If it weren’t for the southern drawl and proliferation of establishments advertising Tennessee whiskey, you’d think we were in Vermont rather that Knoxville - the trees are a tapestry of autumnal hues, flannel’s loudly advertised in every window, and even the fried chicken biscuits are doused in maple syrup.
I haven’t been walking much on this tour and want to take advantage before the scenery transitions from deciduous trees to concrete jungle, so I wake up early and head off site, letting my mind wander to a conversation I had with a fan a few weeks ago - she met her husband at one of our shows in 2012, and since then they’ve seen the band a bunch of times all over the country. Most of their wedding party was made up of friends they met at Al Stone concerts, and if it’s not too much trouble would I mind telling the rest of the guys how much the music means not only to her and her husband, but also to the most important people in their lives. And she also likes the new bobbleheads.
Now, that’s a lot to lay on a guy in slippers and sweatpants, on his way to another night being jostled to sleep in a coffin sized bunk, but it was of course amazing to hear. What we do as musicians, and indeed as generally righteous humans, radiates out far beyond what we imagine, and I’m grateful for the perspective.