Plan B Is Total Panic (Before The Fire)

It’s Sunday afternoon and I am backstage setting up at the Coachella Valley Music & Arts Festival. Jesse leans over and says, “That’s my hero over there.” Feet away from us, Nas, is taking a breather during his 5:00 PM set with Damien Marley. He is smoking a blunt with one hand while cradling a bottle of Moët Champagne in the other. Suddenly there is a stir and a mass of rubber-necking among the side-stage viewing area. Apparently another of Jesse’s heroes has arrived, because before I know what’s going on, he is having his photo snapped with Clint Eastwood, smiling like a kid at Christmas.

This isn’t what I’m used to. Having toured on and off for eleven years in every type of tour van imaginable (shitty; in flames on the side of the Autobahn (a personal favorite); and VERY shitty), this massive production-style festival thing has never been my territory. On a riser beside me, Sebastien performs last minute tweaks on his drum kit. On the other side of the curtain, just beyond the stage, somewhere between 40,000 and 80 kadrillion people watch and wait. It’s time to punch the clock.

Hooking up Jesse’s ratty Traynor cabinets and aging Acoustic & Peavey amps, I say a silent prayer to the rock gods (or whatever) that they plan on cooperating for this, the very important first (official) set of Death From Above 1979’s hopefully triumphant return after a five-year hiatus. Of course, if something fucks up, rock gods (or whatever) forbid, there is always Plan B. And Plan B, naturally, is total panic.

How the fuck did I get here?

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The night Jesse told me I would be his Bass Tech for the upcoming Death From Above shows we were sitting at his favorite bar in Toronto’s Little Italy, excitedly kicking back drinks and discussing all the possibilities. I was already drunk before we cold-called our first hangout in well over six months, a fact that was painfully apparent by the time I threw up on the bar. Dejected and drunk, I moaned “Whyyy? WHYYY?” the whole cab ride home. As I stumbled to bed and barfed down the side of my sheets onto a pair of last week’s underpants, I agonized over my embarrassingly bad form.

Shielding my reddened eyes from the harsh afternoon sunlight the next day, I knew I had to make the call. “There’s barf on my fucking jacket!” he laughed as he answered the phone, before breaking into a short manifest of gear he’d like to get for the shows. Jesse seemed amused by the whole thing and it looked like my job was somehow safe after the previous night’s display of unfortunate humanity. I hung up happy.

A week previous Sebastien had spilled the beans on the potential reunion shows. We were traveling together on the almost comically inept (but tons and tons of fun) Bad Tits “mini-tour.” He as drummer, me as driver. Guitarist/singer Josh slept in the backseat as I almost drove the van off the side of the road upon hearing the news. The idea of DFA79 doing anything together again, ever, had been completely lost on me. The dissolution of the two-man unit five years ago came with more than a trace of acrimony, and the thought that I would be working for them in 2011 was completely unfathomable, and as far as I was concerned, absurd.

And yet there I stood. It took a long time for it to make any sense at all to me. I’ve been friends with Jesse for about ten years, Sebastien almost as long. I knew both of them well enough to know that they wouldn’t bullshit me, and yet the whole thing just seemed too crazy to be actually happening. Once I had to scan my passport for permit stuff I was thinking “Okay, maybe this is for real.” I was still, however, being cautiously skeptical. Once I received a round-trip ticket to Texas in my email inbox, I went to work and gave them four weeks’ notice and a written resignation.

That the now-fabled South By Southwest (SXSW) “secret” show ended in a near-riot and was the top story on the NBC News in Austin the next morning shouldn’t have been any surprise, and indeed it wasn’t. By 7:00 PM there were already enough kids lining the exposed side of the tent, only separated by a chain-link fence, to more than meet capacity once the doors opened. And that wasn’t set to happen for another two hours. Even after word got out that only passholders would be admitted to the venue, still they waited, bopping along in unison as the fellas played “You’re Lovely But You’ve Got Lots Of Problems” during a brief sound check. Thunderous applause came from the other side of the fence as the band finished. We all looked at each other and started laughing. Death From Above had just played to an audience for the first time since 2005.

The “warm-up show” ended up being a trial by fire, of course. The club was already in a state of impending chaos by the time Felix Cartal finished up his slot before the shit went down. It was just about 1:00 AM and some of these folks, many of whom were still on the other side of the fence, had been waiting for this for upwards of six hours. That tension combined with the fact that we had been waiting and preparing for this moment for upwards of three months set an atmosphere of impending “HOLY SHIT!” that no one person or group could have halted if they tried.

