With SXSW having come to a close for our little folk quintet, the band and I took shelter somewhere in the solitude of the Rockies (scaling the Grand Tetons with a 15-passenger Ford and useless trailer attachment).
Denver was more than just a small mountain paradise (I say "small" because the band hails from New York City, which is more of a brand than what other cities may carry—or force us to throw out along the way).
And as the Larimer Lounge gave us some free booze, a small altercation with the bouncer who ruthlessly became violent with a woman bar-goer and a packed house who knew the words, the trip gave way to some thoughtful contemplation about the phrase "legal weed" and the middle of the country.
I find that the journey between states grants me a few moments to tap away at my computer while our tour manager and drummer Robbie Ernst discuss the finer points of solitude en route.
Granted, there's little to be done about the elevation and its toll on my nose (allergies and asthma make the sinus' pretty horrendous to keep in check, our bassist Robbie G fell victim to something buggy along the way), the view from up here is much too divine to keep to myself.
Salt Lake City's Kilby Court, though more of a dive than we've played thus far, was very kind to us (and truthfully, I didn't want to leave), as well as providing winds that blew Danielle away, a mountainous backdrop and a packed, er, garage.
Yet, Seattle will fall victim to our hooks next, a town I can safely say I've never made my way through with enough time to put my feet down. Hardly missing Brooklyn and finding that my playlist of Haim, Jonny Greenwood and Night Beds still far from old, I think I may take refuge in this glorious mountainside. Just like those damn flowers, on the hillside, blooming crazy.
