We had been on the road for a year and a half, and the plan was to wrap up our riot of indulgence with a four-night stand in Philly. We arrived early, exhausted and disheveled, voices shot, hearts parched, and while we had every intention of easing into it, someone inevitably called all-hands-to-the-bar and away we went. One before-breakfast eye-opener turned into two and pretty soon I was pleasantly jingled. With soundcheck still hours away, I decided that a walk was in order and slipped outside under the guise of a cigarette. Half a block later, I was stopped by an intangible stranger who politely remarked that he had seen plenty of drinkin’ Johnnies and cokey Joes aimlessly exploring the streets of Philadelphia, but I took the cake. He prescribed Jesus and water, which I solemnly acknowledged. Sheepishly, I returned to my stool and upon seeing my reflection in the mirror behind the bar became wistful and started writing.
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