While placing Jesse's brand new, never-been-played-onstage Rickenbacker on the guitar stand, I turned to someone’s attention and heard "BRONGGGGGGGG" to the left of me. I had just dropped his brand new, never-been-played-onstage Rickenbacker. Replacing it quickly on its stand, I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply as my head dropped. I heard wild, unmistakable laughter above and behind me. I turned around and grabbed Jesse by both sides of his giggling face and screamed "AAAAAAARRRRRGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!" at the top of my lungs. Later I would offer to let him punch me in the stomach as retribution for my clumsiness. He would decline in good humor.

When the fence came down after five songs, the club’s manager came screaming onto the stage. “Stop the show. The show’s over. We have to pull the plug.” Turning around and smiling at him knowingly, I said “This is their first fucking show in five years, man. If you pull the plug, you’re gonna have a riot for real.” My words registered immediately. Next thing you know the fellas were launching into “Romantic Rights,” but it was too late. Four riot cops stormed the stage and shut it down. Tour manger Darrin repeated his own promises that “If you stop this show, they’re going to tear this tent down, I guarantee it.” His words registered too. After a ten-minute break, the cops allowed the set to be finished, without one song left out.

The alley was a mob scene. Mounted police rolled through and kids were tazed, pepper sprayed, clubbed, and punched. Three people were hauled off to jail and someone punched a cop right in the horse. All in all, about four times as many people showed up as would be ultimately admitted. Triumphant that a mark had been made, for good or for ill, the management, crew, and band toasted to the first show, sent the gear away on its long journey home, and went to sleep before waking up and jumping on planes of our own.

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“Talk to me, Trevor!” I not so much asked as demanded of our amazing front-of-house sound tech, who had basically been schooling me on the responsibilities and realities of the job over the last several weeks. “We’re looking pretty good, I think,” he replied. Plugging in all of Jesse’s pedals, I looked out into the crowd and smiled. There were indeed 80 kadrillion people out there. The sun was starting to set beyond stage right. A gentle breeze whipped across the stage and I could hear pockets of the crowd chanting “DFA! DFA! DFA!” It was awesome.

I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth as I flicked each of three switches. One by one, each emitted a small burst of feedback from the speakers. Breathing a sigh of relief comprised of every last bit of reserved panic and dread permeating my soul, I smiled toward stage left. Jesse’s relief reflected my own. Plan B would have to wait.

Entering the stage as the crowd went crazy, Sebby took his spot behind the drums and J threw me his requisite pack of Belmont Milds, to be lit by me at his request throughout the set, the last (and most amusing, to me) part of my job description. “Fuck them up.” I said as we slapped hands. “Okay!” he responded.

The set started as the album You’re a Woman, I’m a Machine does, with the thunderous beat and screaming feedback of “Turn It Out,” and the crowd went fucking bananas. Kneeling beside one of the massive Traynor speaker cabinets, I was directly in Seb’s field of vision and every so often he would look at me and smile almost to the point of laughing. Darrin, behind the other Traynor threw me a can of Heineken. Nodding at each other we held our beers up.

Kids were moshing, screaming, and going crazy in the crowd and onstage I was having a blast watching my friends destroy it for the kadrillions, not to mention countless more watching live around the world. The whole thing was being streamed live online. My dialer barely ceased buzzing in my pocket throughout the whole set.

And then it was done. No cops, no horses, and certainly no angry mobs. Just the final crashing blows of “Do It!,” six cigarette butts under my left shoe, a few empty cans, a half kicked-over drum kit, and a Rickenbacker bass thrown to the ground. Pile your shit on the drum riser and push it out the opposite way you pushed it in, the next band’s Gerry, Trevor, and Darrin are waiting to set up. Thanks for coming out.

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The impact made by the second of the two shows is harder to quantify, I guess. I can only really judge from my seat and at this point it’s gotten pretty difficult to view it objectively (as if I ever could have in the first place). I certainly had fun driving Jesse’s rented Mercedes around Hollywood running errands, and you’ll hear no complaints from me over getting paid to bake in the sun by the pool in Palm Springs before heading over to the festival site with a backpack full of beer. You’ll also never hear me lamenting the burden of drunkenly yelling “Getting my picture with you will change my LIFE!” at Danny DeVito or of watching Death From Above 1979 play from about the best spot imaginable. But that’s just me. Even though I’m a huge fan of their band, first and foremost I’m their friend. Or is it employee? It’s getting more and more difficult to figure that out. I think it’s the former, but at this point, the latter is pretty goddamn great too.

