Having half-heartedly sworn to never play in front of real people, here in August 2023, the band’s 29th year/day of existence, there occurs a transmogrification - a metamorphosis that took almost three decades of cocooning. Their minivan makes an unassuming arrival into town. They slink into the regal Covington, KY Carnegie gallery and slip their equipment behind the two-story circle of black velvet curtain. Didactic exhibition labels are hung, and museumgoers see feet and ankles among the cables and effects pedals on the floor inside the display.

The band itself, and its annual twenty-four-hour ritual of conceiving, writing, playing, and recording an album, is the exhibit!

Slip some lyrics to us, audience of wine drunk theatergoers, and we’ll ignore them because they’re bad. Hey docent, what do you think of this performance, this art, this happening? "I don’t know. Sounds like music I guess." But the art, the river, the bumper stickers, the spiral cut hams of Covington and Cincinnati inspire us, and we wax idiotic about hobos, robots, galactic sleazeballs, and money. We have evolved.