I’m not listening to the Donna songs. Sunrise, somesuch. Just not going to do it. They won’t be excised like drums/space from my library, but I’m skipping them.

Now, I am a Donna Defender. Go listen to 5/19/74 in Portland–and I have no idea which Portland because I will not be doing any research, thank you–to the way she matches Bobby’s every lyrical gesture in BIODTL.  She turns a tune so pedestrian that the only interesting thing about it is counting the beats in the introduction into a laid-back trifle full of sweetness.

And other times she howls like a banshee with the key to Hell’s executive bathroom. More than one time, she just out of nowhere lets loose with these yelps as if she had just gotten a good look at Keith without steeling herself beforehand.

Because, let’s face it, Keith’s face could most generously be called unfortunate. He looked like a muppet the dog had gotten to. Keith wore tightie-whities, I’d bet my life on it.

But Keith got bored and Keith started comping endlessly behind fucking everything. I think he was just asked the pronunciation of his last name once too often and snapped. What could he possibly have to be depressed about? He got to stay in a hotel every night, tonight in Normal, IL and tomorrow in Tuscaloosa, AL! Where he would get to play Estimated Prophet. Again. While fucking Bobby sleeps with his wife. Guy’s got it made.