Places lend themselves to great music.

The Fillmore, The Troubadour, The Roxy.

It’s a single word that becomes a name that becomes way more than a name.

They’re where those 30 bands your parents really loved got their start.

They’re like refuges. Experience incubators made of bricks.

But no matter where your favorite band is now, you remember that one time.

That one night, at a concert with your favorite band for just for a few hours.

That crowd and that red glow peeking through the foggy air.

And then the rush. The hum of anticipation that comes with the time before that first note.

Riffs pummel the air. An inadvertent shoulder check from that one guy.

That guy who always needs to move to feel the music while he hears it. To own the space.

You just nod your head while you listen. A little tacit approval over and over again of the sounds coming from the stage.

A great act happening right before your ears. An act you’ll remember for a long, long time. So remember to soak it in.

But no matter where that band is now, you remember them then, and you remember them there. That one time at that place somewhere.

Store it in your mind. Keep that little bundle of neurons and recall it every now and again for that little red glow of a feeling.

The place you were in is as present and memorable as the sounds that you heard.

And you can almost feel the shoulder checks again.

Alright, guy. Alright.