Welcome to my newsletter for the second quarter of 2026. It’s been an interesting one. Straight out of the gate, I was feeling pretty gung-ho and eager to deal some serious damage this quarter. I felt more confident than ever about maintaining the momentum I had built at the start of the year, and I had some really strong projects in the works. A good deal of them even came to fruition!

But, per usual, things don’t always go as planned. These past three (now four) months have brought with them their fair share of significant hurdles. In all honesty, I’m still in the process of clearing a handful of them. But hey, we’re all works in progress, and there will always be more work to do.

If there is one thing this quarter has taught me, it’s that I’m more capable than I sometimes give myself credit for. I pulled off some pretty significant wins over these past few months, and all while settling into new routines and navigating unfamiliar rhythms. I’m happy to say that things feel like they are starting to settle. It feels as though the scales are starting to balance themselves out, and for the most part, I’m fairly content with how things are progressing.

Anyway, enough with the excuses. Let’s get into it.

New Avenues & Heavy Lyft-ing

Between February and March, I was faced with a bit of a predicament. My roommate decided to move out early to get a head start on his next chapter in life. This left me with a choice: carry the lease by myself or find a new sublet to split up living costs. After starting the year on such a high note, I felt fairly confident I could make ends meet (or at least survive until the lease ends in July). I knew it would take a good deal of elbow grease, but I was up for the challenge.

Come April, it became clear that my finances weren’t hitting the mark and that I needed to generate some more consistent cash flow. Fortunately, I ran into a good friend one evening, and she gave me a solid tip. She had recently started driving for Lyft and suggested that I would make a great driver. That little nudge of encouragement truly changed the course of my life. I cannot thank her enough for that. (Thanks, Em!)

One very early morning in April, I woke up stressed to the bone. The bills were starting to pile up, rent was coming due, and my bank accounts were draining fast. At least the weather was rather pleasant. I woke up before the sun, and something in my inner being knew that this was the day to take action and try something new.

I downloaded the Lyft app and started filling out the onboarding forms. To my surprise, I was notified that I could be cleared to drive in as little as a couple of hours. That was music to my ears. So I headed over to Target to grab a phone mount, and by the time I got back to my car, I was cleared to go.

I set up the mount, opened the app, and within a minute or two:

Brrring. Ride requested.

OK! … Let’s see how this works.

I’m not going to lie to you, it was a little nerve-wracking at first. Allowing strangers into my car, driving them around to unfamiliar locations, and feeling the heavy responsibility of being liable for them was a lot to get used to. But once I got into the swing of things and became more adept with the platform, I found myself really enjoying the flow of it.

By the end of my first month, after only driving for a few weeks, I earned the status of a Platinum Tier Lyft Driver. That recognition gave me a massive boost in self-worth and confidence and since then, I’ve been able to climb up and maintain my status as an Elite Tier driver.

I have now given close to 800 rides. Over twenty passengers have added me as a favorite driver, and I currently rank in the top 5% of drivers in my region for various accolades. In addition, I’ve never received anything less than a 5-star review, and I gotta say: that feels good, man.

This new gig has been a tremendous help in rounding out my finances. It has also gotten me to step out of my comfort zone in more ways than I can count. Not only do I meet and chat with people of all different ages and walks of life, but in a way this job has become its own kind of documentary work. I see a lot of varying cross sections of humanity as I make my rounds, and every passenger brings with them a new story, a new perspective, and a new route. Driving for Lyft has given me a much deeper understanding of the city and how it connects with the surrounding counties, along with a new sense of pride in my vehicle. Even more so; a renewed sense of pride in myself.

It’s Official: He’s a Cantor

I have officially been recognized as one of the Cantors at St. Matthew’s Episcopal Church. After singing with them as a choral scholar for the past year, it is truly an honor to be raised to this title. It has been such a pleasure to sing and work with this ensemble. Everyone has been an absolute delight, and working under the direction of Donald Traser has expanded my musical knowledge beyond horizons I could have only dreamed of. I greatly look forward to continuing my work with these folks and exploring all of the beautiful music that lies ahead.

In addition to singing in Sunday choir, I participated in my second season with the Richmond Concert Chorale. This go-around, we had the pleasure of joining forces with RVA Baroque for a collaborative performance. Singing alongside a live string section and a real harpsichord was a rare treat; we performed an entire Bach movement alongside a handful of other challenging and intricate pieces. This season also marked my very first Evensong service where we joined in and sang with the St. Stephen’s Choir.

Dinosaur Park

One of the absolute highlights of this quarter was taking part in the filming of Wes Parker’s latest Music Video: Dinosaur Park.

I got brought on as an extra thanks to yet another a tip from a dear friend (thanks, Jess!) and we arrived on set together for a full day of shooting. Stepping onto a real film set again felt like a dream come true. I was utterly blown away by the scale and professionalism of the entire production; it’s hard to capture the exact brand of creative magic that transpired that day, but it was clear that everyone on set was feeling it.

The music video made its premiere on June 5th, and the final cut turned out exceptionally well. As extras, we didn’t know much about the overall narrative while we were shooting, so seeing how the finished story came together far exceeded my already high expectations. It’s a genuine work of art.

