first became aware of Josephine when I was living in Chicago and doing solo songs weekly at The Hideout. Hearing her sing for the first time is a pleasantly shocking experience for anyone, and I was an arm’s length away. She seemed very nervous. At one point she had to stop the song and asked if anyone had any water. I’m sure the presence of my bandmates and crew didn’t help the nerves. I handed her a bottle of water. She gave a polite thank you and carried on with her songs. Later I heard she had a band with one of her friends from Old Town School of Folk Music (I don’t know how true this is, this was just the word on the street). They were called Children’s Hour. The gal I was dating at the time knew all about them. So I went to see them. I don’t recall how I ended up playing drums with them but I remem- ber how I felt: it was like putting on a gas mask and getting clean oxygen. The environment I was in was so pocked and cancerous, Papa M and Children’s Hour were my only life source. That sounds pretty heavy, I guess, and not entirely true. What I’m trying to say is that I could breathe fresh air when I was with Josephine and Andy. It was music I could understand. I could relate with the lyrics. At any rate, I gave the songs a simple pulse that stadium audiences could easily digest. I played a cocktail kit that I got for free. You know. The kind of kit where all the drums fit inside each other, minimal hard- ware. After our set, I’d run to the other side of backstage to start warm- ing up with Zwan. It was a necessary duality. I also don’t recall how the recording happened, outside of me think- ing that it was a good idea. I knew it was a great band, a real band, I knew it was pure. I had been spending a lot of time at Paul Oldham’s farm in Shelbyville, KY. Recording with Bonnie and just about anything that blew through town. I’m a shameless hoe! So at the end of my double-gigging campaign, we busted out all our songs in one day. Easy peasy. I added some bass lines for as many songs as I could do quickly. Some songs I knew I would need more time to finish, because of the funky chords and whatnot. We didn’t have any time though. Not even to mix. I promised that when I was back from tour I would finish the bass lines and then mix it at my little home studio, Velvetone. Fast forward twenty years. The hard drive with the recording is long gone — ancient, kaput, thou- sands of miles away in g*d knows what landfill. Andy, however, still has the rough mixes. Hearing them with new ears I realize what a magical moment was captured, a moment of youth. So I tried to clean up the mono mixes, make the best of them. When, lo and behold, Paul Oldham comes to the rescue with all the individual tracks, preserved and able to be summoned on 2020 hard drives. Long story short, I buff and polish the tracks to create easy-to-digest stems for mixing — even ducking the instruments ever so slightly when the vocals come in. Sweetening them so that mixing will be naught but a skip in the park. Josephine and Andy travel to Nashville and trans- fer the digititus to simmering analog goodness and serve up delicious bowls of mixes. When I listen back, the only listening experience I can compare it to is Spiderland. It sounds like some young, forward-thinking, folks who are doing what they do best without any self-awareness. It’s not flaw- less, it’s not legendary virtuosity, it’s more like birds in the morning doing their damn thing. There’s a purity of intent that really means a lot to me. There’s no ambition or managers or bending for likes and followers. No image to project or traipsing about looking for agents or the burdening desire to be the next big thing. It’s pure music. Now, when I need pure music most. — David Pajo 2024