Mookerjee was in a band called Bleak House, playing a bleak kind of guitar pop in a bleak part of the world – rural Pennsylvania. He was idealistic, or stupid. He moved with his band to work on his “chops,” because Dylan and the band had recorded the Basement Tapes in an abandoned house in Woodstock, NY. He’d heard that Kutztown, Pennsylvania was an artistic mecca, which it did NOT turn out to be. His girlfriend was the bassist, but she left him for a guy who was visiting their rented house in the middle of nowhere. He kept the band together and played jangly-guitar pop to country western fans who did NOT want to hear “alternative” music. As Morrissey said, “I can laugh about it now, but at the time it was terrible.”

The band broke up, the singer-songwriter got a job. But he kept recording, and has recorded at least enough material for several albums. He released only the older material. Instead of struggling to break out of obscurity, he cherishes his obscurity. “My music,” Mookerjee writes, “doesn’t come from the streets. It comes from an ISP address in one of the biggest cities in the world, an anonymous voice from an urban unit. But it's a real voice, warts and all.” He doesn’t want a big break or a big studio production; that would spoil everything. “I never want to write those songs about how nobody understands me because I’m famous. My songs are about pain, the pain of real life. And I'm not to share that life with strangers - except through the songs.”