Yesterday's honky-tonk hero, Bad Blake, arrives at a Clovis, New Mexico, bowling alley. It's another in a string of low-paying, low-turnout gigs with pickup bands half his age, grinding the Greatest Hits out of an old Fender Tremolux, including his breakout—with the chorus, "Funny how falling feels like flying . . . for a little while." Bad's not flying these days; he's dying slowly on a bourbon diet, holed up in motels watching... More >>>