The finality of situations has been something of an idée fixe for me since as far back as I can remember. Whether it was the yearly road trip to Disney World as a child, tours, or—let’s get dark, kids!—my own demise, some form of “this will be over” is a phrase ping-ponging in the old Beguiristain noggin near the outset of such journeys.
I imagine it’s partly to get myself to enjoy every sandwich, and partly to gird myself for The End. (And probably because I’m a morbid son of a bitch.)
I never harbored such thoughts about Boston, though, even after we decided roughly a year and a half ago to make the move to Los Angeles. (The only thought which ever came close was assuming my untimely death would occur on the corner of Mass. Ave. and Boylston via vehicular manslaughter. I guess there’s still time?)
But now here we are.
It hit me about a month and a half ago, walking home on an unusually warm winter day while listening to the third Mynabirds record: I’ve mere days to go before the tour starts and I leave the place I have spent my entire adult life in. The city where I earned my soul; where I met the vast majority of my dearest friends, and discovered some of my favorite bands.
People ask me where I’m from and—swear to god—replying with “I’m from Boston” feels as disingenuous as “I’m from Miami”.
Boston is the only place which, for better or for worse, has ever truly felt like home to me.
In the sixteen years I’ve lived here, we’ve made truly extraordinary friends (and one or two very interesting enemies!). The quality of music and art made here is inspiring and often humbling. It’s made us better musicians, better songwriters. Our friends made us better people.
I’m loathe to imagine what sort of piece of shit I would have become without them.
We owe an incalculable debt to so many people here. I hope y’all know who you are and how grateful we are.
At the risk of hurting someone’s feelings somewhere, I want to single out a few people who have gone above and beyond for us over the years—Annie March, Chris March, Beca Oliveira, Martin Schmidheiny, and Hugh Wyman: I honestly have no fucking clue where we’d be without you guys.
Although I’m feeling especially misty, I don’t want to whitewash this either: Boston’s become a tough place to live in, let alone maintain a functioning, working band. The winter is one thing, but truth told, I’ve learned to deal with angrily shaking my frostbitten fist at the heavens once a year. It’s all the rest, all the fixable stuff, the crap which really gnaws at the soul. And it’s becoming impossible to afford living here. Our friend Michael Epstein wrote a great, thoughtful piece on Medium last year about his and Sophia Cacciola’s own move from Boston to Los Angeles. With an exception or two, the piece echoes our own feelings on what’s going down in Boston much more articulately than I can muster here. I highly recommend reading it. (In fact, read his piece on the shuttering of the Boston Phoenix, too.)
Surprisingly enough, though, I find myself not feeling particularly bitter about it. It might feel unrequited at times, but I still love this place.
I still want my friends here to succeed.
I still want this city to be better.
And anyway, this isn’t the end. You can’t get rid of us that easily, fuckers. Whether it’s tour or visiting or what have you, I can say with certainty we’ll be back.
Just, y’know… not in January.