A huge thank you to the entire cast and crew for having us on board. I met some really wonderful people on that set, and the experience left me eager to find my way onto another production sooner than not. If you haven’t seen it yet, I strongly encourage you to give it a watch below. Truly exceptional work.

Opera Overdue

Speaking of productions, I recently had the pleasure of attending my very first opera. I was gifted a ticket to see VCU’s production of Aaron Copland’s “The Tender Land.” A couple of fellow choristers from St. Matthew’s were in the cast, and it was a real treat to see them take to the stage.

I sat just a few rows back from the front, which gave me an exceptional view of the performance as well as a prime vantage point of the pit orchestra below. It was immensely inspiring to watch Professor Myssyk at work conducting the ensemble once again.

All in all, I left the theater feeling incredibly full. The storyline was deeply relatable and moving, and I was thoroughly impressed by the high production standards pulled off by the cast and crew. As a VCU Music Department alumnus, I find it somewhat startling that it took me this long to finally attend an operatic performance. However, it certainly felt like the right place and time. Going forward, I plan on making it more of a point to attend future productions. Bravo!

Stars in their Eyes

The last (and certainly not least) production I had a hand in was over at my grandparents’ community center. “Stars in Their Eyes” was an original musical play written by my grandmother, Lorraine Redman, and brought to life by the River Ridge Players.

The musical took the audience on a humorous and adventurous road trip across the country, led by Miss Piggy (played by my Grandmother) and Kermit the Frog (played by my Grandfather). Along their journey, they cross paths with a legendary lineup of musical icons, including Elvis, Mama Cass, Willie Nelson, and Patsy Cline, just to name a few.

With this being a one-weekend-only run, I made sure to capture the entire opening performance on video, and I’m more than happy to share the link upon request. It was a genuine treasure to witness my grandmother’s creativity on full display, and I’m deeply grateful to have had the proper gear to document the evening in real time. This footage is going to hold a very special place in my personal archives for decades to come.

Harvest Moon

I think my biggest win of the quarter was executing the production of a commissioned edition of my friends’ wedding poster, designed by the incredibly talented Harry Slater.

This edition took roughly eight months to come to fruition, and I learned an enormous amount about the craft and production process along the way. I still have a couple more variants to knock out before the entire series is finished, so I’ll save the technical and “dirty details” for a deep-dive post once everything is completed.

Until then, I’m thrilled to share the finished product of the main edition, printed on heavy-weight 19x26 Rives. It truly took a village for these prints to come to life, and seeing the final result in the flesh made every ounce of effort worth the while.

The Pizzini Connection

Here’s another neat project I had the pleasure of assisting with. During one of my monitor shifts, I was tasked with printing the background passes of these Pizzini Pop Up posters.

The resulting exhibition was deeply insightful. Learning that some of these specific letterpress typefaces have been in continuous use for over 130 years was mind-blowing. Richmond has a tendency of often reminding us that we’re all taking part in living history, and it was an incredibly humbling experience to make even a small contribution toward carrying on the legacy of this press. One of the lead curators was very kind to let me pick out and take home one of the finished posters, I greatly look forward to having it framed.

On the Horizon

With the end of summer quickly approaching, I have plenty of catching up to do on the page. When spring arrived, I was incredibly eager to spend as much time outdoors as possible, which led to a bit of a pause from publishing on Substack. That said, I have a handful of musical write-ups I plan on sharing in the coming weeks, as well as some exciting travel plans that I look forward to documenting throughout the remainder of the year.

Over the passed few months, I have become increasingly fixated on a major goal: attempting to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail. This is an achievement I would love to have under my belt sooner rather than later. We’ll see how the rest of 2026 shapes up to determine whether 2027 is the year we make it happen. I did just secure the renewal of my lease, so I have my housing locked in for another year if I so choose to stay for the entire duration. I’m in a very fortunate position to have a landlady who is remarkably supportive of my long-term travel goals, meaning an early lease exit without financial penalty is well within the realm of possibility. Regardless of whether or not I hit the trail next year, it is looking like these next months, to full year, will likely be my last living full-time in Richmond. At least for the foreseeable future.

I’ve been given the same piece of advice time and time again: To seize this window of opportunity while I don’t have much tying me down; To go explore the world and experience more of what it has to offer. After living in Richmond for 13 consecutive years, it’s feeling like the time is drawing near to turn the page and see what the next chapter has in store for me. I will always consider Richmond a home, and I will more than likely find myself settling back here in the long run. I mean, I’ve poured a lot of myself into this city, and in return it’s poured a lot of itself back into me.

These past few years have been particularly transformative. I have been shedding a lot of excess baggage (both physically and mentally) and paring my material possessions down to what I consider to be mostly essentials. I still have some loose ends to tie up and a fairly lengthy to-do list to knock out before I start making tracks, but for the first time in a long time, I feel as though I am truly stepping back into myself.

For years, I felt as though I was living mostly in service to others. I put myself through a long season of people-pleasing. Now, I feel more comfortable and confident than ever to redirect that same level of care, energy, and dedication back into the pursuit of my own interests and happiness. I’m not sure what lies ahead exactly, but so far I’ve been pleasantly surprised, and sometimes even shocked, by how things have a way of working out.

