New Hampshire, 1989. There was a bonfire in the snow, steamed mussels, fried chicken, a bunch of stir-crazy writers, and a football. Jonathan Richman singing through the trailer windows. Harry Belafonte. Mussel shells flew. Chicken bones flew. The football. A little dancing. Then, before the spring thaw, for one reason and another, four of the writers—three guys and a girl—taped together coffee cans, dusted off Dad's ukelele, Dad's guitar, resurrected a violin, and started a band. Time flew. The songs told stories: death, sex, food, love.