After SXSW, on my first flight home of what promises to be many this year, I sat by a woman, across the aisle from her two kids as they laughed at Darrin, Trevor, and I making fart jokes and acting silly. She asked if I was in a band and I excitedly said no, before telling her all about my job and the insanity the night before. Impressed, she promised she would be checking out the YouTube stuff as I sprinted off into the airport, desperate to find a bathroom after having a few too many beers on the plane. While throwing up on the bar didn't lose me my job, I wasn't ready to tempt fate by pissing myself in front of a nice family. Not just yet, anyway.

R.I.P. Allen

The Ergs- Saturday Night Crap-O-Rama

Asubury Lanes, December 5th,2010

Round One

Friday night my friends Rob, Toni & I made our way to Asbury Lanes in beautiful Asbury Park, NJ to check out the birthday show for Mikey Erg & Jay Insult. In addition to seeing a bunch of folks from near and far, some very drunk, some vomitingly so, there were also a ton of bands playing.

Unfortunately I didn't get any Black Wine or Measure footage, but I did get some video of The Hamiltons committing a hate crime against Canadians and a couple of songs by new Black Wine side project Young Skin, who were amazing. Check it.







Ergs tonight. Vee excited.

Have Gum*, Will Travel

It took about a week and a half for my upper back and neck to stop hurting after the Buried Inside insanity, but now that I'm back in tip-top it's time for a last bit of punishment before I settle in for the first half of 2011.

First up I will be leaving tonight on my beloved Megabus for an overnight trip to New York City where I will spend the weekend, while traveling to New Jersey for between one and three shows, including.......



That's right the fucking ERGS are doing a couple of benefit reunion shows! For the uninitiated few, The Ergs were New Brunswick, New Jersey's answer to the question "What is the best thing to happen to pop-punk since the fall of Lookout Records?" Those in the know are aware that these shows were announced and swiftly sold out in about a combined 15 minutes. I was positively bummed when I didn't get through to get a ticket, but lo and behold, friendship has it's benefits and one Mr. Michael Erg came through a few weeks ago with the hook-up, so off to New York I go!

There are a couple of other great shows in Jersey this weekend, so in addition to the Ergs & Hunchback, if I play my cards right I'll get to see The Measure (one of my favorites), Big Eyes (another), some Mikey Solo stuff, Black Wine, and a ton of other stuff, in addition to a million pals, before getting BACK on the overnight Megabus on Monday night.

It won't stop there, though. Upon my arrival home on Tuesday morning I will take a swift nap before sitting back down in the driver's seat of my boy Sebastien Grainger's van for for four days to be the captain of the Good Ship Bad Tits. Bad Tits is Sebby's new two-piece powerhouse (along with my soon-to-be new friend Josh) and they are doing some shows with NYC's Phantogram that I'm pretty excited to be on hand for. Seb is seriously one of my favorite and funnest people to hang with and I'm incredibly psyched to do some traveling with them.

After that I am taking 8 days off before of course, bidding farewell to 2010 with a bang, getting in a rental and navigating the harsh Canadian winter highways out east for an old fashioned maritime family Xmas. I'll go hang with my folks, get fatter and of course co-host the THIRTEENTH massive edition of The Annual. The Annual is a Xmas Eve party that myself and a few of my closest have been hosting since 1998 in a rotation of locales. My boy Bob is taking the reigns for the second year in a row, and it promises to be another great one. Here is some of the shit that happened last year:








Ugh. That's my chest. I don't think anyone got stabbed. Maybe this year.



Lastly, I've recently purchased a Flip Ultra HD camcorder to bring along and try to capture a bunch of this stuff. Hopefully I'll take some live footage and whatnot this weekend and post it here. I'm sure I'll find SOME way to make use of it for y'alls benefit.

Happy holidays y'all! Someone get me a hot water bottle!

*I do not actually have any gum

V

(3 songs, great quality)


Buried Inside "Last Three Shows" Photoset
(click image to launch, courtesy Paul Galipeau)


Buried Inside (1997-2010)
(click to launch, last show set, courtesy Dave Forcier)

One Last Goodbye

"But planks of reason are deceiving and time wars must continue to be waged. As every calendar makes clear, our days are numbered."

Buried Inside, "Chronoclast" liner notes

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I.

After thirteen years, four albums, hundreds of shows and thousands upon thousands of miles, the almighty Buried Inside were calling it a night for the last time. My back said "No!", but I couldn't argue with my mind. Scoopy was spending his rent money to go. Jim and KLC were flying in from Halifax. There was a kid flying in from JAPAN for the occasion. Pack your shit, find your ride. It's time to go to Ottawa, wellness be damned.