So to whatever comes next, I look forward to entering this next chapter with a curious spirit and a strong sense of adventure. There is so much more of this country to see, and I look forward to taking you all along for the ride.

Until next time, I hope y’all are having an enjoyable summer.

-David

I am thrilled to share the first official quarterly newsletter from Davideatin LLC! Yes, It’s official. Bringing this business to life has been a long journey, and I am humbled to share that from the support of loyal subscribers and patrons (such as yourself!) that my efforts have officially turned a profit. A humongous Thank You! to all of you for your continued patronage and support.

As of March 30th, Davideatin LLC is operating in the black. In a landscape where new creative ventures often struggle to find their footing, your support allowed me to achieve solvency in my first official operational quarter. After years of dedication, seeing the hard work finally paying off is incredible to say the least. Even if that “victory lap” net profit is currently sitting at $71.20 (after operating expenses *sigh*).

So far, 2026 has been my most promising year yet. Despite the surprises this year has sprung on me, I’ve finally established a solid home base in the Carver neighborhood of Richmond. Having the physical space to delegate my various creative avenues, from the office/art room to the recording nook, has been a transformative asset. While the financial engineering of an independent venture is a constant puzzle, the solitude and focus afforded by this new HQ are already yielding high functioning results.

I have the option to renew this lease for another year in August, and if things continue in this upward direction, I hope to stay put. Especially now that my furnishings are finally settled in, the mere thought of moving again makes my body feel tired...

But onward! here are the major milestones from Q1:

Hitting the Little Screen:

It is safe to say that the standout milestone of Q1 was my official commercial debut. I had the pleasure of collaborating with 2001 Films to produce a social media promo highlighting clip-on pedals from FlatBike and a very stylish handlebar bag from Manhattan Portage.

In addition to acting in the spot, the production team chose to use an unreleased track from my archive as the score. Seeing the sound and vision come together has been incredible; at this time of writing, the ad has attracted over 210,000 views and still counting.

The featured track, “Wet M8 BIG PROG” is now officially streaming worldwide. What began as a raw demo, recorded a few years ago, has now become a released single. If you’ve been looking for a high-fidelity version of the music from the ad, you can find it on your streaming service of choice, or support my archive directly by purchasing it from my Bandcamp

Photojournalism & Dispatches:

Looking back at the dashboard, I’m genuinely surprised to see that I’ve already published 10 fully fleshed written works to my Substack this year. I’ve managed to keep my New Year’s resolution of writing up every show I’ve attended so far, a feat of “Grit” that has allowed me to document the pulse of the RVA scene in real-time. Here’s what I’ve seen so far:

A particular highlight was being brought on as the photographer for Shelly Star and the Galaxy. They “crash-landed” at The Camel in January, and capturing their high-octane performance was simply out of this world.

Dispatches from the Field: Bourbon & Beyond

I’ve been rolling out a series of dispatches from my experience at the 2025 Bourbon and Beyond Festival. While the next installment took a brief backseat to the logistical demands of the Carver HQ this month, have no fear: it is currently in the final editing phase. This next dispatch is a big one, and I plan to drop it later this weekend.

The 2016 Excavation:

In contrast to the “high times” of the festival circuit, I’ve also spent a lot of time this quarter looking back at the trials and tribulations of 2016. These stories contain a lot heavy themes, but excavating these “Acts” from the Archive and sharing them with the world has left me with a profound sense of relief. You can find the full narrative arc below:

The Monks on Broad Street:

Lastly, I had the incredible opportunity to document the Monks as they processed through the capital city on their long walking journey from Texas to DC. I chose not to write about this visit; I felt that larger publications covered the logistics, and frankly, the photos speak more clearly than I could. Capturing that sense of peace as they made their way down Broad Street was a moment of utter calmness amidst the chaotic urban rush.

Musical Musings: From the Sanctuary to the Studio

Beyond the “WET M8” excitement, the first quarter has been defined by a rigorous return to vocal performance. My work as a Choral Scholar at St. Matthews Episcopal remains a vital part of my weekly rhythm. A recent highlight was the opportunity to perform a solo from Handel alongside the organ, a touching moment of sacred music which still remains a foundational cornerstone of my vocal practice.

I am also singing in my second season with the Richmond Concert Chorale (RCC). I took part in my first Evensong, alongside the St. Stephen’s Choir, which was an unforgettable milestone of my vocal career. Looking ahead, the RCC will be collaborating with RVA Baroque for a concert at St. Benedict in late April. I’ll share the full details at the end of this newsletter.

The Carver Music Room: A New Production Phase

With the restoration of the Carver HQ, I finally have a dedicated music room again. This space is already the engine for two major projects: an upcoming Cover Album and the continued development of my next Full-Length Original Album.

Since the viral success of the bike promo, I’ve seen a significant uptick in interest regarding Commercial Music Production. Having a stabilized “Command Center” allows me to pivot into these high-level opportunities with the speed and quality they require.

A Special Session in the Archive: The Scottish Fiddler

Lastly, I had the absolute pleasure of collaborating with a legitimate Scottish Fiddler named Colin, who was invited to join us at a friends home for a St. Paddy’s Day reception. We managed to lay down several recordings together during his stay. With his permission, I hope to release these captures to the public in the near future.

