I’m writing this from the green room at the Knitting Factory in Spokane, WA. We’ve been through this room a bunch of times, and it’s awesome working with the same high-functioning, curmudgeonly house crew.
Referring to Nick Waterhouse’s drummer’s singing, an unnamed house guy, in between sloppy bites of Taco Bell, mutters, “Jesus Christ, we’ve got a fucking Don Henley here.” Setting up one additional vocal mic takes about 30 seconds, and that it’s a faux-imposition makes me smile, as does besmirching the name of someone so famously cantankerous.
And they crush their work, albeit amid a symphony of beltches, farts, and hopefully inaccurate assessments of their mothers - an alarmingly profane yet well-oiled machine.
I love that this business provides a home for infinitely capable bastards.