And while some of that exchange survives here, what I came away from the conversation with was a fascination for, a confusion about, and a fear of the guy. The tape recorder exploded my hesitant entreaties and Rosenberg’s replies to a monstrous, grotesque volume, his bandmates snickering as their leader’s answers vacillated from measured to unhinged, sometimes in the space of several minutes the transmission frequently trembled, whinged by sharp bursts of static. It was April 2005, and I was holed up in the spare bedroom of a rented house in York, PA, repeatedly posing pre-prepared interview questions in order to be heard over the noise at the other end of the line. As his band traveled through a lightning storm somewhere in the American Midwest, Ariel “Pink” Rosenberg yelled at me over the telephone.
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