Progress in Printmaking and Design

The year has begun with a series of high-level production wins that have pushed my capabilities into new territories. From commercial design to traditional hand-printing, the studio is continuing to chug along.

Commercial Design: The Wine Label

Kicking off the quarter, I completed my first Wine Label commission for a local RVA producer. While the design is currently under wraps as the bottles move toward the retail shelves, I look forward to sharing the label and product once it’s ready to be revealed to the public.

Mojo Glassworks: Local Stained Glass Artisans

My good friends at Mojo Glassworks recently opened their new studio and retail shop in Manchester! I had the pleasure of printing a limited run of custom tote bags for the occasion. They turned out beautifully, and I look forward to developing more merch alongside their team as they continue to settle in to their new space.

Bespoke Commissions & Exceptional Materials

I am currently finalizing the prep to hand-print a poster for a friend’s upcoming wedding ceremony. For this edition, I reached out to Exceptional Papers to utilize some truly stunning foil variants. Seeing this design hit the paper and foils will be a highlight of the next quarter, and I look forward to sharing the finished products once the edition is complete.

The “Printer’s Printer”: Screen Prep

Behind the scenes, I’ve continued taking on Screen Prep and Maintenance for fellow local printers (You know who you are) thank you for your continued support and for keeping me in the rotation.

Expanding the Toolkit: The Letterpress

A few months ago, I expanded my technical repertoire with a Letterpress 101 class at Studio Two Three. While I’ve dabbled in the process before, getting a thorough rundown was eye-opening to say the least. The result was this small run of “Fire Horse Era” prints. A couple of these will be available on the web shop this April.

Community & Culture at Studio Two Three

My time as an Intern and Studio Monitor at Studio Two Three remains a highlight of my week. There is never a dull moment in that space; whether I’m managing the floor or helping hang jellyfish for the “SAD PROM,” the energy at S23 is a constant source of inspiration.

The Alchemy Print: Public Drop Coming Soon

Lastly, the Alchemy Prints are officially circulating through the collector’s circuit. I have intentionally kept these off of social media to ensure they find their proper homes through direct channels. That said, I will have a very limited number of this edition available for the public in April. So please, keep your eyes peeled for an announcement 👀

In Other News: Living History

This quarter marked my first full year as a Freemason; an experience that continues to provide a vital perspective on the passage of time and the preservation of legacy.

A Night at Mason’s Hall

Last month, I had the unique opportunity to sleep over at the historic Mason’s Hall with a fellow brother and close friend (who happens to serve on our paranormal committee). While we didn’t encounter any ghostly residents, we didn’t get much sleep either; mostly due to the modern “racket” in Shockoe Bottom on a Friday night. There is something profoundly humbling about inhabiting a space that has stood as a silent witness to Richmond’s history for centuries.

The Marquis Returns

I also had the distinct pleasure of attending lunch with a direct descendant of the Marquis de Lafayette. This meeting coincided with the return of our lodge’s portrait of Lafayette from the Governor’s Mansion, where it had been on loan during the final months of the Youngkin administration.

Bridging the gaps of history in this manner, literally sitting across from a living lineage of a man who helped shape our nation, continues to baffle and inspire me. There is much more history yet to uncover as I continue service to my Mother Lodge: Richmond Randolph No. 19.

On the Horizon Q2 and Beyond

This first quarter has been a masterclass in perseverance. Even when a few wrenches were thrown into the works, I’ve learned that you cannot let minor friction stop the momentum of the machine. Sometimes, you just have to roll with the punches and keep the gears moving toward the next milestone.

The “Content” Pivot:

For the month of April, I plan to be more active in every artists favorite activity: Content Creation (cue the eye roll). Please bear with me as I test various Instagram Reel tactics in hopes of capturing and maintaining this new global reach. The goal is to turn this “Viral Signal” into a permanent community.

The Path to Mastery:

I am currently focusing on continuing to polish my print portfolio as I prepare to pursue an MFA in Painting and Printmaking at VCU, hopefully in the fall. In the meantime, I am officially accepting commissions for Q2. If you or a friend have a project in mind, be it design, print, or sound, I would be happy to offer my services. You can reach out to me directly or fill out the commission form on my website.

The “Big Fish” Mystery:

I’ve recently caught wind of a major archival project on the horizon. I’ve been asked to keep the details under wraps for now, and I will uphold that request, but I am incredibly thrilled to share more about this partnership in the up and coming months. So please, Stay tuned.

Live Performance: RCC & RVA Baroque:

As promised, here are the details for this season’s Richmond Concert Chorale performance:

• Location: St. Benedict Catholic Church (Museum District)

• Date & Time: April 25th, 7:30 PM

As Always, Thank You!

None of these strides would be possible without readers like you. I am humbled to have such a supportive community interested in how I navigate these transitions. All of you mean the world to me, and I look forward to sharing more findings and creations with you very soon.

Until next time,

David Eaton

Composer | Fine Art Printmaker | Producer

There are no secrets.

It’s all there for the taking.

Only up from here.

Oh! you startled me,

Don’t mind me, I’m just soakin.

I told you to knock!

