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"I'm a poor, drunken orphan with nowhere to go but the grave," wailed a waifish and non-plussed Mr. Chris Funk as he lay supine by the railroad tracks. The crate of records he had been cradling in his nubile appendages now lay in pieces on the ashen ground, his complete collected recordings of sixties psychedelic luminary Rick "Paisley Dave" Rigmore scattered hit her and yon like so many dead leaves beneath a diseased elm. Noting his neglect to accredit this phrase to its rightful owner, chief engineer Jenny Conlee, her accordion neatly strapped to her back, stepped lightly from the caboose and corrected his negligence with the aplomb only an immigrant Hungarian could muster: "Dylan Thomas, sir! Please move along!" But it was too late: an indelible bond had been soldered in that moment of recognition. A few hours later, in a Turkish bath, they revealed their stories to one another between sips of a strange, tangerine liqueur. Not far from that spot, however, two young military dignitaries (John Moen, Nate Query), appropriately lathered, overheard our two heroes' stories. Was it chance, then, that lead the four unsuspecting bathers to seek to return their soiled undergarments at the same kiosk where worked the poor, bespectacled Colin Meloy? One can surmise all one wants, but the truth should be known that, after adopting the moniker The Decemberists, these five wan vagabonds began playing their peculiarly styled pop music in various concert-halls and brothels all across the globe.
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