I Am Nothing Now, But Will Be Something Tomorrow

As early sun crept in, I felt the bus sway, slowly navigating through a waking city.

It was a beautiful morning in Wicker Park. I jumped off the bus into an unfamiliar neighborhood. We were scheduled to record an Audiotree session before our set later that night. Half awake, I walked up a winding stairway into one of the live rooms. The building housed multiple studios. Upon entering one of them, our longtime sound engineer, Sean Johnson, realized it was the location of one of his first engineering jobs over twenty years ago. As he wandered through the space, rediscovering fragments of his past, he told stories of what used to be and what was no longer--entertaining, and oddly bittersweet.

Soon after, we set up a workable backline with help from Joe, our tour manager, and Dom our tech and road assistant. With foundational sounds in place, we made small talk with the staff before naturally slipping into one of our newer songs. Before long, we were raging at full volume, tearing through a string of back-to-back tracks. In just over an hour, we were done--seemingly faster and more efficient than most sessions.

As the others broke down our setup to head to the venue, Kurt and I sat for a formal interview in a second studio room. For the next hour, we cordially spoke on creativity, longevity, and the psychological approach to our work--with both levity and seriousness. By the time we finished only Joe remained as the rest of the band and crew had already left to prep for the evening.

We caught a ride to the venue for soundcheck. We've played Bottom Lounge multiple times over the years--the first being nearly fifteen years ago alongside Coalesce, Touche Amore, and Black Breath. We quickly ran through another barrage of songs before I pushed off to the bus to get in some work. As hours vanished, I managed to complete one song that had been challenging me for weeks.

I then reflected on a visual project I’ve been working on for months which has been plagued with complications. After losing the original art in-transit, we’ve gone through two nearly full art rebuilds over multiple months. A new third direction was chosen then things went silent. I’ve now learned that they’ve took the project elsewhere and wish them the best in bringing it to completion. Something in the process though has left me feeling incomplete, rejected. I worry about my friend at the helm of it all and their well-being. I went dark thinking on all of it—my relationship with friends, art, music, and creativity. The highs and lows of helping bring another’s vision into the world are intimate and intense. Sometimes it feels as though they are breaking one apart.

Before I knew, the show was in full swing. I slipped into the venue and weaved through the dimly lit, packed crowd to catch a few bands--Hell Is Real, Big Laugh, and Stress Positions (ex-C.H.E.W.). Above all, they stood out, with their vocalist Stephanie Brooks delivering a visceral performance that connected with me.

Soon after, we took the stage and played an emotional set. I gave myself to the frantic nature of our music, choosing not to speak much. Internally, I was in quarrel with the intrusive thoughts within. I couldn’t escape them so I embraced them. As I screamed and yelled, old lines took on new life in the moment. Spewing out as a tangle of double meanings as I pushed towards exhaustion.

Video by Ryan Ninja

As a closer, by request, we ended with “The Saddest Day”--a nearly eight-minute song that is approaching its thirtieth anniversary. We never practice it, choosing instead to just go for it when the moment calls.

As the final notes were struck, I exited stage—my hands and legs were shaking. Attempting a recalibration, I spent time with the audience, exchanging words, stories, and taking photographs until they were all gone. As I pushed open the side door, a gust of night air hit while I peeled off sweat-soaked clothes. As I approached the bus, I knew then and there that my hard reset did not work.

With everything given physically, I was now alone with a layered sadness I could not shake. With no energy to fight back, I submitted. Crouching to the floor and rolling into my bunk. I laid there in silence before writing down the line; “I am nothing now, but will be something tomorrow.”

Clutching a pillow over my eyes, I felt the low rumble of the road beneath as we begun our 500 mile drive to Nashville.

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