I was putting the last touches on a HalFlat project in January 1972 when the phone rang. I managed to extract myself and answer the phone before it stopped ringing. It was Simon, and as always, he came straight to the point.

"Mr. Seville has died."

I sat down heavily. Dave Seville was dead? That seemed impossible. He was only fifty-two. Simon and I agreed to take time off and head back to Los Angeles for a couple of days.

After I hung up the phone, I went digging through my record collection, pulled out an old 45 of "The Chipmunk Song (Christmas Don't Be Late)", and started playing the b-side "Almost Good". I tapped my paws on my knees in time to my tom tom playing, and let a few tears roll down my fuzzy cheeks. We hadn't always seen eye-to-eye, but Ross "David Seville" Badgasarian had taken a chance on us chipmunks, and it was due to him that we had had a professional music career at all.

We didn't get back to California in time for the funeral, but we went over to his house to pay our respects to Armen. She and Ross Jr were both there, and it was really good to see them again. I hadn't seen either of them in about a decade, when Ross was only about twelve years old. Now he was finishing up college and preparing to go to law school. He and Simon got into a discussion about about The Chipmunks brand, and they jokingly agreed that we four could split the rights to the "lucrative Chipmunks property" for any subsequent releases. "It was done in jest," admits Simon. "Neither of us believed that anything would ever result from it. But Ross and I maintained contact, and abided by that agreement from that day forward."

Not surprisingly, Armen and Ross asked about Alvin. Simon and I looked at each other, then we told them the truth - he had moved to Idaho, and we hadn't heard from him in about two years.

I got back to New York just in time to catch some more bad news. Rusty had an assistant down at the subway terminal, who had a similar sort of nickname - Sparky, or Squeaky, or something along those lines. I may not remember his name, but I definitely remember what happened to him. There was some sort of accident at the terminal, and a train ran him over, costing him a leg and a front paw. Rusty was really shaken up over it.

A couple of days later, Rusty told me he was trying to put together a fundraiser to help pay the poor guy's medical bills. Could that band I was in perform? I thought Plains Of Io might not be a great fit for a rodent fundraiser, but maybe Simon and I could play a few numbers as a duo. Rusty thought that'd be just fine, and mentioned that his assistant had a cousin who played soprano sax - maybe she could join us for a couple of numbers? I thought we could probably make that work, so I called up Simon to get him on board.

That weekend, Simon and I had the cousin meet us at POI's practice facility, since my drums were already set up there. She was a chipmunk named Eleanor, and quite a bit younger than I was expecting. She was a bit nervous, giggling at random times, and I originally thought that agreeing to play with her was going to be a mistake. But when we asked what songs we might try, she asked if we knew "Take Five". We gave it a quick run-through (with Simon playing the piano part on his organ), and she was actually pretty good. We decided to do that one and Miles Davis' "So What", and figured those two would make a nice closing for our set.

The fundraiser went really well. I donated a free kitchen remodel to the silent auction, and bought a lemon cake that Bernice had made. And in the late afternoon, Simon and I started our set. We made our way through much of our Nutty Squirrels repertoire, and I noted with some surprise that a few rodents in the crowd sang along with "Uh-Oh!" (Then again, who else but rodents would be most likely to remember that song a decade after it was a hit?) Afterwards, we brought Eleanor up to play our two songs. As we finished "So What", we got a nice round of applause, but Simon frowned a bit.

"It had not really occurred to me until right that moment," Simon recalls, "but 'So What' is a rather mellow piece. It was not an ideal selection to close a set, so I quickly began wracking my brain for one more song for us to perform."

He slung his guitar over his shoulder and quietly chatted with Eleanor. She looked confused but nodded. Then he walked back to me and grinned. "'Girl From Ipanema'. Surf tempo."

I grinned and slammed into my "Walk Don't Run" intro. The crowd sort of jumped in surprise at it, which was precisely what I was hoping would happen. Simon began playing the lick on his guitar, and then leaned in with his deranged vocal take. And Eleanor took the sax solo - nowhere near perfect, but with enough gusto to make up for a couple of flubbed notes. The song crashed to a close with a howl from Simon, a squealed note from Eleanor, and a massive drum fill from me.

If the crowd gave in cash what they gave in applause, they might have paid the hospital bill off that day.

