I text Dusty to ask him where he’s playing tonite. “Route 66 Smokehouse. Right off of Wall St.” Ahh, Wall St. Haven’t had the pleasure yet. Make my way through the cobblestones on William Street, dominated by the grand obelisks that make up the financial district. A heavy skyline pushing the moon out of orbit and drawing in the air of the night like a frozen breath.
I step into the bar and immediately notice I’m the only one in here younger than my parents, besides the waiters. I’m late but I still wade through a few beers and some hot mac and cheese before the band starts playing. They call themselves the Dusty Wright Project, led by Dusty Wright strapped into his guitar wearing a harmonica about his neck, and I can already tell what his music is going to sound like. I was given his number through a generous connection and was told he would be interested in having an intern. To do what, polish his guitars and get him beer? I don’t know but it sounds like the perfect opportunity for me, so in the meantime during his 2-hour set, scatterbrained I swim through some more drinks in a bit of nervous anticipation. I finally get the chance to talk to him, when there’s no more than 5 other people there paying him slight attention. He’s a wearing a denim jacket with a Sasquatch patch on his breast, underneath a graying mop of hair and a cheesy round smile. I introduce myself, he says he’ll give me a call the next day, very polite to me as he can probably tell how drunk and awkward I am and let’s me off easy. I’d been thinking about his music. About how it’s tired old-man tunes, I can play guitar twice as good as him and he’s barely got any chops, getting very cocky and brash before that disappears after I waddle up to him himself. The music doesn’t excite me though its apparent that he is a seasoned songwriter. His voice is tired but bright and hopeful. The harmonica shakes a sweet vibration throughout the set. His guitar player shreds a severed light all the way through, screaming and soothing. I can never go to a show without envisioning myself up there center stage, and sit through half of it dreaming. Long way to go son, and I suppose I gotta do my fair share of ass-kissing and listening before I get too ahead of myself.
Still waiting to hear back from him.
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