The Cedars was a downhome, funky bar—Swan, Moody, Mick the Hillbilly, Dead Ed, Donna. Going back was always great. It was out in Ballard, out in the old industrial section with train tracks crossing the streets, concrete underpasses, past wrecking yards, junkshops, old hotels for old men. We were always stoned en route, and the twenty-minute ride from the U District could take light-years but was always all right. Swan would take things down into the crowd; he didn’t dig the leader-of-the-band trip, so he would jump down off the stage out of the colors and ask everyone to shout or stomp or move. First you were moving and then sweating and things would start mixing in and mixing out and going on the same, hands, hair, hips, feet, up on the stage into the lights there cupping the harp to the mike, you could really lay it out, putting it all into pulling it straight out from under you, feeling yourself pulling the power from the floor, the concrete, the ground, the earth, all of it coming up and out into everybody, into everywhere, Swan laying it on with you, Moody the same, Moody constant, always happy, you happy sweating, everyone happy, everyone going on in everybody, and so it would go, anyone could get up there, most of us did, but the place was always empty of regular customers, the management didn’t dig Swan’s band, so when he’d do something similar, anything, play with his teeth, or let “American Man” run on out the full set, never giving the dancers a break, they’d threaten to can the whole group, they wanted a straight country-western shitkicking beer outfit in there, but they weren’t making enough money to pay for it, so they were stuck with Swan. The place was nearly always empty until we got there, all our own crowd, all us stoners, dropouts, longhairs, fuckups, dope fiends, all of us all getting it on, it was always a hell of a good time, no one ever got busted, some of us even got laid out there, picking up some of the local stuff, Buc, in particular, Buc had a great time with two of the local hogs, two peroxide-tipped bangers that wanted his body, so he took them on outside in Moody’s Chevrolet, everyone walked outside and looked at the steamed-over windows.