We all want to tell this story.
You walk into a small bar. It’s empty and at first glance a little scary. The number of exposed pipes in the ceiling is surpassed only by the number of neck tattoos. A band is setting up, but not even on the stage. Their second-hand equipment is on the floor, in front of the stage, cluttered about like a neighborhood rummage sale. You decide it may be safer to have one beer then split than to turn around immediately and run out the door. In the meantime, you debate if using the bathroom is worth the risk, presuming you could even figure out which was the men’s room. As you are doing everything in your power to not touch anything in the disaster area called a restroom, you hear the band starting to play through the door, and you almost can’t believe your ears. This band is good. Really good. As you head back towards the stage, it keeps getting better. Now you can see that they are performing as if there are thousands instead of just you and the few millennials that haven’t decided if they care enough to look up from their smart phones. Is this band in the right bar? They sweat, bleed, throw beer, and destroy instruments. After the set, you sit with them at the bar and just talk. You drink and laugh, and then head on your way. You don’t even stay for the headliner. Three months later that band is all over the radio. And you saw them first
