I awoke at high-noon on a concrete floor covered by no more than an eighth-inch of matted dorm carpet, with an ebbing ring someplace near my ears. I peeled my eyelids north and immediately felt the jerk of a negative tropism—the brightest beams of a Nashville sun.

There it began once more.. that immobile home telephone. Had I, somehow, traveled back to the year of 1984? “Turn your phone off!” Berchie bellowed as deeply as she could without an adam’s apple. I spryly threw the chiming device against a concrete block, which Vanderbilt University had dubbed a portion of their walls.

I was out of element, and pined only for egg mounds and orange juice. And maybe true Hermeticism.

“I think I’m ordering pancakes” said Berchie, before I had managed to wrap and properly knot my bootlaces. “Did we walk here?” I blossomed a conundrum to and for myself. Our waiter stared into my eyes. I responded: “Good day.. eggs.. bacon.. an immeasurably deep cup of coffee.”

I couldn’t manage to form articles beneath that umbrella, nor imagine how she must’ve felt (gaping away). She twisted upon her left heel and trolled back for her waitress mother ship. These were rough times, and much too warm for welcome; Perhaps the Nashville citizenry and I could simply not get along.

I suppose that some minutes had passed before Mrs. Hyde brought back our orders in the dilapidated form of food. Lack of realism had fashioned a weary and white-knuckled fist in my stomach; so I did not mind, and slopped the shit down.

It was now nearly five o’clock after the charbroiled noon, and I had not yet begun swilling. And, besides, the sun was on a roll and waving good-byes.

We (following my horrific persuasion) decided that we would have a drink. “Whisky on the rocks.. when does the show start?” I ordered and questioned the barmaid. “Two hours. Eight dollars.” It was here when I felt pure disconnection with both myself and Nashville. “Here’s my card.. start a tab” barked Berchie, whilst interjecting my transaction.

We spoke for an hour, chasing each sentence with either vodka or whisky, until I felt something familiar down under and decided that I should piss it out. Upon a dramatic, swinging entrance into the bathroom, I was accosted by what seemed to be Ryan Hurtgen, the vocalist for Telephant.

“Hi, I’m writing an article o’er your performance.. I’m from New York. My name’s Zim.” His eyes seemed to brighten beneath the already fluorescent lighting. “I’m Ryan. What magazine are you with?” It may sound childish. “I have to go,” as I left the bathroom. One must be careful in similar situations.

I once more posted near Berchie with the breeze and whisky in my arms, watching most of Telephant position themselves. Ryan was then spotted taking a few steps onto the stage. He snatched the microphone stand with Mick Jagger in his head. A ten-second musical introduction preceded a voice which could only be told as ethereal (fingers must not be pointed towards your author).

The overhead lighting also burst upon Ryan’s laryngeal appearance, using only the coolest colors to compliment both his tropospheric croons and the swift swoons of a violinist’s bow.

The night had suddenly reversed into a pale blue sky. I began to fancy the miniature orchestra dressed in midnight black. My ears then grew fonder of the weaseling percussion— it was surely there, cuddling warmly betwixt a grouchy guitar (humming both darkly and kindly along, mind you) and the chordal remnants of each kick drum (which means bass guitar, for those less equipped).

Those are the effects of my ill-equipped, anatomical listening devices. I pined for more eyes and ears. I predicted that a pre-wedlock Animal Collective had multiple sexual affairs with pre-nineteen ninety-three Tom Petty, which burgeoned this mellifluous family of song.

We couldn’t dote for long. Not only had our knees started to shake, wherefore Jim Beam might’ve had a few says, but we were nearly late for our fit with Mercy Lounge. Berchie helped my shuffling figure along the pebbled pathway to Lady Liberty (a title and a social commentary that I have given to my Jeep Liberty), and she drove my Lady madly to a grassy nook near Cannery Ballroom.

We hiked for the double doors and climbed the stairway to Lucero (that is a jape). I ordered a Buffalo Trace and whisky soon’s I spotted the bar whilst gallivanting my way towards the stage.

Berchie wriggled her small shape through a near gapless crowd, holding fast to my freest hand along the way. We made it to the right corner of the performance pedestal—front row.

I stepped a foot over the imaginary class-dividing line and flashed my pass to the bouncer. He replied with a most erect thumb, pointed upwards. I supposed that this secret, nonverbal bouncer spell meant I had passed the initiation test, and could roam about the place as a naked recusant.

Plan Alpha involved wondering towards the backstage erstwhile-orgy room. I mean to say that orgies no longer take place in this room; there were now clothed-tables littered with celery sticks and blue cheese dip. Then I heard a droning sound, not much unlike the sounds from nineteen eighty-one. Guitar. Lucero. I was here to critique.

I made my way out of the celery room and back to my silky spot against the stage. Just as repetition sparked on percussion, vocal scratches followed in rough muffles. I fluttered my arms around the moist air to make certain that I was not within the sea. I found, in fact, that I was not in any body of water.

The white version of LeRoi Moore banged his fingertips on an electric piano, swilling Dr. Pepper wherever the chance arose. I couldn’t help but dreaming that I was skateboarding in North Carolina. Was I dreaming?

I also couldn’t help but focus more attention to the crowd, and its members who yelped sullied Lucero lyrics, discharging noticeable (in the stage lighting) spouts of PBR onto the back of the fan in front of them, as if each torso were a carnal aerosol can.

I thought to myself that no human should dilute that pristine sound of the Rolling Stones using the speckled solvent that is mountainous music; but I could not help fawning.