Meanwhile, Simon and I continued on with Plains of Io. In some ways, the band was going fine. For instance, the other band members always encouraged me to try new things. So when we'd be working on a new song, instead of just playing the drums as usual, I might try hitting my stick against the hi hat stand, or tap my claws on the snare. I started tapping other things at home with my sticks, and occasionally bring some of them in to rehearsal - glass bottles, tin cans, you name it. Anton didn't always take my suggestions, but the band always seemed enthusiastic to try things out.

When I had to drive to other sections of New York for work, I would see if I could find a music store or an "ethnic shop" nearby, and look for unusual percussion instruments. At one shop, I bought an instrument called an afoxé - a small gourd with beads inside. The next rehearsal, I brought it in to use at the beginning of a song, and everybody agreed that it was exactly what the song needed.

One day at rehearsal, out of nowhere, Anton announced that he was changing the name of the band. He had heard a few people incorrectly say the band name as "Plains of Ten", because "Io" kind of looked like the number ten on posters and blackboards. So Anton made the decision to rename the band - we would now be Moons of Jupiter. That kind of made sense, but it was a bit strange to just have that told to us, without any discussion with the other band members. "That was Anton, though," admits Kenny. "It sounds dictator-like, but that wasn't really his way. He was actually just completely unaware. It simply would never have occurred to him to ask us what we thought."

At that same rehearsal, Anton told us we were going to be dropping "I've Seen All Good People" from our sets, effective immediately. I asked him why, and his reasoning was a bit convoluted. He said that the audience would never respect the band as long as "we had to rely on cover versions".

"That was his excuse, but it most certainly was not the reason," Simon counters. "The best response we ever received at any given Plains Of Io concert was for 'All Good People'. I firmly believe that Anton took that personally, since that was the one song we performed that he did not write. He no doubt decided to eliminate the song from the set to keep the spotlight firmly on his own compositions."

Anton did keep bringing us new material, although getting the songs ready for the stage wasn't always easy. Kenny says, "Anton was what you might call an 'idea guy'. He had tons of ideas and concepts, but he wasn't always great at fleshing them out, or even at explaining the ideas to us so we could try to translate them into songs."

When we'd be working on new material, Anton would sometimes give us some rather vague suggestions, most of which ended with "you know." I learned to hate hearing those two words from him, as it almost certainly meant that I would end up trying to guess what it was he was trying to do. For instance, once while working on a new number, he suggested that I open the song by playing the beat "mysteriously".

"Mysteriously," I echoed.

"Yeah, so kind of bring us in, lead us into it, mysteriously. You know."

"...so, quietly? A slow build?"

"No, no, no. Like, set the mood. All mysterious-like. You know."

I usually just asked him to slap the beat on a table with his hands. Then I'd at least have an inkling of what he was trying to do. ("Mysteriously" apparently means at 96 beats per minute. Now you know.)

One thing Anton was always working on was expanding "The Last Rays of a Dying Sun". Around the time we changed the band name, the song was almost ten minutes long, and the song kept on growing from there. Both Simon and I were pretty sure that his hope was to eventually expand it until it occupied the entirety of our live show. "It is not as if the idea itself were ridiculous," points out Simon. "There are some excellent album-length rock compositions. Where Anton erred was in extending a song without significantly adding anything of worth to it. In fact, the lengthier it became, the more diluted it became. It originally bore a modestly catchy motif, but he replaced it with something of a dirge-like pattern that did not hold up to repetition. I began to notice that when we performed it, audience members would begin to check their watches, and to wander off to the bar as the piece droned on."

It was a few months later that things got a bit insane. We were going through "Dying Sun" yet again during rehearsal, and Anton was trying to make the climax near the end sound more "climax-y" (his word). After we tried a few things, Anton looked back at me and said, "You know what this song needs? A gong."

I looked back at him like he'd lost his mind. "A gong?!"

"Yeah! A gong, right there. Pow."

"Anton, I don't own a gong."

"Can you get one? I think this song really needs one."

"No! I'm not gonna shell out for a gong, and try to load it into my pickup truck every time we have a gig. Especially if I'm going to hit it exactly one time per night."

Anton wouldn't let it go, though. He never got angry - that wasn't really his way - but he kept bringing it up. It seemed like nearly every rehearsal or gig after that, he'd have to make a comment about it. "You know, this song could really use a gong right there." I usually just rolled my eyes when he mentioned it, but one night, Simon lost his patience. He put his bass to his back, and stomped over to Anton.

