We’re sitting in a mud hut no bigger than a moderate “master bedroom” of America, packed with more than 30 people. I lean forward, raising my elbows slightly and hoping some airflow might reach my armpits. It must be 110 degrees in here.

[BY DAN HASELTINE]

I believe it was winter 1994. I remember having just put the finishing touches on our first record. We sat around a small table in a local coffee shop as if we had just fought a great battle that we weren’t sure we had won. We were tired, angry and a bit shell shocked. Few words were spoken between the four of us—outside the vow to never take on the bitter task again of self-producing a record. Read More