On a spring day in the late ‘80s, I took a rowboat out to Esopus Island with Mark Marinoff, Phil Farber and some other friends. After exploring the rocky little island – a footnote in occult history – we ate some of Phil’s excellent chili and listened to Philip Glass on a boom-box out on the rocks. There was no clock, and it went tock-tick. In those days, I carried a rehearsed opinion of Philip Glass with me at all times. This looked like a good time to launch it, apropos of something: “Man, if music is going to be this repetitive, and furthermore, this repetitive, it should at least groove,” I said, as the glinting surface of the southbound Hudson appeared to ripple north.