Tiny-Balled Fire and Fury

I’m writing this poolside at the opulent Sutton Hotel in downtown Vancouver BC. As touring musicians, we’re conditioned to think a can of Beefaroni in a van with functional-yet-moldy AC’s the height of luxury, so frequenting spots where a quinoa salad’s thirty bucks feels pleasantly unsettling. I’m grateful my misspent youth’s equipped me with fingers dextrous enough to make a day job as yet unexplored. 

Our production manager, Tim Burke, is berobed, wearing sunglasses indoors, and insinuating he might embarrass me at the ping-pong table. He’s new to the team and doesn’t know, and it brings me great joy knowing that, soon, he will know, and I hope his thorough ass whooping won’t result in only kick drum in my mix. Worth the risk, that I might reign down tiny-balled fire and fury. By the time you read this, Tim, you’ll have recovered from being reduced to a quivering heap of false bravado, and we’ll be sharing beers as comrades again. Thank you - my ear mix is perfect.

Traveling with this crew’s special. Looking forward to doing a lot more of it in the coming months.