I’m luxuriating on the steps outside of Emo’s in Austin TX, soaking up some Vitamin D on a gorgeous day.
A few years ago, when I realized it was time for a new chapter, I seriously considered Austin, so much so that I impulsively began heading south just outside of Omaha for a couple hundred miles before redirecting towards Music City. At any rate, I love it here - the food, climate, live music, even the world’s most physically fit sociopath, Lance Armstrong. And sweet merciful god, several palettes of Yerba Matte just arrived, which coupled with the recently gifted espresso machine should keep our bus lively with maniacal bursts of quasi afflatus. Afflatus, incidentally, is a fantastic word, meaning divine inspiration but sounding like a calamitous post-burrito incident. You’re welcome.
Anyway, I’m in a good mood today. I’m adjusting to the noon-3am schedule, figuring out where to fit in workouts, meditation, and writing time (just before soundcheck, typically), and generally dialing back ambition in favor of self-care. It’s at right around this point - two weeks into the tour - where you start drinking a little less, sleeping a little more, and understanding that, holy shit, there’re like forty more shows left and, unless I want to end up a raving lunatic, best to slow things down.