Each member of the band, then known as the Funk Punk Renegades, had been saving up money for several weeks to pay for half a day’s worth of studio time. With nothing else better to do after class, I followed Bo’s written directions into Dallas. And since it was only about a mile away I took a detour and checked out the intersection of Harry Hines and Sixth Street. The neighborhood was just as ugly and unwelcoming as I’d imagined. Even though it was just three-thirty in the afternoon, I spotted several grossly underdressed, glazy-eyed prostitutes (one of which was even carrying the proverbial bottle of liquor wrapped in a brown paper bag.) They dispersed themselves among three different corners of the intersection, leaving the fourth for the local drug dealer to conduct his business. Upon the windows of every establishment were a set of iron bars, even on the old gas station which looked like it had been closed and unoccupied for the last decade.
