brush and reaching oaks. I finally pulled up to a yellowed building in abandoned disrepair, with two dog pen sentries and a less than vacant chicken coop. The door to the garage was opened and I could hear voices somewhere within, so I knocked and yelled, "Hello!?" A booming but raspy voice yelled back, "Yeah!" I traversed the dingy dark hall strewn with broken recording equipment, fishing gear, and bags of peat moss. I walked all the way to an open door that was letting the dusty sunlight roll out drunkenly into the unlit void of hallway. I peeked my head into the doorway and saw Bob Greenlee sitting behind his desk, with his unruly crash of gray hair, stained Polo shirt, dark rimmed glasses, and gym shorts. He was joined by sax legend, Noble "Thin Man" Watts, and the misanthropic guitar god, Warren King. I said "hello" to them all and could see from a cursory glance that there were two empty Heineken six pack boxes and a third, with only two unopened bottles left. It was only 10:30 in the morning and I said to myself, "...these are my people!" And from there we talked and agreed to do this album. Which started a ten year internment into the world of Kingsnake and the Blues. A world where the heavily soulful Ace Moreland pulls up in a beat-toHell Greyhound bus to record an album, plugs into an outlet in the studio and lives there for the next nine years. A world where an MIT graduate named "Augie" is flown in to fix the board one week and decides to sleep on the studio couch for the next eight years. A world of constant drinking, smoking, playing, recording, screaming, laughing and soldering. A world where black and white, old and young, city and country, and unknown and famous converged to squeeze all they could out of the Blues, and life in general. Little by little, the Kingsnake guys started dying off. After Bob passed away in 2004, the studio shut down. I’ll go too someday. But when I do, I will consider what we did at Kingsnake (recording, laughing, and living) as some of the richest years of my life.