The last time I saw Phil Alvin was eight or nine years ago. He was sitting on the curb beside his grime-covered tour van in the alley behind the Fabulous Satellite Lounge. It was a chilly night, but Alvin sat slump-shouldered at the curb in his sweat-soaked shirt, staring off like a man who had just finished a marathon or been under artillery fire for weeks. Winded. The thousand-yard stare. On a double bill with the Beat Farmers, he'd just finished a two-hour set of paint-peeling rock and roll so tick-tock tight you couldn't wedge a hacksaw blade... More >>>