"If you feel this song of yours can only be salvaged by the addition of a gong, I would recommend that YOU purchase the gong..." Simon jabbed his finger up at Anton's chest. "...and YOU take responsibility for getting it to gigs. And if you decline to do so, then perhaps the addition of a gong to your magnum opus is not so vital after all. In which case, I would kindly request that you stop pestering my brother about it."

"I'd never seen Simon flip out before," says Kenny. "That was intense. And kind of cool, to be honest."

Simon still gets a bit angry about the whole thing four decades later. "I believe you will confirm that I have a fairly even temperament, and I do not often lose my composure. But Anton's continual haranguing on this point was unbearably petty. Truthfully, I did not even speak up for your sake, brother. It was simply because I could not abide hearing him mention the subject again."

"And you and Simon were right," adds Kenny. "Whatever the song needed, it wasn't a gong."

Our tenure in POI/MOJ continued on its wobbly path until the summer of 1974. We were booked to play an all-day Saturday festival, with bands playing at several art galleries. Moons of Jupiter was booked to play relatively early in the day, in one of the larger galleries. I don't remember which musician taught me "some gigs you slay, and other gigs you simply survive". Whoever it was, this art festival gig was definitely from the second category. The few people who wandered into the gallery while we were playing would listen to us for a bit, glance at the art, and then leave. Not a single "fan" showed up.

Simon remembers, "That festival performance emphasized that something was fundamentally wrong with the band. And from my vantage point, the problem was obvious. To borrow a vulgar phrase, Anton had gradually disappeared up his own backside over the past few years. The band's performances were now full of vague and overblown concepts, but low on hooks, melodies, and actual songs. The band did adequately when opening for other like-minded acts, as people might passively appreciate the ideas behind the performances. But the band was unable to stand on its own. Even after a few years of performing to crowds every month, the band still had not garnered any actual fans."

Given that, it wasn't too surprising when I got call from Anton a few days later saying he was breaking up the group. I was a bit disappointed, but mainly I was relieved. Playing with Anton had become more like a chore than an enjoyable hobby. I told Anton I understood, thanked him for the opportunity, and wished him well on whatever he did next.

I did want to make sure that I stayed friends with Kenny, so I invited him to meet me for drinks at The Dirty Rat the next evening. (I invited Simon, as well, but he was busy that night.) We sat at the corner of the bar, so I could sit at a rodent seat and he could have a human-sized one. We split a rodent shot - his first - after which Kenny said, "Sorry about...well, everything. You know how Anton is."

I shrugged. "Well, after that last gig, I can imagine he was ready to try something else."

"Yeah, but it wasn't anything you guys did."

Confused, I repeated, "...anything we guys did...what do you mean?"

"You and Thomas. It wasn't your fault that we're not doing well."

"...I never said it was. Is that why Anton said he was scuttling the band?"

Now it was Kenny's turn to look confused, although that look almost immediately switched to anger. "Scuttling the band? Is that what he told you? That son of a bitch..."

"What? What's going on?"

"TD, Anton didn't break up the band. He just kicked you two out. He's auditioning new bassists and drummers this week."

"What?! But why?"

Kenny looked pained as he said, "Because...well, because nobody's coming to our gigs, and he's gotta have something to blame that on, right?"

I growled, "So...what? He thinks nobody's coming because he's got two chipmunks in the band?"

Kenny sighed and said, "No, I don't really think he thinks that. But that IS what he said. 'Nobody's taking us seriously' is what he told us."

"That's because he's up there jerking off for half an hour!"

"TD, you don't have to tell me that - I've been right there with you." He ordered another shot, then turned back to me. "Look, as far as I'm concerned, he did you a favor. You're free. You don't have to deal with him anymore. Hell, now I'm starting to think it's time I quit the band myself." He grinned. "You and Simon are too good to be stuck playing with him. Go find another band."

That night in bed, I remembered what Harry had told me over a decade ago. "Play for fun, play for cash, and in rare cases, play for exposure. Otherwise, don't play." Well, I certainly hadn't been getting much of the last two with Anton, and the first had been diminishing for some time. My main enjoyment had been coming from playing with Simon. So yeah - maybe Anton firing us was a blessing in disguise. But was there another band for us to join?

As it turned out, there was. Our longest-lasting project, born out of the biggest screw-up of my life.