I spent the next couple of weeks at an outpatient facility in Merrifield. It was actually a really positive experience. The program was housed in a seemingly new facility with modern features, and a staff that was incredibly kind and helpful. It sat right near the block where I held my first job at Motorhead LLC (though I’ll save those archives for another day). The atmosphere was a stark contrast to the sterile, outdated confines of the psych ward.

One thing I particularly enjoyed in the outpatient program was their extensive collection of coloring books. I spent a significant amount of time coloring this one as we went about our daily sessions.

The Grind

As I settled back into a more level state of mind, the sheer weight of my circumstances began to press in. We were only a month or so into the semester, and my two-week “hiatus” had put me significantly behind on my studies. On top of that, I still had 25 hours of community service to complete before my court date at the end of the month. The question of “What the heck am I going to do?” hung heavy in the air.

The only answer: bite the bullet.

My parents took the proactive step of alerting the Dean at VCU, who in turn reached out to my professors. To my relief, they were all incredibly understanding, granting me the grace and time needed to make up my work. Fortunately, I’d done most of the heavy lifting in my earlier college years, setting myself up for a manageable senior year. That was one piece of the puzzle handled. My dad even recovered my laptop from the condo, allowing me to start chipping away at the makeup work while still in the outpatient program.

Once the outpatient program concluded, I had one final, and dreaded appointment at Labcorp. Part of my new medical regimen involved routine thyroid checks to monitor the effects of the medication. This meant frequent blood samples, and as I’ve detailed in my NIH write-up, I have a visceral hatred of needles. It was just one more "grounding" reality I had to face as I prepared to return to my life in Richmond.

The Nadir

My mom drove me back to Richmond and stayed with me for a few nights as I tried to find my rhythm. The Sierra Club was just as understanding as my professors; they allowed me to take work home, sorting through thousands of info surveys and entering them in their database from the comfort of my condo. With my mom as my witness, I can assure you those hours were earned legitimately. Even when she “jokingly’ suggested I could “just fib the numbers a little bit.”

Hell no. If I’m going to do something, especially for a court of law, I’m going to do it right.

Unfortunately, the fallout of my previous relationship reached the airwaves at WRIR. A few volunteers expressed that they felt uncomfortable with me working there given the circumstances. I tried my best to explain the situation to the higher-ups, but the decision was made. In that world, if someone feels uncomfortable, that’s the end of the conversation.

I was, and still am, genuinely sorry that I caused anyone distress. I understood why they had to let me go, and I still hold a tremendous amount of respect for the station and its mission,I still tune in whenever I’m behind the wheel. But losing that community was a massive blow.

It was a grueling month of catch-up. I really didn’t have time for anything else; if I wasn’t at VCU, I was stuffing envelopes or sorting data. They were mostly menial tasks, all being performed as my brain was still trying to unscramble the chaos of the previous months leading up to this point.

This was it. This was my lowest point. I felt utterly defeated. Between the weight of the legal battle, the social “executions,” and the stigmas of being institutionalized and diagnosed (compounded by the fact that I didn’t know how I’d afford groceries) it felt like the struggle would never end.

But hey, I guess I’m still here.

Trial After Trial After Trial

The day finally arrived to settle my court case. Everything was in order; I had fulfilled my hours, and the charges were officially dropped. The relief was immense, a physical weight lifting from my shoulders that finally allowed me to breathe. I truly believed that was the end of it. But as the saying goes: When life looks like easy street, there is danger at your door.

I had about a month of normalcy before the next wave hit. A friend invited me to open a Halloween house show he was hosting. The lineup featured local bands covering The Velvet Underground, Black Sabbath, and I believe The Misfits. My ex caught wind of the gig and attempted to have me booted from the bill. Fortunately, the host had my back and formally banned her from the premises.

The drama was jarring, and it took a toll. The Velvet Underground cover band actually dropped out because of all the tension. I don’t blame them. Sadly, their frontman is no longer with us. Fuck hard drugs.

The Headquarters Interview

Leading up to the show, I was sitting in a TA meeting discussing lesson plans when my phone buzzed. It was the VCU Police. A detective notified me that I had been served and needed to report to their downtown headquarters for an interview regarding a “fellow student.”

“See you later, guys,” I told the meeting. “I need to take care of this.”

At the station, the detective escorted me to an interview room. She notified me that my ex was filing for a protective order and, as the case detective, she needed to hear my side. I gave it to her. When I called my lawyer afterward, he told me he couldn’t make the court date.

“Honestly, David” he said, “95% of the time you should have a lawyer represent you in court. This is the 5% where you don’t. Just tell your story; you’ll be fine.” Despite his assurance, I was still pretty weary of how it would all turn out.

Audrey Hepburn on a Bad Day

The night of the show arrived, and I played in full drag. I was dressed as Audrey Hepburn (on a bad day) a look that I was very excited to pull off. It was my first performance since my band had broken up. I was back to square one: just me, my guitar, a long cigarette holder, and a pocketful of covers.

The set was well-received. I knew there were likely people in the room who were skeptical of me or the situation, but the friends who showed up early to support me made all the difference. Thank you all for that, truly.

That was the last show I played for a long, long time. The stress of the spectacle had officially outweighed the joy of the performance.

