Van's the train conductor of rock, always showing up to remind us we've not nearly paid enough to be on this ride. Also would soon morph into (briefly) the Marcel Proust of guitar strummers. All of which raises the question if Proust had been a train conductor instead of a hypochondriac, would he have found the lost time between Brussels North and Central Station?
Here he's on the cusp and what a messy, thrilling place to be. Between 'Brown eyed girl' and 'T.B. sheets'.
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