One of the first musical scenes that I felt belonged only to me—as a high school student growing up in a Philadelphia suburb in the early 80s—was the Paisley Underground, a silly neo-psychedelic community in Los Angeles. It didn't matter that I didn't know much about the original wave of 60s psych-rock (my family had a copy of Incense and Peppermints by the absurd psychedelic cash-in band Strawberry Alarm Clock)—this was something that my classmates knew nothing about.

 Eventually I started listening to the original stuff, but before that happened I tracked down records by the Long Ryders, Green on Red, Rain Parade, the Dream Syndicate, the Bangles, and the Three O'Clock.

I owned a single vintage paisley shirt, and I proudly wore it when I went to a concert in Philadelphia to catch LA's the Three O'Clock one night in 1983, where audience members were given a small paper cup containing a single sugar cube.

The whole evening was mocked by the triple bill's first act, Boston's Del Fuegos, who were still a few years from morphing into a band writing soundtracks to beer commercials. The Three O'Clock were the wimpiest and most fashion-oriented members of the Paisley Underground, and within a couple of years they became one of the first rock bands signed to Prince's Paisley Park label, but pop crossover ambitions had already neutered them beyond the pale.

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