Dig, if you will, a picture. It’s the summer of 1970. In a tiny, sweltering, fourth-floor apartment in Manhattan, just around the corner from the Fillmore East, a teenage rock band from Florida, armed to the teeth with guns, grit, and guitars, sleeps seven to a room and dreams big dreams. Bass player Greg T. Walker was there. In fact, the whole thing was his idea.
“The third day we were staying there, someone broke into our van and took about half of our equipment,” he remembers.
