So here I am, Spring of ’64, sitting in the ol’ Purple Onion (in Northern England), a coffeehouse; I’ve got two cigarettes and it’s a nine mile walk home.

The door opens and conversation drifts quieter as everyone turns to see if it’s a “regular” who might have money. No-it’s some dumbo in a buckskin jacket, thinner’n’hell, with red velvet pants. He carries a guitar case, which means nothing ’cos most people in the “Purp” have guitars. He gets a coffee, and sits over by the staircase where the heater is-taking care to put the “box” where the heat won’t bend the strings out of tune. He doesn’t say anything to anyone-no one says anything to him. Alan, after a while, turns around and says “Can I try your box?” “Yes-alright”, replies the stranger in an accent that .says he’s from Southern England, of fairly secure financial status, and very polite.