Reluctant though I am to toot my own horn, in nearly 30 years of being a band, we have never once shown up at a venue on the wrong day. We have, however, shared the bill with a group that did, 27 years ago today. Booked at the No Bar in Muncie, Indiana, we were surprised to learn that Always August had gotten confused and arrived in town a week ahead of schedule. And as long as they were in the neighborhood, they were also going to be added to the lineup–and really, who could argue? The audience that night, which I believe was what my college during an application drought once referred to as “self-selecting,” was there predominantly to see Always August, an impressive demonstration of word-of-mouth in a pre-social media era. Switching continents and centuries, last year we close the Festival Soy in Nantes. Much the same as we grew sick of being asked (or lectured) about George W. Bush in Europe, one can only assume that the French have at the very least moved on from Jerry Lewis, so in solidarité we encored with not one, but two songs by someone we’re guessing is even more tired of hearing about him: his son, Gary.
