St. Louis, MO – “HELP ME!” – Off-Broadway – July 20, 2002

Hi Sal? It’s Soucy. I’m locked out. You’re probably asleep with earplugs in, and it sounds like you left the TV on—pretty loud, I might add. But I’m knocking,” (knock knock knock) “and I guess I’ll just… knock some more.” (knock knock knock)
That was the message I woke up to this morning (the 21st) at 11 AM. It was followed by another, far less composed:
“Sally, H E L P… They won’t let me in. The front desk has no record of me being allowed in the room, and it’s 2:30, and I am sooooo tired. I just went for a sandwich, took the wrong key, and now I can’t get back in. H E L P M E!”
As I was processing all of this, Soucy strolled into the room, looking remarkably fresh and clean despite his ordeal.
“How’d you finally get in?” I asked, trying to suppress the smirk tugging at my lips. He was, after all, right—I had completely passed out with earplugs and CNN blaring.
Supposedly, Soucy had to describe the contents of our room in painful detail to convince the night guard he actually belonged there. His pièce de résistance? Holding up the cover of Apt #6s and explaining he was in the band. Only then was he allowed in.
“Didn’t sleep great,” he said, his voice nonchalant as he bounced onto the edge of the bed with an apple turnover and flicked on the TV.
The night before had been great—a packed lineup featuring three bands, including South Carolina’s Blue Dogs. The space was incredible, — brick walls, cathedral ceilings, and an old-school theater vibe that felt equal parts vaudeville and magic.
And then, as if scripted, in walked Beatle Bob.

If you’ve never heard of the infamous music journalist Beatle Bob, he’s the kind of legend they should write folk songs about—or at least include in a future Muppet Show reboot. Rumor has it, the man goes to over 400 shows a year, dancing enthusiastically at every single one, all while owning exactly two jackets: one maroon (which he was rocking that night) and the other, apparently pink (possibly with a gold collar).
“You know you’ve got something special when Beatle Bob shows up,” the soundman said with a knowing nod.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a little nervous; after all, this was our first proper gig in almost a year. But climbing on stage felt familiar, like slipping into an old, broken-in pair of shoes.
Rusty? Oh, absolutely. Tight? Not even close. But you know what? The crowd didn’t seem to mind and Beatle Bob twirled and grooved to every single tune we played.
On stage, everything felt right again—the lights, the mic, the music, and even the chaos of a 2 AM hotel lockout. I didn’t know how I’d feel climbing back in the saddle and I’m happy to report the answer is — I feel good, strong, confident, back in the game.
That said, I miss Dean. It’s hard to justify being away from him even after a great first gig. I think my future as a musician will be determined by this tour. I know now, after a six month hiatus, what success truly means to me and I that I’ll know what it looks like when I see it. I don’t mention anything to the band but they must intuit the fate of our group hangs by a fingernail after my recent engagement. I owe them everything to try to make it work. They are my brothers from another mother, my comrades in arms, my closest confidants, my steadfast allies. It means almost as much as my health and sanity to remain loyal to them.
Almost.
I am the Little Engine That Could. “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…”