This must be the place: Someday soon, you’re gonna have families of your own
Stepping into the Cresskill Tavern in Cresskill, New Jersey, last Wednesday evening, the place looked the exact same. It had been just about a decade since I last wandered in there. Electric blue painted walls. Pool table. Jukebox. L-shaped bar. Just enough room for you and your friends, but that’s about it.
This must be the place: There were oh so many roads, I was livin’ to run and runnin’ to live
It’s Saturday evening here at my parents’ 1840 farmhouse in Upstate New York. The temperature is hovering around 15 degrees with a wind chill ducking below zero. It’s Jan. 8 and I was supposed to be back at my humble abode in Western North Carolina on Dec. 30.
This must be the place: Ain’t nobody slowing down no way, everybody’s stepping on their accelerator
It was about 4:30 a.m. when the cover of the hot tub was finally pulled off and we jumped into the warm waters in the early hours of New Year’s Day.
This must be the place: When the winter comes, keep the fires lit, and I will be right next to you
All bundled up and sitting on the frozen, snowy summit of Poke-O-Moonshine Mountain in the heart of the Adirondacks of Upstate New York on Christmas Eve, I let out a sigh, my breath visible in the 12-degree weather.
This must be the place: My dreams fading down the railway line, I’m just about a moonlight mile down the road
It’s 9:21 a.m. Monday. Room 130. Super 8 Motel on the outskirts of Valdosta, Georgia. The air in the space is cool from the ragged old air-conditioner underneath the window. TV blaring some holiday rom-com flick, but the sound is muted. The Rolling Stones’ “Moonlight Mile” swirling around the bed from the laptop speakers.
This must be the place
It’s 11:16 a.m. Wednesday. Sitting in the lobby of the Dunes Inn & Suites on Tybee Island, Georgia, I can finally collect myself and write this column, seeing as the Wi-Fi is only good in the lobby and not the motel room (#132) at the back of the property.
This must be the place: Won’t somebody tell me what I’m doing here? Won’t somebody tell me where I’m going?
Finishing up my scrambled eggs and black cherry yogurt, I washed the dishes in the small sink. Dried off my hands and took another sip of my coffee. Mosey over to my ragged desk in my humble abode, in front of a dusty window with a slight view of Russ Avenue in downtown Waynesville.
Ode to GWAR, ode to heavy metal integrity
Standing in the photo pit last week between heavy metal icons GWAR and a sold-out roaring audience at The Orange Peel in Asheville was something to behold — more so a spectacle of unknown possibility and artistic merit.
This must be the place: Ode to being real, ode to the dude who felt otherwise
It was Saturday. Having just strolled into my neighborhood bar in Waynesville, I walked over to say hello to my new musician friends at a nearby table who were performing that night.
This must be the place: Ode to Billy Strings, ode to breaking down musical barriers
Standing in a sea of thousands of music freaks at the Asheville Civic Center (aka: Harrah’s Cherokee Center) on Sunday evening, it was surreal — more so poignant — to absorb the sights and sounds of Billy Strings on Halloween night.