It’s a miserable day in Oakland. The northern Californian skies are 50 shades of shitty and the rain is lashing down, leaving puddles so deep the hipsters are probably wearing waders. You don’t want to be outside on a day like today. The only sensible thing to do in this sort of environment is stay in, get stoned and maybe form a punk band. Welcome to paradise.
Inside an anonymous building on a quiet back street there’s a rehearsal room belonging to three 47-year-old guys who did just that something like a lifetime ago.