This is a story about the Stooges. I’ve taken some time to check it out and it seems that there’s really only one way to start it:

*0*N*C*E U*P*0*N *A* T*I*M*E* in the big bad city of Detroit, occasionally oozing over into Ann Arbor and other places familiar only to the transplanted hillbillies, college kids and transient factory workers who live there, there was a Blues Band called the Prime Movers.

Now the Prime Movers were not your ordinary, run-of-the-mill Rock and Roll Band; no, no, they were far above and beyond that, they would only play the real, true, Blackaspossible Chicago Blues. And they were pretty good at it, too. They had all the Muddy Waters albums and all the Paul Butterfield records and all the Howlin’ Wolf and Siegel-Schwall records and between this and that and a whole lot of beer, the band got on quite fine, thank you.

At the time that our story begins, the Movers (as they were known to the in-group blues crew who were their fans, groupies and general admirers) needed a drummer.