The finest moment in the Meat Puppets'—hell, maybe the entire Amerindie—catalog comes 1:41 into 1984's "Plateau," when stoned space-case Curt Kirkwood's nimble acoustic finger-picking and melancholy mumblings concerning buckets, birds, and talk-show hosts slams headfirst into a Technicolor burst of shimmering acid-guitar chords, launching the tune out of the Arizona (Mexico? Greenland?) foothills and straight into the stratosphere. There's nothing quite so... More >>>