2005 tour journal -
What a strange way to make a living. We're compensated as much for our patience as our performance, and we live in a culture of diversion: can you avoid talking obsessively about how you sat uncomfortably between smelly bandmates in a small van for five hours, crawling across an unchanging Australian countryside? Whatever is fresh and exciting about a new place is often stripped away once one's ass begins to ache. Or go numb.
The digital age could mean the end of live music as corporal community activity. How many of us will never leave our homes - how many will become even more uncomfortable with actual social interaction and ritual? We in this van are fiercely addicted to the ritual of the show: a specific moment within a specific interaction. It's the fruit of our numbed asses and strained relationships, and we will look for it anywhere. We hope that our aches and suffering entitle us to that one moment we keep returning to: perfect community. Stretched between foreknowledge of our art and some involuntary physical reaction to our presentation of it we glimpse something transcendent.
I can't really say how I ended up here, my ass aching. People seem to want to know. I doubt the story has a good first sentence. I suppose I asked the universe for what I wanted, struggled with the futility of achieving anything, got some of whatever it was and then realized I never knew how to ask correctly. I should've probably started out with 'private jet' instead of 'travel, possibly internationally?'
It's not all rough seas and high winds, but there are lengthy waits between the good parts. Simple comforts are welcome.
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