Our big, fat tour bus was sitting in highway traffic somewhere in the South. The kind of traffic jam where people get so bored and hot that they spill out of the cars to share cigarettes, conversation and thermoses full of Kool-Aid. We spilled out of our bus and parked ourselves on a guard rail to talk about endings. “We live in our future, so do we have a future?” etc.
You never know. A death doesn’t often announce itself, especially not the death of a band. When the Muses died, it was after a series of small moments: symptoms of impending doom, a closing door. Music didn’t care if nobody showed up at an in-store, but we did. Music didn’t notice a half-full club or a pathetic record company meeting, but we did. Music didn’t bother to show up for interviews anyway, so when there were no longer any interviews, music didn’t care. But we did. Like many people, entities, movements and energies, we had to go away before we were done. The music kept playing even after we’d stopped playing it.
Nothing’s ever perfect anyway; it never was and it never will be. How many eggs did you put in that basket? Well, who’s fault is that?
This song used to make me teary ’cause at one time, I had all my eggs in the Muses’ basket. Today, it makes me happy because I know the Muses will make it their own.