Arizona Dreams: The Parallel World of the Meat Puppets

FLASHBACK, 1994: It's mid-morning in Vancouver, and the sun shines brightly over the crisp, clear October sky. Not that you'd notice, if you were Curt Kirkwood. In a darkened room at the Georgian Court Hotel, the guitarist sits, dourly smoking pot. "We're back in that same old Meat Puppets land," he says. "Strange fuckin' nowhere. Every time we reach a new plateau, we seem to find the ether in it."