In the spring of 1991 we carried some microphones and sundry recording devices up three flights of stairs there on Court Street and set about the task of capturing the sounds of our instruments in a big empty room with three tall windows. We spent so much time trying to compensate for the quirks and follies of our homespun set-up that we had little time for music. Even the sudden Midwestern thunderstorm that we captured in wide stereo was accidentally erased.

It was then that our friendly German publisher came ringing out of the sky like some surreal savior. Not only did he offer to put us up in a wonderfully garish suite hotel with a guitar-shaped pool, but he obtained for us the use of a recording studio which had been kind to the likes of Lee Greenwood.

August came with brutal heat. We swooped down to Nashville like so many migrating blackbirds for a pregnant week of night recording. Nimble-footed nights. When we realized that more often than not we had succeeded in making Ric’s guitar sound like it was being played in a kitchen cupboard it was almost time to go home. Karin would sing and the sun would rise out of the microphone and we would go to bed in this new daylight.

More sketches for the sketchbook: call it foreshadowing.

Anyway, we’re off to the Imaginary Apple Orchard to clean the trough which holds cool water from our underground spring. I do wish you could join us.