Of course, I've traveled just over 20,000 kilometers in the last four months myself. Just over two days home after my latest excursion, my back and ass were in no mood for more torture. The prospect of another four hour drive in another small compact car left my body screaming "What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you crazy?"

"We don't have a choice on this one," my mind told my body, "Absence is not an option this weekend."

Our driver graciously allowed a little pre-gaming during the ride, which was nice, so it was a little bit stoned and drunk that I showed my face at Scott & Erin's house. I was welcomed with another beer and the night was set in motion. It started with a beer and after many more, ended in typical Ottawa fashion with an Elgin Street Diner poutine. We went to Ottawa's semi-regular "Bored To Death" night at Ritual and it was jammed with folks, many in town for the show.

Emmanuel was running around being the life of the party as per usual, I stood feet away from Nick and traded lots of excited smiles during a set by amazing Ottawa band Pregnancy Scares as people moshed and lost their fucking minds. Later on I would meet up with Mike, who I had been texting to come out to the party all night, outside. It didn't feel like the end of anything. Just another weekend in Ottawa with fun, friendly, familiar faces. Jim and Kelsey were posted up too, of course. The beers went down easily and sleep was just as effortless once I put my head to pillow, which was good. The next night was shaping up to be an epic send-off.

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II.

At 20 years old in the year 2000 I went on my first punk rock tour. The Plan made their way down the east coast to Florida, across to California, up the west coast to Vancouver, across to Winnipeg, back down south into the mid-western states, and finally back through Ontario and Quebec, home to Nova Scotia. We were gone ten weeks and we met what seemed like a million people on that tour, many of whom I kept in touch with, some of whom I still know well today.

As The Plan's official online tour diary writer, I figured I would have had something fun or interesting to write about meeting Buried Inside at the tail end of that long and harrowing tour, so I dug out the photo album from the tour where I keep a print-out of my stories. On May 18th, 2000 in the last edition of the tour diary, I wrote as follows:

"Buried Inside were awesome. They were really nice guys too."

Hmmm. Hardly the meaningful insight I was looking for.

One of the things about our meeting at Club Saw in Ottawa ten years ago that I remember is that they indeed were really nice guys. They were in their hometown and already starting to be a bit of a big deal in the local scene. I was a confused kid from Halifax sitting alone at the merch table, and they were instantly really awesome dudes. They ordered a vegan pizza to eat while they waited to play and once they had all taken their respective shares, offered me a couple of slices. By then they had taken their first stabs at touring and probably knew what a sometimes hard-fought commodity food becomes on the road when you are nobody.

Now, when you ask them what they remember about meeting me, they will all invariably say the same thing... That I was really excited about the band Hatebreed. Now, I'm not going to sit here and diss like I am above liking that band by any stretch, because I'm not. That doesn't change the fact that for some reason or other, I just never really got into them back in the day. I think the fellas may have had me confused with Lance. Or maybe I was fronting because I was meeting these new, obviously cool scene dudes and wanted them to think I was cool like them. Time erodes many things, the memory being just one of them.

Make no matter. Whatever the details of the past, friendship had been sealed. The Plan camp drove out of Ottawa thinking that Buried Inside were one of the best bands we had seen on tour, and when we came back through a year or so later, they had released "Suspect Symmetry", their second full length and probably the record that cemented them as a definite contender and band to watch out for in Canada. By this point I had started booking shows in Hali and went home determined to get Buried Inside out to the east coast.

Matias & Nick, Ottawa, 2002

On a hot July night in 2002 we made good on it. At the very top of the million stairs leading to The Khyber's "Turret Room" we opened the windows to let the air in and the noise out. Philip Clark hung out and helped me tweek the P.A. before heading to his job as sound engineer at the Marquee as the fellas prepared for their set. He was later quoted as saying that you could hear Buried Inside all the way up the hill, past the Liquor Dome, towards Citadel Hill and that throughout downtown "sounded like the fucking apocalypse."

We did it again just down the road at the Ceilidh Connection in 2003, and in 2004 when there weren't any proper venues to do the show in, I gave myself a late birthday gift. The day after I bid adieu to my 23rd year I had a Buried Inside show in my living room on North Street, inviting the whole city out. By now we were all old friends, and this night would prove special in many ways. Squeezing their stacks, gong and now a sampling station into my living room, about 60 people (at the only headcount I did all night) squeezed out of the livingroom and down the hall to the kitchen, everyone clamoring for space.

