After two days even a shoe starts to feel like home. I don't think I'd yet relinquished the wheel to anyone in my dramatic paranoia of minivan collapse and our subsequent arrests and jailing. Onto Asheville and into the legend that pours forth from the belly of that small city. From what I've heard, art grows on trees here and all along the banks of the sweet whisky river fiddlers and banjo players from high up in the Smokey Mountains sit and sing songs with drunken fish. We're anticipating mecca.
Abi's been here before, at a music camp just outside of town, and knows the ropes. An old friend of hers has set us up opening for his band Sirius B at a bar. The details are fuzzy, are we playing outside then? The sky is like a diamond today and we pull into a dirt parking lot where a lone man unloads a keg from the back of a pickup. Is this the place? And we go around back and, holy shit there's a river, train tracks, a grassy field, and so many local microbrews. Crawford Crews emerges from the bush with his dashing good looks and blue hawaiian with the offer to stay the night in his apartment. We realize the bar is a foodless establishment and are put in the decidedly disconcerting spot of ordering delicious delivery to our picnic blanket laid out in the back.
We meet the band, Pancho is like a tooth pulled from Eugene Hutz, everyone is glowing and friends before we meet. The crowd is surprisingly large but doesn't seem so as they are spread out across the acre or so of picnic tables and lawn chairs. I break two strings during the set, something which starts to happen nightly from this show onward. There a wily blood in the air here and dancing is mandatory, the sun is setting as we finish our set. Sirius B plays out the rest of the night, I mean hours and hours of tunes, everyone is mystic and moved some way or other. Torches in the lawn, the riverrun, the melted companionship of ages gathered out on the dewy grass. Or doesn't believe that things like this happen. We stand by the river and discuss for the first time if this tour was a wise idea. Of course it was, if for no other reason than standing by that river, discussing whether we should be there. Barry's deep in philosophy talks and history rehashing with Crawford. Fernelly's giggling with his shirt off. Abi's dancing with a young granola girl. It's a very thick and sweet evening.
We head back to Crawford's and take up residence on his couch and floor, watching a Snoop Dogg movie that never ends until we one by one wink out and say goodnight.
Abi's been here before, at a music camp just outside of town, and knows the ropes. An old friend of hers has set us up opening for his band Sirius B at a bar. The details are fuzzy, are we playing outside then? The sky is like a diamond today and we pull into a dirt parking lot where a lone man unloads a keg from the back of a pickup. Is this the place? And we go around back and, holy shit there's a river, train tracks, a grassy field, and so many local microbrews. Crawford Crews emerges from the bush with his dashing good looks and blue hawaiian with the offer to stay the night in his apartment. We realize the bar is a foodless establishment and are put in the decidedly disconcerting spot of ordering delicious delivery to our picnic blanket laid out in the back.
We meet the band, Pancho is like a tooth pulled from Eugene Hutz, everyone is glowing and friends before we meet. The crowd is surprisingly large but doesn't seem so as they are spread out across the acre or so of picnic tables and lawn chairs. I break two strings during the set, something which starts to happen nightly from this show onward. There a wily blood in the air here and dancing is mandatory, the sun is setting as we finish our set. Sirius B plays out the rest of the night, I mean hours and hours of tunes, everyone is mystic and moved some way or other. Torches in the lawn, the riverrun, the melted companionship of ages gathered out on the dewy grass. Or doesn't believe that things like this happen. We stand by the river and discuss for the first time if this tour was a wise idea. Of course it was, if for no other reason than standing by that river, discussing whether we should be there. Barry's deep in philosophy talks and history rehashing with Crawford. Fernelly's giggling with his shirt off. Abi's dancing with a young granola girl. It's a very thick and sweet evening.
We head back to Crawford's and take up residence on his couch and floor, watching a Snoop Dogg movie that never ends until we one by one wink out and say goodnight.
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