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Are you crazy? Music is for the birds. Life is too short to be serious. Besides, you love clothes too much. Leaves little time to think about music. So you never develop a really expert knowledge of music that informs your work. You are into the folk scene, but it's easy to be into folk, actually the thing for novice musicians to be into because it's not that difficult and raw imperfection actually sounds noble to a folk audience. Go figure. You become a beatnik for a while, get arrested for vagrancy in France. You learn to play the harmonica while being a beatnik and subsequently are asked to join your first group The Dimension. Everyone seems to feel that you are asked to join bands because of your sex appeal: the girls fancy you. You don't make many friends in your bands. They claim you want to be the star all the time. You join Long John Baldry and the Hoochie Coochie Men. You get more attention for your clothes than you music. You are considered a poser. Rod, the Mod with your tight satin pants and your peacock struts. Again, you are not well liked in the band but the chicks fly out to see you. You bet your bottom dollar, they do.

With the help of your shrewd accountant brother and your newfound attention as a low-rent sex symbol, you finagle a deal with Decca Records for a five-year contract and some decent cash. But this deal does not include the band. You have negotiated something for yourself only, the shape of things to come. It's not that you are quitting the band. You plan to play both sides of the fence. Forever more, you'll do it with men, you'll do it with women. Two-timing: it's your bag, baby.

It's time to wake up for your first recording session on the Decca tab. You blow them off, sleep in and then claim you have no money for a cab despite the sweet advance they gave you. You demand mo money for a cab or you aren't coming!

Does Decca drop your skinny ass from their label and clear their roster for someone who actually gives a shit?

Or does someone pay for your cab?

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