Buried Inside were now making a name for coming to town and playing almost exclusively new, unheard stuff, and tonight would be no different. I had a war going with the downstairs neighbors and they must have known something was up once all the people started milling in. The sampler and the guitars started out real low, with those few droning notes and then BANG, they started "Chronoclast". Except no one had heard "Chronoclast" yet, save the band and probably Mitch. We just knew that our minds were being blown. I drank and pounded on the ceiling. I looked back and Scoopy was lighting a huge joint. Transfixed, I don't think anyone in the room noticed, or cared. The show would be cited as one of Halifax's "Best Concerts Ever" in a 2009 Coast article.

Buried Inside, Connolly Street Living Room, June 2004
(ph: Paul Hammond)

Later, chatting with Nick while lying on my bed in a house full of chaos, he would tell me that their set was comprised of most of their next album. I asked him what label it was coming out on and he replied "This label from the States called Relapse Records." and smiled just a little. My mouth plopped open in somewhat shock. I was actually proud. The band deserved it more than anyone I could think of, and I was overjoyed for them.

When "Chronoclast" came out, it blew everyone's expectations of the band out of the water and re-set the bar, as far as many of us were concerned. Me, Jim, Scoops, DaveK, Mark Gillis..... basically everyone I hung around with in Halifax who listened to heavy music came as close as close to wearing our a record we could get. It was, and remains a mind-blowing work of art and what many of us consider to be a pure musical masterpiece.

Buried Inside, Moncton, August 2009
(ph: Kelsey McLaren)

Over the years the shows would continue, long after I stopped booking, and the fellas would always stay at my house, some of us drinking and laughing til the early hours of the morning, watching Kids In The Hall or Sealab: 2021 or just generally trying not to let the party end. In 2005 Steve, Mike and I would get thrown out of Cheers in Halifax for heckling the house cover band. In 2006, recently departed guitarist and designer for almost all the B.I. artwork Matias and girlfriend Karen came to Halifax for vacation and spent most of the time hanging with my then-girlfriend Holly and I. We would team up (with Mark Black & Dave Harrison) again in 2007 for a Florida vacation. I subbed on bass in Mark's band Die Brucke opening for B.I. at the same year's Pop Explosion.

Myself & Mike, Cape Breton, August 2009
(ph: Nick Von Shaw)

More time passed. In August of 2009 my stupid band, Minivan Halen got lucky enough to be asked to open for the fellas on their eastern Canadian tour. Work commitments got in the way and I was heartbroken to not be able to do all of the more central shows, but we got to do six of the shows throughout Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island and New Brunswick, and had a blast. More of a rolling party than a tour, we kept everything loose and fun. They were with us in Mark Black's basement the night our friend Alex took his own life. Though it must have been extremely difficult for 5 strangers to this person who we in Halifax all missed so much, they not only stuck the last leg of the tour out with us, but were of great comfort during a heart-wrenchingly sad time for us.

Buried Inside & Minivan Halen, August 2009

It was around April when the fellas invited me along for their show in Montreal later in May that I started getting the feeling that shit was about to change. Matias had re-joined the band for their recent European tour after the departure of Emmanuel, and I just had this inkling that this was kind of a last hurrah. A few days before leaving for Montreal I texted Matias and Steve something along the lines of "This is the last time you guys are going to play in Montreal, isn't it?" I got confirmation from one or the other, and within days it was announced online. Toronto and Montreal would be an early lead-up to a last Buried Inside show later in the year.

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III.

Walking into Babylon early Saturday evening during soundcheck it felt like preparing for a funeral. Various show staff and opening bands and friends all stood around quietly watching the fellas check for the show. The long since retired gong was back, and longtime recording partner Mark Molnar was on stage with the band playing a cello. The backline set-up was unreal and it was extremely loud. Everyone on stage was dead serious and deliberate in their preparations. I grabbed my tickets from Mike, said a few words to each of the fellas and headed out to meet Scoops, Jim & KLC for dinner.

The Final Soundcheck

Some food and some pre-gaming later we all posted up at the club. Now quickly filling with familiar faces, it was virtually impossible to walk more than five feet without running into more pleasant conversation. Drinks were shared and people got caught up. A lot of the Ottawa kids were heard to remark that the show was a virtual high school reunion for them and there was definitely a very warm feeling in the room. Everywhere I turned, I saw smiling faces.

