Casper, CA – “Banding” – The Casper Inn – September 3, 2000
“This place used to be a brothel,” says a pretty maid named Melissa who’s just finished cleaning our rooms. Her brown, moplike hair is thrown up on her head like a hurricane just came through. Her outfit—a black taffeta skirt, tall combat boots, and a knotted black T-shirt—hints at playful irreverence, captivating the boys as she gathers up laundry with a knowing smile.
The hallways are yellow and glow brilliantly like orange marmalade in the mid-afternoon sun. The floors are so old and warped that the door left ajar, slams violently without warning and Mellisa scurries out of the room. Soucy and I put our bags away in room #6 which is by far the smallest space I’ve ever shared with someone I’m not sleeping with. Meanwhile, room #9 across the hall—our designated “snoring room”—hosts Kyle, Kenny, and Delluchi, with its bunk beds and patchwork quilts, perched directly above tonight’s stage.
In Casper, there’s little to distract us, so we wander to the shoreline before sound check. The dramatic cliffs take our breath away. The mountainside cuts away to a metallic ocean that laps a thirsty tongue at crumbling clay walls.
A snake suddenly slithers by. “Look, a garter snake,” Soucy points. Mishearing him, I exclaim, “GARDENER SNAKE,” and reach out with childlike excitement.
“Garter, Sally, Garter snake.” He corrects, as though I were one of his fifth-grade students. Soucy can’t stand to let a mistake go uncorrected. It drives him crazy the way it drives me crazy to listen to the chomping of potato chips or the slurping of soup.
“GARDENER SNAKE,” I yell out again with the same childlike enthusiasm, intentionally mispronouncing the word now.
“GARTER GARTER GARTER,” he says annoyedly and stamps his feet. Kenny and I laugh at how easy it is to get under Soucy’s skin.
These are the moments that transcend the music—the times when we forget that work brought us west and instead feel like we’re on a family vacation, a band of lovable misfits. We’ve grown to know each other more intimately than most siblings, and the love we share is as profound and enduring as any I’ve experienced. We’ve ventured deep into each other’s hearts. We’re doning more than bonding, we’re BANDING.
We stumble upon a steep, muddy path leading down to the beach, laughing as we clumsily slide and tumble, covering ourselves in dirt. The beach is empty, inviting us to explore and play. Mysterious creatures and strands of Pacific Ocean algae line the shore, perfect for playful antics—tossing them at each other, slipping them down shirts, and surrendering to infectious laughter. Sand clings to our skin, and water drips from our clothes.
We gather, barefoot in the shallows, the waves licking our ancles. Breathless from joy, we fall silent at the horizon, as if in prayer. We watch the sun descend over the metallic ocean and disappear below the horizon like a candle flickering out.
In these moments, we’re not just a band; we’re a family bound by shared adventures and relentless laughter and a deep respect for every day that passes.
The end to another glorious day on the road
