I’m writing this in the Qantas business lounge in Melbourne, downing flat whites (lattés, basically) like there’s no tomorrow, but very much hoping there is on account of my continuing to celebrate never having had a real job by way of a weekend in New South Wales wine country with my cousin and her endearingly Scottish husband. It’s early, and I’m tired to the point of espousing reptilian overlord conspiracy theories.
Playing a sold out show a 30 hour travel day away from your favorite Waffle House is a special thing and, as I alluded to yesterday, we needed it. Record company delays and head scratching attempts to “move the needle” frustrate any band, but especially one that’s made its bones, and makes its living, playing live - no shows equals grumpy comrades-in-arms, and we were all starting to fold in on ourselves.
We’re delicate flowers, us artsy-fartsy types, and as I’m caffeinating myself into unrecognizability, surrounded by movers and shakers in the Australian business world, one of whom’s afflicted with inspiringly catastrophic flatulence, I’m grateful to be hanging out for the rest of 2018 with the bing-bongs below.