We realized we had to actively manifest a sense of the new and familiar in our partnership. We spent so much time in experiences that came from being onstage that we became strangers to ourselves and each other when we were home for a year without that external stimulus of touring. “Stranger Again” was written before COVID, but it feels like we wrote it about this moment in our lives. Maybe we’ll sleep in separate rooms for a spell. Our partner comes home, and the house shrinks. A neighbor pulls in the driveway, and it’s such a privilege to bring them a spare loaf of bread from the freezer. New experiences are more subtle, more sacred than they used to be. These days, familiarity is a quiet hum, the refrigerator or A/C kicking on. Sometimes we need a break from each other, but we still have to show up and do our thing. It’s a beautiful thing to share triumphs and failures so closely with each other, but it’s a full-time job with faint boundaries that easily disappear when we aren’t careful. We’re business partners who are entirely responsible for our successes in this incredibly difficult field. A lot of that is true, but doesn’t always come easy. There seems to be a perception that couples who play music together have an easier time avoiding the pitfalls that come with long-term relationships, that our personal and professional lives are inextricably buoyed by a bright and shiny love for music and each other. An hour goes by, and we bear witness to every passing second. We felt the air thin into winter and welcomed the first hints of spring as daffodils reclaimed their place in the world around us. We noticed the seasons change, the gradual shift in color giving way to a burst of gold or green. In an act of self-preservation, we stop marking the varied microscopic lost pieces of our old lives and reclaim gratitude in granular shifts toward a new outlook. We now have to try harder to maintain the strength and confidence from a routine that once was a simple fact of life: perform and get better. The dust settled on what was once a manic dash toward the next show, the next milestone, the next footnote in a career that lives and dies alongside an ego, and we were left to ponder what we’ve been doing with our time. I guess what we’re getting at is, you don’t have to try very hard to bring new energy into your life when it’s built into your way of making a living together.Īfter a few years of telling ourselves we needed to stop for a second and breathe, we finally didn’t have a choice. Maybe an hour goes by, and we hardly notice. In our case, we do this as the closest of friends. On the road, we develop strength and confidence to bring familiarity to strange, new experiences. We try out new things on instruments we’ve played for countless hours. There are things you can count on, but the majority of the experience is a total mystery until it happens. Most venues have their own feel, and many have that same dirty basement vibe. There’s the steady lines on the road, the same fast food chains. There’s a perfect balance of that when traveling to play music. We crave familiarity as much as we desire the strange and new.
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