Ass Berry

I’m writing this is Asbury Park NJ, pronounced az-bury and not ass-berry, as I was brusquely informed by a heavily tattooed barista this morning. We’re playing a sold out show tonight at the House of Indepedents, basically a show for NYC fans who weren’t able to get into Brooklyn Steel, and it’s a treat getting away from the hustle and bustle, walking along an actual beach, and allowing myself to fall into a gentle trance as waves break against the outcrop of barnacle encrusted rocks on which I’m sitting. 

My amp started blowing fuses right before our NYC show, and while I think we’ve fixed the issue, I can’t help but feel nervous, what with my being technologically well-intentioned but, ultimately, a complete waste of space. But years of touring have taught me never to panic, and worst case scenario I can always hop off stage and start a conga line, which would be more impactful than any guitar solo I might play, anyway.

And now I’m thinking about how the town of ass-berry is a sorta Brigadoon type situation, appearing once every 100 years, where avuncular men in top hats reach betwixt their cheeks and produce tiny, gem-like fruits, on offer only to their presumptive betrothed. 

And now I’m thinking about how this has gone off the rails and I’m thoroughly wasting your time. I should really get ready for the show.