Discovery of the Week: The Beta Band | The Three EPs

Last Updated on January 1, 2026 by Christian Adams

Discovery of the Week is a weekly series that digs through a box of 40 well-traveled CDs I’ve carried across the ocean for nearly two decades. Each disc has its own history—where I found it, why I kept it, and what it means to me. Some are classics, others are obscure relics, but all survived the endless purges and border crossings that come with long-term expat life. Through these records, I’m tracing the soundtrack of a life spent in motion, and in a way, trying to explain how music, memory, and geography blur together when “home” is always somewhere else. The Three EPs by The Beta Band is one of the few records that survived thousands of miles and countless reinventions.

---

An Excerpt from a Work History

Way back in 2007, I managed a small Italian seafood bistro in Russian Hill (S.F.) for two mercifully brief months. Like many hipster eateries, we piped in our own music from a sound system controlled by a five-disc carousel in the back office. My predecessor had it stocked with lightweight techno and house music, which was probably the right soundtrack for the clientele. The bartenders and servers hated it, but the previous G.M. was strict about letting staff touch the sound system. The bistro’s owner, Ruggiero, also told me not to let the bartenders and servers touch the music. “That’s your domain,” he said. “You dictate the atmosphere.”

At this point in life, I was a full-blown vinyl enthusiast, so the only CDs in my collection were from my own indie rock bands (that didn’t sell and nobody wanted to hear anyway). Needing to get rid of the bullshit EDM at the bistro, I was immediately in a tough spot. I didn’t want to change things so drastically that people noticed, so I made a short list of chill records that sound good in the background. You know, stuff that doesn’t grab you by the throat. As much as I would have loved to play the Dead Kennedys every day, our customers weren’t going to vibe with hardcore punk while downing oysters on the half-shell.

Dictating the Atmosphere

On my first day as manager, I took $100 from petty cash, zipped down to Amoeba Records on Haight Street, and bought a short stack of CDs—maybe six albums—including The Three EPs by the Beta Band. The bartenders raved about my taste in music, especially the Beta Band record. I kinda polished my knuckles for a moment. But the truth is, I’d only heard the Beta Band record once at a party several years earlier. I thought it was a Beck Hansen bootleg. For whatever reason, its cool, trippy vibe stuck with me.

After a month of running the joint, I started getting fancy with the music, and by fancy, I mean playing more experimental art rock like Can, Deerhoof, Mr. Bungle, post-Pet Sounds Beach Boys (think: Sunflower (1970), and Roxy Music. Since it was coming out of my discretionary funds at the bistro, I’d hit Amoeba for another haul of used CDs once a week.

One night at closing, Ruggiero came into the bar with an investment partner, some hardcore Italian guy in a $5,000 suit. The staff cleared out, so I stuck around and poured drinks for the boss(es). Maybe an hour into it, I was having a glass of wine on the other side of the bar, “Come See the Duck” by Deerhoof wafted across the sound system. The investment guy called me over and asked, “Christian, what the fuck is this music?”

The Threat of Styx

At the end of my tenure (and rope) at the bistro, I had two Betty Davis records (They Say I’m Different (1974) and Nasty Gal (1975)) in the carousel with Captain Beefheart, the Beta Band, and a homemade collection of R.E.O. Speedwagon’s greatest hits. One of the female bartenders complained about the R.E.O. stuff, but I couldn’t have cared less. I told her, “One more word out of you and I’ll start playing Styx every day.” That shut her up.

An Amicable Parting of Ways

When it became clear that I wasn’t a good match for the Russian Hill crowd, Ruggiero and I amicably parted ways. One morning, we had a discussion at the bar, shook hands, and I left out the front door. The previous manager, Reza, returned to work as a stopgap until they found a new manager. About a week after I’d left, Reza called one morning and said, “Come get your stuff from the office.”

“What stuff?” I asked.
“Your music. The CDs,” Reza replied.
“Those aren’t mine. I bought them with petty cash. They belong to [the bistro].”
“Come get them, or I’m gonna throw them away.”

Currently unemployed, I trucked down to Russian Hill and scooped up the CDs, which also included records from Harry Nilsson, Shonen Knife, the Velvet Underground, Björk, David Bowie, Brian Eno, and Tangerine Dream, to name a few. Uninterested in the CD format by default, I put them in a box and forgot about them.

On paper and in theory, I should love the Beta Band, but it wasn’t a matter of connecting with their music, which I considered serviceable wallpaper. It was music for cleaning the bathroom or watering the plants. It was perfect for an Italian seafood bistro in Russian Hill. I don’t know where the band is from. Didn’t know the lyrics. I don’t know the names of most songs on the disc. I couldn’t care less about anything other than The Three EPs and the vibe it brings to the table.

---

One-Third of a World Away

A year later, I moved to Taiwan. For the first year and a half, I lived alone in a rooftop apartment on the far south side of Taipei City. Great apartment, terrible location. I didn’t spend a lot of time in the apartment for the first eight months or so. Eventually, the adrenaline ran out, and I spent more time at home. Between the time, expense, and effort of getting around town after midnight, I stopped going out. Instead, I loitered on the rooftop, drinking, smoking, writing, and listening to music.

During my first return trip to San Francisco in autumn 2008, I impulsively grabbed a stack of CDs from storage, including The Three EPs, and brought them back to Taipei. It was an absent-minded gesture. I got back to the rooftop and said, “Oh, the Beta Band. Cool.” I didn’t think much of it except, you know, “A ‘I haven’t heard this in a while‘ sort of thing.” Despite the abject failure of the bistro gig, there wasn’t any bad juju attached to the music. If anything, it reminded me of really good bad times.

It’s impossible to say how often The Three EPs was played in the background during that period (2008–2009). Call it “plenty.” I’d just put the CD in the player and go about my business, almost like working at the bistro.

Happy Anniversary

On the anniversary of my first year in Taipei, I was up on the rooftop, ruminating about one of the most difficult yet rewarding periods of my life. Almost out of habit, I put the Beta Band record on the stereo, and it played in the background while I smoked and drank myself into a stupor. Maybe an hour into the record (it’s a long one), a familiar sound emerged—a delicate yet emotive piano riff that evolved into a psychedelic dream sequence. (Again, I didn’t know the names of the songs.)

Suddenly, a cathartic flood of emotion washed over me, and I began to weep. It wasn’t sadness or loneliness. I felt some weird connection to the music and my experience. And I sat there and cried for what felt like an hour, but I’m pretty sure it was only a few minutes. When the tears stopped, I went to the CD player to find out what song was playing. It was “Dr. Baker.”

Lyrics

Dr. Baker phoned me in the morning
He left a note, he’s still yawning
Dr. Baker phoned me in the morning
He left a note, she couldn’t make it
How did she ever take a lesson outside his head?
Dr. Baker phoned me in the morning
He couldn’t understand, he was a busy man
Tried to reach him again, plead with him:
“Please come please come please come
Please come please come please come”
See me lost inside
You will see me lost how high
See me lost inside
You will see me lost how high
See me lost inside
You will see me lost how high
See me lost inside
You will see me lost how high
overandoverandover
hovering and hovering and hollering home

Dr. Baker phoned me again later that day
Said he cried and he really sounded out of it
His wife was dead and his dog was dead
And misery planned inside his head
I tried to reason with him, tried singing
He said: “No boy you’ll never listen”
Try it again
Try it again