Remember Remember the 5th of November

As if my time in court wasn’t enough, it seemed 2016 had me down for a trifecta. By the second week of November, the world had shifted. The votes were in, and Donald Trump had won the election. Richmond was in a state of absolute uproar. As soon as the results were clear, people took to the streets in a wave of protest, eventually going as far as blocking traffic on I-95.

Just to be clear: I wasn’t part of that freeway blockade. My involvement was in a much, much smaller protest that occurred the following day.

I was sitting alone in my apartment, scrolling through Facebook, when a video from “Anonymous” appeared in my feed. It was classic Anonymous: the distorted voice, the dark background, and the speaker donning the iconic Guy Fawkes mask. They were trailing on about their theories regarding the election and what it meant for the global stage.

The timing was impeccable. As I watched the video, I could hear the low rumble of a small protest beginning to make its way down Broad Street. Having missed the intensity of the earlier demonstrations, I felt a sudden, sharp compulsion to join in and stand in solidarity.

On my coat hook sat my own Guy Fawkes mask. It felt like it was beckoning me. I grabbed it, pulled it on, and made my way out the door.

I caught up with the protesters, which was a small group of maybe fifty people. We were a small inconvenience to the traffic, often stepping onto the sidewalk to let cars pass. We weren’t looking for trouble; we were just walking in unity, and echoing the chants of the moment. I only made it a few blocks before I was cornered by the police. They promptly detained me, cuffing me on the sidewalk and leading me toward their cruiser.

When I asked why I was being detained, the lead officer pulled up the statute on his phone. In Virginia, it is a felony for anyone over the age of sixteen to wear a mask in public. I was dumbfounded. I had no idea this law existed, let alone that it was such a severe offense. I pleaded for a warning, explaining that I was a student with class in the morning and that I was truly negligent of the crime. Had I known the severity, I would have left the mask on the hook.

The commanding officer wasn’t having it. He was dead-set on booking me, and that was that.

A Cigarette on the Sidewalk

The other officers seemed to take pity on me. I could see in their expressions that they might have let me go if their commander hadn’t been standing there. After they searched me and found my cigarettes, one officer asked if I wanted one last smoke before they took me in.

“That would be great,” I said.

He placed the cigarette between my lips and lit it for me. He then tucked the rest of the pack and my lighter behind a nearby fence. He made it clear that they would be confiscated at the station, but hoped they’d still be there when I got out. After my last drag, they carted me away. Surprisingly, the back of a police cruiser is actually quite comfortable. I spent the short ride to the Shockoe Bottom Detention Center lightly whistling a tune I can’t quite name today, while the two officers eased my mind, promising to put in a good word for me.

The Brown Paper Bag

At the detention center, the clerk confirmed my student status and, noting my good behavior, assured they’d get me out in a few hours so I wouldn’t miss class. They searched me, took my shoelaces, and left me in the booking office. After a mugshot and a few hours of waiting, they handed me my court date and a brown paper bag containing my shoe laces.

There is a specific kind of degradation in holding a bag of your own shoelaces at 2:00 AM.

I walked out into the cold, sat at a bus stop, and laced up my shoes. I messaged a few friends to let them know I was safe but had been arrested, and then I began the two-mile journey home through the silent city.

The Tower of Song

Luckily, my cigarettes were still waiting for me behind the fence. A small mercy to end a long day. I finally got home, opened a bottle of red wine, and checked my phone.

Leonard Cohen was dead. The news hit like a physical blow. The “Master of the Universe” was long gone, the election was over, and now the man who wrote the manual on “Hallelujah” had exited the stage. I went into my bathroom, sat on the floor, and called my father.

“Hey, Dad.”

“What’s up, David? Is everything okay?”

“I just got arrested…”

“Goddamn it… What happened?”

The Outcomes:

The Final Petition

The hearing for the protective order went smoothly. I took my lawyer’s advice, walked in, and simply told my story. My dad came along for moral support, which made all the difference. To my surprise, the judge presiding over the case was the same one who had handled the original domestic case back in June.

This time, he had the opportunity to observe the other party as she stated her petition. Her argument mostly revolved around an encounter we had at a local haunt near VCU (RIP Ipanema). That bar was a spot I frequented regularly; in fact, I used to live in the brownstone carriage house right behind it. This was where she had once thrown a rock through my bedroom window… That should have been the end of that… But you live and you learn.

The Ipanema Encounter

On the night in question, I was completely unaware she was even there. I was sitting at the bar alone, talking with the bartender, who was a good friend of mine. I sensed something was off when the bartender stepped outside and didn’t return for a while. Having already settled my tab, I walked out to find her talking with my ex and a mutual friend.

I didn’t say a word to them. I simply said goodbye to the bartender and continued on my way. The only words exchanged came from the mutual friend, who yelled, “Fuck you, David!” to which I calmly replied, “It’s nice to see you again, [Name].”

The Verdict

The judge was exceptional. He provided a thorough explanation of the severity of protective orders and the specific criteria required to implement them. For his final verdict, he looked directly at her and said:

“Miss [Name], we put these orders into place when there is a problem. Not to make people feel better about themselves.”

