When I left home, I was insane. I used to lie down on the floor next to my boombox, press my ear against the speaker, and pretend I was listening to the fetal heartbeat of music itself.” “Oh, I remember,” he says, giving a long, low whistle—not the kind you use to tell a woman that she’s hot, but the kind you use when a woman rips off her wig and reveals to you her gaping head wound.
