Around them, a bandmate showed apathy and another was so out of it he didnt know which song he was playing. Chris Robinson sits perched on an uncomfortable backstage sofa, nudging sundried tomatoes from his salad. This is theoretically possible, but if so it hasn't been by eating the way he's doing now.
Artichokes are apparantly good.
Pasta squiggles seem acceptable. Trendy tomatos get vetoed. Dinner menues not withstanding, it seems lika a good-time to be in the Black Crowes. Robinson's geared up to hit the boards, and the energy sparkles like the rhinestones on his shirt. His brother Rich can be heard soundchecking his guitar through the flimsy door of the caravan.