And that was that. I thanked His Honor for his time. The bailiff instructed us to wait fifteen or twenty minutes to allow the other party time to leave the building. Sitting there in the quiet of the courtroom, the relief was absolute.

The Mask Statute

Navigating a felony charge is no joke, even when the premise is as absurd as this one. My lawyer was surprised to hear from me again so soon, but we set to work. The prosecutor for my case was Colette McEachin, now the Commonwealth’s Attorney for the City of Richmond. To her credit, she was very understanding given the circumstances, and I still vote for her whenever I see her on a ballot.

We reached a deal with three conditions: a two-page, single-spaced essay on the history of VA Code § 18.2-422, 50 hours of community service, and one day spent in the courthouse jail.

The Irony

The essay was honestly the hardest part. My research revealed that the law was enacted in 1952, specifically to prevent the KKK from rallying in the streets. The irony of being tagged with a felony for protesting against state-sponsored aggression while wearing a mask originally banned to stop white supremacists was almost comedic. Especially now; as masked Ice Agents are terrorizing and murdering our own citizens in the streets.. But I digress.

Scrounging up enough history to fill two single-spaced pages took everything I had. I wish I still had a copy of that paper; I’d curious to see what I came up with.

The Treasure Trove

I spent my senior winter break fulfilling my 50 hours at a non-profit consignment store in McLean called The Treasure Trove. I spent my days tagging clothes, moving dish sets, and polishing silver. It was a fascinating place; the coolest piece of history I saw was a dress designed for Nancy Reagan, complete with the designer’s original sketches.

This was also where I developed a profound disdain for holiday pop music. The local Christmas station played on a loop downstairs until I thought I’d lost my mind. On the other hand, a fellow volunteer burned me some incredible CDs: folk compilations featuring Joni Mitchell, Arlo Guthrie, and deep Dylan cuts. I listened to those on repeat while navigating the brutal Tysons Corner traffic.

The Thirteen-Point Glimmer

The day of my “trial” was seamless. I was told to dress comfortably, so I showed up in jeans and a hoodie. The judge confirmed I’d met my requirements and sent me to the courthouse jail to serve my one-day sentence.

They put me in a separate holding cell, a tiny, cinderblock box, while they finalized my paperwork. As I waited, I looked up at the wall and noticed a small etching. Someone had taken the time to scratch a Stealie into the stone. Thirteen points and all. I couldn’t help but smile. It was a strange place to find that little glimmer of light, but I was grateful for it all the same.

The Wooden Bench

I spent about eight hours in the main holding cell. Waves of inmates came and went as they headed to their various trials. It was surprisingly chill. A few guys shared their sandwiches or bags of grape juice.

I spent the last two hours alone. I just laid across the long wooden bench and stared at the ceiling. There wasn’t much to think about, and certainly nothing to look at. I just started at the ceiling and felt the weight of my body on that sturdy wooden bench. At 6:00 PM they opened the cell for me, and that was it. I was a free man.

Conclusions

What more is there left to say? I suppose a good start is to confirm that this was the end of my legal troubles (minus a handful of traffic violations). Being thrown through this gauntlet taught me everything I know about perseverance. I’ve reached other low points since then, certainly, but to this day nothing truly compares to the barrage 2016 had in store for me.

People often say “everything happens for a reason,” but looking back, I can honestly say some of that shit really didn’t need to happen. Nevertheless, I learned a library’s worth of tough lessons, and all things considered, I came out of it a more well-rounded human being.

I’m incredibly relieved I took the time to finally commit these stories to the page. It feels right to finally let them go, and walk into this next chapter without the weight of this baggage dragging behind me.

A tremendous amount of thanks goes out to anyone and everyone who has stuck with me through this mess. I can only hope this account provides some insight into what I was navigating internally during such a strange, convoluted period of my development. It was a lot to manage, and I know for a fact that I let myself “bleed” on some of those closest to me while I was trying to make sense of the world. For that, I am truly sorry.

Best wishes to everyone as we enter the Year of the Fire Horse. I have a feeling it’s going to be a good one.

YAW!

David Eaton is a Richmond-based writer, documentarian, and archivist. "2016" is a three-part series exploring the intersection of creative fire, personal trials, and the music that bridges the gap. For editorial inquiries or archival services, visit davideatin.com.

On the day of my court date; my lawyer struck a deal with the prosecutors. They agreed to drop the charges on three conditions: 100 hours of community service, maintain a good standing with the law, and no contact whatsoever with my previous relation until my next court appearance in three months.

I heard all of this loud and clear and thought it was a fair agreement overall. However, I was sure my ex wouldn’t take the news very well.

On that very same day, I had a ticket to see my first-ever Dead & Company show. I was about to hop in my friend’s minivan when I gave my ex a call to break the news to her. She wasn’t happy.

“But, but this isn’t what I wanted!”

“I know… and I’m really sorry, but there’s really nothing i can do… goodbye for now.”

So, that was that. I blocked her number and went on my way to see John Mayer play with the boys. This was my first experience seeing “The Dead” in the flesh, and it was epic. They played Dear Prudence as an encore, and that really radiated with me. Most especially when I saw the pride-flagged stealie waving on the big screen. It felt like a welcome home. Much love for that one, boys.

