I

We had finished our gig at a bar on the edge of the University of Alabama, opening for one of the local artsy bands, perhaps the only local artsy band - this is Alabama, after all, not Bleecker Street. I didn't feel like sticking around to hear their set - it might be too much of a reminder of how limiting and un-creative my own gig had become. We would see them later on anyway, since our Place to Crash for the night was at the drummer's house. Besides, my ears hurt; loud music isn't the cure.

The White Animals, friends from Nashville, had put us on their guestlist - they were playing at a bar down the street later on. I had little interest in going - they weren't my Nashville friends (I'm just the Hired Hand here); my Nashville friends were no longer in Nashville. Plus I wasn't much of a White Animals fan - I've already got better renditions of "Tobacco Road" amidst my compilation tapes (if I could dig the right one out of the backpack).

And besides, my ears hurt.

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