The seventies were a time of music that rocked the nation, music that was both sensual and rock and roll. And at the height of that sensual rock and roll, was Marcus Finn and his band, Atlas.

His voice was rough, sexual, and his moves drove women insane. At only twenty three, he was the most famous man in America, perhaps even the world. He was built like a Greek god, blonde hair and chiseled bones. Hollywood had gone insane at the sight of him, practically drooling at the money they knew he would make them. He had made them.

It was a lifeless sort of life, or a life too lived, too full. Too much. Too much sex, too many drugs. The only good thing was the rock and roll. The only thing that kept Marcus alive and doing it, was the music. He had been singing sings he could speak, making music with surfaces and shoebox and strings guitars. It was his soul, his bones.

And sometimes, when he wanted a moment to really remember the music, he went to a small town barn on a random night, barely disguised but hidden enough, sat and corner and listened to the live music.