Kill Devil Hill, N.C. – “Band Condos” – Port-O-Call – June 1, 1999

In the dim light of morning, I find myself caught in the twilight zone between sleep and wakefulness, nestled uncomfortably on a bunk bed’s moldy mattress. My paperback is lost in a tangle of sheets, a casualty of the moment sleep hijacked me. Our bunk-filled room is a cacophony of white noise—the whirl of a fan, the hum of an air conditioner on high, and the unsynchronized snores of a band after a late night. I focus on a felt-tip-like rug, stained by post-party spills, up-chucks, and who knows what else.

There are four fold-out couches in the common room, each bulges like a rotund woman in an ineffective corset. Despite the array of devices aimed at cooling the air, the effort seems futile against the stubborn southern heat. Light filters through slightly charred, frayed curtains, illuminating the space in a way that feels both intrusive and revealing. It’s an odd sort of home away from home, this band condo. But, as I’ve come to realize, band houses are only made awful by bands themselves. Each one, perhaps once an innocent shelter, transformed by the passage of countless musicians and their late-night stories.

The gig last night was an odd affair. We felt as if we’d stepped through the looking glass into a slightly skewed reality. The Port-O-Call, with its dark wood, velvet curtains, and antique charm, felt both beautiful and haunted, as if old ghosts lingered in the shadows watching us through slits in the eyes of portraits on the walls.