Slipped through my birthday unnoticed at Gore’s Landing, just the way I like it. Sweaty magic was the show. No air conditioning, just heatwave inside a old schoolhouse that moonlights as a library… and apparently, doubles as a recording spot for Neil Young and his brother. I guess that part about dream comfort memory to spare is still true. Mike’s keyboard had his name boldly embossed, front and center like a marquee. He kept apologizing, as if I’d feel eclipsed by it. He even bought neon bristol board to hide it. Instead, when it was my turn I wrote the word “not” on the paper, taping it beside his name. Everything felt slightly softened, as if the wind moved slower out of politeness. Most of the audience was a rural mystery constellation, pretty wonderful. Casually, Greg Keelor wandered in. Half surprising, half inevitable. Lit up when I played Airplane on the Highway.