The clambake got out of hand. None of us had ever done one, but Peaches had read a magazine article. Layers of hot burning coals, layers of seaweed, layers of wet sand. Let it steam until the clams pop open. It would be just like making popcorn. While we waited, we passed around a jug of cheap wine and other things, and a band of strangers played. At first, it just sounded like muddy punk rock, but as the hours passed and the wine grew stronger, the music got clearer. The In Out, they called themselves, but Peaches said there wasn't such a band, that they were just a fictional device to explain clambakes. Philips said they sounded like Railroad Jerk, only darker and less Stonesy, and Peaches said something about the Fall. But what does Peaches know? Certainly nothing about clambakes.

We called out for surf music, but instead of rolling guitar waves swirling across a sonic sea, the sound took on a Middle Eastern flavor. It was as if the In Out, exhausted by hours and nights of constant playing, couldn't make those tight shapes anymore, and the waves broke up into triangular spirals as dissonant washes of feedback and keyboard noises flew by like black seagulls.

The seaweed/sand/clam pile we'd made burst into fire and we ran to the sea, but we became disoriented and couldn't find the water. There was nothing but sand, so we got in a van driving south, and the In Out played on the tape deck. The tune was called "Caravan," and for the first time, singer Todd Nudelman's lyrics were discernable. He sang about heading south in a van "filled with toxic fumes and bad vibrations" and being "on the run from something, from something" with a snaky guitar line and an ominous Bo Diddley breakdown. "This is the best song on the album," said O'Donahue, "but they probably didn't need to do it twice, and the second time it doesn't have quite the impact, saxophone or no." Peaches told O'Donahue he was just awkwardly inserting criticism and that we needed to get back to the clambake.

As drum rolls collided with screechy keyboards and chugging, building guitars, the van overheated, so we abandoned it and wandered to a tent where an Arabian-looking gentleman tended his camel.

"Are we in the Middle East?" asked Phillips.

"No, This is 'A Living Memorial in Deutschland,'" said the Arab, "the title track, though only on the insert. On the case it's just called 'Deutschland.'"

"Whatever it is," said Peaches, "I can't make heads or tails of it. Seems more Arabian or punk rock, and it's a little long."

"However, it maintains the driving insistence that keeps the album compelling, if not drastically varied," said O'Donahue.

The Arab gave us some water from his wineskin, but it tasted like more wine, and we started running blindly into the night. Over the dunes we heard the In Out playing "My Solution," a tried groove that sank in deep. Nudelman claimed his solution to everything was a series of words and phrases that rhymed with glasses, including "Poisonous Molasses/ When consciousness elapses/ My solution to everything is to wait until it passes."

"This is the best song on the album," said O'Donahue. "It reminds me of that 'Hot Topic' tune by Le Tigre."

"They're both ripping off something older, but yeah, it's a fine track," agreed Peaches.

As we came over the dune, the band was actually accomplishing surf music a little more conventionally, with some pleasingly simple overlapping guitar lines. "Synth Corps" was the tune. Suddenly we could find the water. We dove in splashing wildly. The cold ocean sobered us a bit and the music again seemed muddy, especially "X in Its Place" and "Service Industry Job," but we couldn't begrudge the band that too much. When we came out of the water, the clams were ready.

-Dan Kilian