By the time Crusades went on, the sold-out club was just about teeming with people, an amazing feat for 9:15 at night. Being that they are one of (many of) Emmanuel's post-Buried Inside projects, Crusades were a great opener to the night and played an amazing set. Short, sweet and to the point, they were on and off stage within about 20 minutes, playing just about seven songs, including the four that make up their absolutely stellar debut seven inch.

Crusades

Up next were Barrier, from Montreal. This was rumored to be their final outing as well, and having seen them just once before I made sure to get back in for their set as well. Featuring Paul O, the touring B.I. guitarist from their summer '09 tour, they were also pretty much amazing, playing a pretty well flawless set. The openers were definitely killing it and everyone in the crowd was having a blast and were very appreciative.

Barrier

By the time Mark Molnar's classical noise unit Kingdon Shore took the stage, you could cut the tension. The hour was close to being at hand. Months of preparation, hours traveled, and a sold out club in Ottawa. Fetching some show beers and making my way to the front with Scoops, we didn't fret that we could only get as close as 4 or 5 people from the front of the stage. Everyone that was here was here for one reason, and no one was more deserving than the other to see the show. A crowd of friends new and old, strangers and acquaintances alike.

As Buried Inside hit the stage for the final time the crowd tightened up. In typical short-spoken fashion, Nick talked about playing shows "fron Los Angeles to Moscow", greeted and thanked the crowd, followed by "We are Buried Inside" and that was it. With a crash the insanity began for the last time. The metronomic march of "V" from "Spoils Of Failure" had the crowd pulsing back and forth in unison straight away, instantly transfixed with the volume, the intensity and the spectacle of it all. Instant butterflies. The gong and cello had once again taken their rightful place on stage, straight behind Tweedy on stage right. Stage left Matias and Steve banged their heads in unison. Mike destroyed the drums and Nick worked the sampler station when he wasn't shrieking into the mic.

Watching B.I. in recent years has really become a full on mental freakout experience for me. The sounds take over and it just all melts into itself. The set itself was beautifully constructed, the samples were unreal and it was really well-paced. Nothing about it seemed rushed or out of place and it was really apparent that they put a lot of time and effort into putting every aspect of it together. Having seen the band play almost ten times in just over the last year, the whole set was completely re-vamped as far as I could tell.

At one point I looked to the right and Emmanuel was dancing beside me, a huge grin stretched across his face. I put my arm around his shoulder and we danced back and forth together, pumping our fists. Scoops was to the left of me, drenched in sweat, losing his fucking mind.

Before long Emmanuel took his spot on stage as the third guitarist. In true old-school style, longtime roadie Mitch stood at the edge of stage right, periodically taking the second mic to scream the responses to Nick's calls during the old jams, songs that I hadn't seen performed in well over six years. By the time they got to the album-ending "Death comes with time" refrain at the end of "Time As Resistance" bodies were flying off the stage as everyone worked themselves into a fucking frenzy. As they broke into "Social Skingraft" from their first album, I got kicked square in the head, losing my glasses. Barely thinking the word "concussion", I quickly laughed it off, squinted my eyes toward the stage and continued to lose what was left of my shit. What's done is done. The present is never going to happen again.

And just like that, it was over. Buried Inside was part of the past.

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IV.

Once, back in the day, when The Plan played what was to be their last show at the Pavilion, prompted to say some words into the mic, I remarked how special it was to me that I got to be friends with one of my favorite bands. On top of that I was able to travel all over the world with them as peers. Today I feel exactly the same. We are all lucky enough to be part of this amazing culture where we all have the chance to do anything we can dare to hope for. You can start a band. You can start a label. You can work with your friends and watch them make amazing, mindblowing music and art and do things that will never stop meaning the world to you. Things you will never forget, as long as you live.

At twenty years old, I was a confused kid who just wanted to not say anything too stupid on the way to making some friends I could hang out with in a new city while I was on tour. Ten years on I have the luxury and honor of looking back over the friendships and bonds I have built, and continue to build, with so many special people and give thanks. It still blows my mind every day that I'm lucky enough to be friends with so many amazingly talented, and amazingly amazing people, and all of the guys who made up Buried Inside without question fit into both of those categories, so thanks homeys. Your band will be missed, but your friendship means the world to me, and countless others.

Driving home, my neck was stiff. My head hurt beyond belief. My ears were ringing louder than they have in years. I sported a lump on my right temple. And Buried Inside was dead.

"The seams will split. The myth will spoil. The monolith will crack. The soil will turn. Death comes with time. Death comes with time."

Buried Inside

1997 - 2010