I don’t play clubs anymore.
I had my time in my twenties—hauling amps up staircases, sweating through late sets in smoky bars, sharing stages with friends, strangers, and the occasional legend. It was a beautiful kind of chaos, and I wouldn’t trade those memories for anything.
But these days, I write and record from home. No sound checks, no drink tickets, no hot lights, nor more lugging an amp. Just a modest studio tucked into a corner of the house—guitars on stands, notebooks full of half-finished lyrics, old friends dropping in to track something when they can. It’s quieter now. More personal. But if I’m honest, that quiet can feel like a double-edged sword. Sometimes it wraps around me like comfort. Other times, it echoes like a vacuum, where it’s just me and the music… and the doubt that maybe, without the noise and chaos of it all, the spark might fade.
Then November happened.
David Gilmour. Madison Square Garden.
I made the trip with my wife. We spent the weekend doing “me” things (Yes, I’m married to a saint). She made the trip all about “me.” We explored guitar shops, record shops, food joints, and the gritty side of NYC. We put life on hold for an extended weekend and left Pittsburgh behind for a few days just to be in the room when that tone echoed off the Garden walls. Gilmour doesn’t perform often these days, which made it feel like more than a concert. It felt like a farewell, or maybe a benediction.
From the first tick-tocks of “Time,” I went somewhere else entirely. His guitar doesn’t shout. It speaks. Every bend is like a sentence; every sustain, a memory. You don’t just hear it—you feel it settle in your soul.
It hit me hard: you don’t need to play fast, or loud, or even often. You just need to play something honest.
I came home different. Opened up some old session files. Picked up a guitar I hadn’t touched in months. And I started writing again, slowly, patiently. Gilmour reminded me that space is as powerful as sound—and that a single note, placed just right, can carry more weight than an entire chorus.
Then May came. Pearl Jam. Pittsburgh.
Different energy. Different fuel. This wasn’t introspective—it was alive. The kind of show that makes your ribs shake. Vedder poured himself into every lyric like it still mattered. Like it always would.
Watching them, I realized something: Pearl Jam has aged, but they haven’t slowed down. They’ve just refined. They play like they still have something to prove—not to the crowd, but to themselves. That’s the kind of hunger I want to hold onto, even if I never leave my home studio again.
I started looking at my lyrics differently. Asking harder questions. Is this line real? Am I avoiding something? Would I sing this if the lights were off and no one was listening?
I don’t miss the clubs. Not really. I don’t need applause or stage lights anymore. What I do need is the feeling I had in that arena in November, and again in that stadium in May. That reminder—that music still has the power to shake you out of yourself.
So now I’m back in the studio. Writing. Playing. Calling up old bandmates to lay down parts. There’s no tour. No release date. Just music. Made for the love of it. Made to last.
Gilmour and Pearl Jam lit something in me again.
Not to go back. But to go deeper.
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Thanks for reading. If you’re someone who’s been quietly chasing your sound from a home studio or basement setup—keep going. You never know what one show, one song, or one moment might unlock. 🎙️🎸