Waiting up for the blood moon with After Bathing At Baxter’s. The moon is a sliver of white against deep, dark orange, won’t you try, won’t you try, won’t you try. Spencer Dryden laying down a dirge. Blood moon. Six or seven minutes of moonlessness and feedback hum, then on comes the light, the morning, and Saturday afternoon. Won’t you try, the band keens again, won’t you try, won’t you try, won’t you try. The birds come back to life, the silence vanishes, and the moon fades with the dawn.