Being on the road with music is all about radius.
The bus parked next to your center of gravity, the venue, and the only question is, “How far away am I willing or able to venture in my time off?”
every club is different, yet more of the same.
After finishing a morning sound-check, the Google Search commences. Like a coin in a Vegas slot machine, my winnings flood an iPhone screen. Red pins pointing me in the direction of the nearest Edison-bulb illuminated third-wave coffee shop.
As I headed out the back of the club, passing through the alley way VIP location reserved exclusively for stage hand smoke-breaks and the occasional mattress left by last night’s ‘urban camper’, a pile of trash made up of discarded amp tubes, drum heads and guitar strings caught my eye.
Physical manifestations of hours spent in the deep caverns of gear forums researching the key to magically unlocking the eluding temptress of perfect tone.
Now, worthless debris.
Like a paper cup that held yesterday’s americano,
An empty shell once holding value worth searching for.