Monologue

I don’t know for sure why I love playing live. The sudden urge to go to the bathroom was always a constant, it never really ever subsided until we floored into our groove. The rush was never what people say it is. The adrenaline never slaps you in the face. Only idiots say that music invigorates before its cathartic to us musicians. When we played every night was a fight to express the same solid emotion. Every night was the attempt to create a connection to us as a group, and if you’re lucky then you’ll make a deep and lovely connection to what we make. The jumping around, flinging of instruments, frenzied dance of musicians at work, attacking the strings and drums like we’re arguing passionately for something very personal, that is what a real concert is like, pure energy.

It’s something that can’t be justified rationally, the bad food, bad drinks, and bad sleep because of the constant driving. After awhile you become a driving zombie because you’ve been on the road for four hours in traffic moving at the slowest pace in the world, and it’s been more than three hours since your fourth coffee, no bathroom in sight. Cities like Philadelphia become second homes. Queens and The Bronx becomes your backyard because you’ve lost your way driving that many times over there. The gear takes a beating or two, you lose track of the number of scratches on the head plate of your amp. You end up with guitar and keyboard cables that aren’t yours and a laptop switch because two bands use the same model. I could never leave it; neither could any other real musician because past all the nonsense, it is an awesome experience, sometimes with great crowds and new family.