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$39.50 – Reserved Seating
$49.50 – Reserved Seating
$49.50 – General Admission
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I been thinking a lot about the past again. I guess if you know me, that’s nothing new. Yeah, I smell what you’re sniffin’ at: “Oh boy, here goes ol’ Tubbs again, ramblin’ about those good ol’ bygone days of yore.” Well, sure, I’ll allow you that one. Maybe I do tend to take a good hard glance into the rearview before I step my boot on the gas. But don’t we all? Or shouldn’t we, in any case?
So, sometime in what’s now the not-too distant past, I was sittin’ in my usual seat inside Whispering Pines, cozied up to a glass of something cozy, when, from outta nowhere, this particular tune crept into my ear. It was a funny thing, because it immediately felt familiar to me, as a song that creeps into your ear usually has to be—especially for somebody like me who don’t write ’em…I just roll ’em. (You’ve heard me say that one more than a few times, no doubt.) But then the more I thought about it, and the more I listened to this little tune janglin’ around upstairs, I realized that I couldn’t place it as something I’d ever heard before. (And take my word for it: the ol’ upstairs is a titanium steel trap for tunes, even now.) It was a conundrum.
A week (or was it a month?) went by and the tune never went too far from my head. There’s a stranger in my eyes again… It almost got to where I was more used to the tune being there under my hat than my own face. …I swear to God I don’t know him. But then it happened, somethin’ I’ll never forget for as long as I live: My little tune came to life before my very eyes.
Now, be patient. I’ll tell you how.
That day, one of my all-time favorite acts happened to be booked in Whispering Pines for a recording spell, those good-time bootscooters and rhythm rascals known as Lord Huron. As always, the boys showed up early—but not earlier than ol’ Tubbs here—and made haste toward the studio’s live room.
“Howdy, fellers,” says I. “Headed for the big room, I see.” (If Whispering Pines was a church—it ain’t, mind you, but if it were—the live room would be the holy pulpit, I reckon.)
Ben (he’s the singer) just looked at me, touched the brim of his hat, and nodded. “Thought we might try somethin’ different this time, good buddy,” says he.
So I just gave him my grandest grand welcome and stepped aside, happy to have them back. Those boys know what they’re doin’, having made quite a few of their records with us. But the live room, this was gonna be a first, and a real treat. I tried my best to keep my grin to a simmer, sat down at the board, and watched as Mark, Miguel, Tom, and Ben started tunin’ her up
If you’ve ever had the pleasure of recording at the Pines, then you know that nothin’ in the place is off limits. Guitars, cymbals, pianos, pedal steel, mandolins, microphones, saxophones—what’s ours is ours, that’s my motto. And as the Huron boys are basically my own brothers by now— well, nephews, maybe, but who’s countin’—I was glad to see their hands on all of it. I even heard ’em talk about recording a gigantic string and woodwind orchestra in some dang place like Sweden or somewhat…those fellers really shoot the moon, I tell ya.
I was feeling pretty fine. Our old pine clock on the wall had long stopped tickin’ and the boys surely didn’t need any help from little ol’ me, so I helped myself to a little something cozy and kicked my boots up on the board. And it was then, in that instant, that I heard it…my tune.
That drivin’ guitar jangle, the steady drum thump, those breezy, liltin’ voices…it was all unmistakable. My tune! It had somehow crept out from that titanium trap I keep under my hat and sneaked into the live room to serenade me from behind the glass studio wall. Time seemed to stand still, even more than it usually does around here. It was like some long-lost dream come to life, a forgotten classic from a parallel dimension, the echo of a memory that wasn’t mine. But the feeling was real.
The Huron kept at it for a little while longer that day, but I must have drifted off peaceful-like in something of a cosmic slumber, with my tune—all of the tunes, in fact, as all of them were now mine—janglin’ heavy and happy in my heart. When I woke, the light from the next day was just starting to ease into the Pines, and I was alone. I stood up, stretched my creaky back, scratched a little stubble. As I turned to grab my leavin’ hat off its peg, something caught my eye: A hand- scratched note bound to a faded vinyl record sleeve was layin’ on the floor.
I bent down to snatch it up. The record was called “Long Lost,” and it looked as if it had been layin’ there on the floor since before Whispering Pines was even a whisper itself. I brushed the dust off the cover and saw that the artist was none other than the boys themselves—Lord Huron.
“Say, Tubbs,” the note read. “Time washes aways what man creates, but ‘Long Lost’ might convince you that a note can live on. Be good now. The Boys.”
And just like that, they were gone.
As ever, friends, may you live until you die,