Ed. Note: I swear ta GAWD! it’s like you blink sometimes and suddenly all those rail-worn warriors that used to break your heart in all the ways that she never could are grown up from the (late) late-teenage maelstroms you played over and over again in your head, half drunk on the N Train, into…well, men. And where does that leave you? Could be it sees you stranded in a state of arrested development, trying to rewrite your backpages as if time were some palimpsest only everyone else was struggling to comprehend. Could be you moved on, all hard-luck John and wiser for the tears, foregoing your sensitive yen for the brutish fulfillment of death as a company man. Or it could be (and ought to, most likely, if you’re one of the spiders we count in our pride) that you’ve grown alongside the beards and the tats and the leather and the invariable lowering of the chin to understand that our greatest histories are born of open and innocent regrets live in the base of your spine and tremble with the red sweat of springtime. Ah, me. But I am getting misty now just thinking about the howls that echoed in the halls of my youth. No need for that, though. There’s much work to do and much awe to consider thanks to Mr. Sipes recent sojourn to the Warfield where Taking Back Sunday played alongside letlive. and The Menzingers to make lesser messes of better men than I and I wish I had been there to shout and drink and sing and flail blindly into that good night but I wasn’t and that’s fine because I had my time. Now please dig, if you will, his pictures.
Taking Back Sunday