Almost every time we play a show, it rains. Seriously. We are not exaggerating.
Out of the 34 shows we’ve played over the last 11 months, it only stayed dry and sunny for maybe 5 or 6 of them. One friend even said that he’d “never” seen us play when it wasn’t raining. Thankfully, in 1852, Samuel Fox invented the steel ribbed umbrella, and people still manage to make their way out to our shows. We really, truly appreciate this. Thank you, Samuel Fox.
But seriously, what’s the deal? Is it Tlaloc, the ancient Aztec rain god, seeking to put the kibosh on our merriment as vengeance for being wedged down into the dark nether-crevices of the world’s collective memory? Or is the river of sweat we produce during band practice forming its own hydrologic cycle: evaporating from our brows, floating to the heavens, condensing into drops, then precipitating back down to earth on the nights we play? Or is it Tay Zonday, trying to monopolize the rock?
Please tell us what’s going on.
Leave a Reply