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April 28, 2008
…But maybe one backstage is every backstage? There was a crudy old couch in the corner, cushions askew, revealing forgotten change, playing cards, a half-smoked roach. The band, still onstage, was rounding out the set. We heard the bass thud; the door, although closed, jiggled on its hinges in 3/4 time.

Lacy’s finger was knuckle deep in the peanut butter. The spread didn’t consist of much more; saltines, a gallon of water in an old milk jug. Had I known then what I know now, I would have sold that jug on eBay after The Shits McGiggles went double platinum.