I sent an interview to SHADES APART, and this is what I got in return: Instead of answering your list of questions, I thought I'd give an inside look at our band on the road. As I type this, we're returning from a show, headed south on the Merritt Parkway. It's about 2 a.m. and the highway is a smooth slab of glass from last night's ice storm, Kevin is behind the wheel of the van.

"In weather like this, it's best to just stay off the brakes. In fact, what you want here is momentum to carry you across the slick patches. 85 or 90 miles per hour isabout right," Kevin says. "No friction. The ice just makes for easy sailing."
There are four of us in the van: me (Ed), Mark, Kevin, and our road manager (Monty). "That snotty cashier at the gas station was lucky I lost my stomach for killing back in Tulsa," I hear Mark mutter. "All that whining over who's gonna pay for a few dozen burritos. The one thing I hate is a worrier."

Our road manager is tapping on his laptop computer. "It looks like we lost money again tonight," he says,"things couldn't be worse."

"Yes, indeed," Mark says, "Not a bad show tonight."
"Damn fine," Kevin agrees.
"They pelted the band with stones and food scrapes. How is that good?" the road manager asks. "It was the way they did it. Very passionate. Those were moved. I think we really made an impression. I saw a few people in the front driven to the point of tears. they will remember us, I tell you," Mark says.
"They were crying because you sprayed mace into the audience between songs," the manager argues. "The kids love that," I say, tossing an empty can and a plastic tube out the window. "That does it for the freon. And we're out of No Doze. Kevin, pass me another nicotine patch."
"Good thinking. I need a couple, too," Kevin says as he removes his hands from the steering wheel to reach into the back seat and dig through his bag.
"The club owner asked us never to return," says the manager.
"He was merely bowing to out superior skills. He felt his pathetic little club was far too puny and obscure, and would stifle our sublime gifts," retorts Mark. "You need to get us into some good places. Somewhere that has heat and running water."
"The club owner chased us out with a pistol," cries the manager, "He called me terrible names. He.."
"Quiet, you two fairies," I cut in. "What I want to know is where can we get a good martini at this hour."
Red and blue lights flash as a state trooper speeds along behind us. "That's no way to drive at this hour and on a night like this," I say.
"No kidding. That guy is tailgating," Mark says.
"That's a police officer," says the manager, "I think he means for us to..."
"Silence!" Kevin growls and bashes the manager with an uppercut to his chin followed by a left hook to the temple. The manager slumps back in his seat.
"That guy was really getting on my nerves with all his worrying," Mark says. "You did the right thing."
"Quiet or I'll deck you, too," Kevin snaps, "that impatient bastard in the car behind me has been tailing for a good ten minutes." Kevin knits his brow and then his expression lightens. "Ah, well. If he's in such a hurry, I suppose I might pick up the pace a bit."
"Good thinking. A little courtesy for our comrade travelers," I say. "This is no night to be on the roads any longer than you absolutely have to." The trooper stays with us as the van begins to shudder and wobble with speed. He fires a shot. The bullet whizzes past and then another one shatters the side mirror.
"Perhaps we should just let this guy pass," Mark says.
"Quite so. He's begun to endanger us and him with that impetuous driving."
The van cuts sharply to the right, careening onto two wheels. The back end slides forward, gaining inertia, coming around finally, and propelling the van across the median and back onto the highway in the opposite direction.
"Yeeaahhah. Hang on sissies," Mark calls. The police cars spins on the ice and smashes into a jagged rock face. Immediately, the car is swallowed by flames. A flailing officer leaps from the skidding inferno and rolls in the snow, snuffing his fiery uniform.
"There's another hothead getting what he deserves,"Kevin says, "that impatient devil was riding right on my bumper. It's important to observe the sanctity of the highway and the safety of your fellow motorist."

My only question now is why you'd buy burritos at a gas station? You can get in touch with these guys at: PO Box 5082,North Branch, NJ 08876.