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Sunday morning begins with Nathaniel Rateliff and the Night Sweats giving a sermon that shakes loose the demons. We are knee deep in the Holy Spirit as our fingertips fly towards the overcast sky. Rateliff is nothing if not a proper showman, a blackjack dealer with dust in his beard and oil on his heels. On this good green earth his athletic gusto can only be rivaled by Miss Sharon Jones. We are in the presence of a beast who has learned our mannerisms.
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Later we hear the ancient wisdom of Field Report, and wander through their dream stables. One of the girls in First Aid Kit has lost her voice, so their slack jawed goddess blues sound just that much more lonesome. We place our toes in the water and trade secret fears. Hounded by egrets and with pirate flags at bay, we make moves for Shakey Graves.
The fort walls resound with thunder just the way we like. We draw campfire close to hear the truths and schemes of a man whose very name inspires drama, the man behind Shakey Graves, Alejandro Rose-Garcia. This brand of grit grunge is out to draw blood and sighs in all the right places. We quake with fury, no longer sure of foot. We want to tear down the houses and the things within them, leave no shelf unturned, set fire to the doors. This is sure to bother the neighbors.
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In a few hours, after the water taxi, the shuttle, the cab, three buses, and two trains we’ll fall into the open arms of our little trash heap of a town; we’ll take special care not to wash the sea salt from our skin. Our toes will grasp at familiar roads. People will seem to recognize us. But for today we are panting with abandon and must wear hats to keep the sun from our eyes.[/fusion_builder_column][/fusion_builder_row][/fusion_builder_container]
