But listening to their musical legacy, one can't help but wonder who they really were, and why their powerful frontman, when poised on the brink of stardom, allowed his demons to consume him, once and for all. The door is answered by three Rottweilers and Wilson's grinning roommate, Jerry Jefferies, who ushers me into a room redolent with the smell of pot and dog. Jefferies plops into a chair and starts rolling a massive joint. The smell of burning bud seems to serve as some kind of silent alarm and the room starts to fill up with the other occupants of the house, as well as several guests who walk in through the front door unannounced. More potent herb is produced, further joints are rolled and then a couple of six-packs appear along with a big box of doughnuts.
Breakfast is served.
Last to enter the room is Eric Wilson. I'm a little hazy on dates and stuff like that. A lot of times I don't even know what day it is. His friends, half shrouded by prodigious clouds of smoke, promise to help fill in the gaps. Thus assured, Wilson relaxes, and begins to relate the litany of bands which eventually led him to hook up with Newell in Sloppy Seconds, sometime around 1984.