“I look like Leon Spinks, and now I don’t even have a car!” The truck driver took the dazed Lewises to the nearest hospital, where they received a clean bill of health. “I’m never going to get any pussy now!” he exclaimed. Regarding the accordioned automobile, Pierre reacted practically. Pierre-Andre’s elder by a year and change-discovered he’d lost a tooth in the brotherly altercation. In minutes, a trucker pulled up to survey the wreckage. The sedan upended and landed right-side-up against a fence.
A few hours in, Pierre snapped awake to find his brother snoring at the wheel as their green 1975 Buick Century veered off paved road, plowing through upright stakes in the thoroughfare. Road visibility went south quickly, but the risk of getting rear-ended was scarier to the faded Lewis brothers, who pressed on through aggressive snowfall. Older and more sober, Wilson informed his organist and bassist that the Morris Wilson quartet would be exiting the rambunctious affair immediately, to begin a four-hour caravan back to the Twin Cities through the teeth of an oncoming blizzard. Just hours prior, they’d been smoking and snorting their way around an afterparty for a 1978 gig they’d just completed with Twin Cities saxophonist and musical activist Morris Wilson. Paul, Minneapolis, Pierre and Andre Lewis did what any brothers would’ve done after a near-death experience-they fought each other.
After flipping their car on a snowy stretch of road between Fargo, North Dakota, and their hometown of St.
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