I was just doing what felt good, if that was a sin, then sin on!

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I loved to watch Don Wilkerson attack Fathead on the stand. It brought out the best in both cats. When someone tries to stomp on you, naturally you’re going to respond. And together—blowing out in front of the band—they’d be burning up the place. I like to think I’m a half-ass composer. I ain’t no Duke Ellington. I heard what West Coast cats were doing, and it was good music. But my heart was really with the East Coast dudes. They were harder cats and had a grittier sound. There was more blues in their playing, the approach was tougher. I still hear something different about the way the cats play back East. They’re pushier, more aggressive. They got a certain stink that the guys in L.A. lack. I miss the filth—the East Coast filth—that you hear on the streets and in the recording studios of New York City. When I do a song, I must be able to make it stink in my own way; I want to foul it up so it reeks of my manure and no one else’s.