of buttsteaks & boston

Hello all, Roadkill here at exactly 1 p.m. on a Monday in Baltimore, which means they're testing the air raid siren at the courthouse while some of us try to work through lunch. The horn is a particularly blaring return to reality as I sit here still basking in the glow of fires, literal and figurative, that were stoked this past weekend in Boston.  

Originally, an extended cast of characters planned to converge at TT the Bear's, a sweaty dive in Cambridge where the afore-mentioned Scruffy the Cat was to reunite after a 20+ year hiatus. But people in bands lead complicated lives and the shows were unceremoniously scuttled. The Fitz's stepped into this void and a small hoard of thankful college friends and spouses descended for some ambling walks, food & drink, and terrible fireside singing.  Along the way, cocktails were had, friends reconnected and, quite possibly, a septum was deviated. 

I bring this up in an ostensibly musical forum because of the degree to which music has been the surgical glue that stuck so many of us together so many years ago and that keeps giving us excuses to meet up in one city or another. At the heart of it is the friendships.  I mean, nobody ever went to a Buttsteak show (or a two-drummer rehearsal at 303) for quality songsmanship. It was about camaraderie and beer, in roughly that order. Sure, it would have been nice if Scruffy took the stage this past weekend but, sitting around the fire pit in Lexington, I think we all realized it wasn't really about them after all.

Dan, stoking the fires.