Summer of Service

I was in pretty good shape for the beginning of my service stint. At the time, I was already volunteering at Richmond’s local independent radio station, WRIR. I would be there during the day, airing scheduled talk segments and reading PSA’s. It was a lot of fun! and I greatly appreciated their supportive community. With them being a non profit, my time was eligible to count towards my service hours.

The remainder of my hours were fulfilled doing administrative work for the Sierra Club. It involved a lot of tedious data entry, which was admittedly boring, but I knew it was for a terrific organization whose mission was to preserve our natural wildlife. It felt like a noble cause to fulfill my civic duty, and I made some great friends along the way.

In addition to my service hours, I was fortunate enough to catch a handful of legendary performances. My aunt and uncle got us a tickets to see The Specials at The Fillmore in Silver Spring, and I also got to see Bruce Springsteen for the first time at Nationals Park. What a life.

Despite the legalities hanging over my head, I felt like I was living large. It was a relief to know I had the unwavering support of my family, who continued to welcome me into their social circles during a time when I felt increasingly excommunicated.

In the midst of all of this, I began the move into my “forever home”, a condo in Jackson Ward. I ended up residing there for eight years. Holding on to that piece of Richmond history will forever be an honor. I’ll save the details of those years for another day. Needless to say, that move marked the beginning of an entire era of my life.

InterLocken Festival - Oakridge Farm, August 25th - 28th

The summer ended on an irreversibly high note. The whole gang got back together to get down to the farm in Arrington, VA for the Lockn’ Festival. It was the holy grail of the year: Two nights of Phish and Ween, alongside titans like My Morning Jacket, Gary Clark Jr., Phil Lesh, Vulfpeck, and Fishbone. I could write an entire series on this weekend alone, but I’ll try to stick to the plot here.

To be completely honest, I was an utter wreck for most of that weekend. The wounds of the breakup were still fresh, and being in that environment was probably not the best for my mental well being overall… I arrived at Oak Ridge Farm armed with a handle of Southern Comfort, a boatload of trauma, and a very inflated ego. As soon as I got that first sniff of mystery dust up my nostrils, I was off to the races.

Oh boy…

Although I existed in various states of consciousness for a majority of the weekend, I surprisingly remember a good deal of it. This was my second year at Lockn’, so I already had a sense of the terrain. I was camping with some of my closest friends from high school, and we were all looking forward to a long weekend of music and camaraderie. The freeing thing about this year was the autonomy; I could venture as I pleased, wake up whenever I wanted, and decide my own schedule. I did a lot of walking, met a lot of people, and took way too much acid.

Rivalries and Mishaps

The weekend as a whole was a cauldron of tension. The rivalry between Phish and Ween fans was palpable. At the time, I was firmly in the “anti-Ween” camp. It’s funny how time tends to ease your perceptions. They’ve since become one of my favorite bands. Looking back, I wish I could reach through the years and tell that kid to stop drowning in his feelings and go witness their performances. I guess you live and you learn.

Aside from the weird hippie powers at play, the weekend was full of unforgettable moments. I found myself on the other side of the stage more than once, with no real explanation of how i got there… One moment I was spinning to Tedeschi Trucks Band, and the next, I was wandering among semi-trucks and trailers; struck by a sudden, sobering sense that I shouldn’t be there… At least, not yet. I was simply following the music, letting it lead me like a tether. At one point, I walked straight into the green room of Garcia’s Forest. The security guard at the gate just waved me through, likely assuming I was part of an act. The security at the VIP lounge, however, was less amused and promptly told me to leave.

Despite the chemical haze, the music provided a much-needed anchor. I was beginning to gain a deep appreciation for the varying sub-communities of the festival circuit. This was my first and only time seeing Phil Lesh in person, and it was a monumental moment for me.

I remember leaving the stage area for a quick costume change just as the band launched into Mr. Charlie. I grooved my way back to the tent. The walk back coincided with the beginnings of a massive Terrapin Station jam. As I waltzed past a drum circle near the entrance, they roared to life, perfectly accumulating with the explosive energy happening on the main stage. It was an all encompassing moment.

Transitioning from that pinnacle of the Dead to the intimacy of My Morning Jacket and Khruangbin was otherworldly. The variety of this festival was sobering, or so it should’ve been…

Too Much, Too Fast

Looking back, I can only wish I hadn’t partied as hard as I did. I was fiending for an escape, and by 11:00 PM on Saturday, I found it in the form of a couple more tabs of acid and a bottle of Southern Comfort. I disappeared into the tent city, and the rest remains a dark mystery.

I woke up the next morning to a voice I didn’t recognize:

“Dude, dude… Dude!”

“What?” I croaked.

“This isn’t your tent.”

“What!?”

“This isn’t your tent, bro!”

Sure enough, I had invaded a stranger’s space. I was nuzzled in between two cots in a tent that was the exact same make and model as my own, situated only 20 or so feet away… So close. That set the pace for a very awkward remainder of the weekend…

The embarrassment was instant and to this day, the mere thought of SoCo gives me the shivers... Never again.

Bittersweet Farewell

Phish brought us all home on Sunday night. I was in a state of total bliss, despite the suspicion that someone had “puddled” me with an extra dose during set break. By that point I’d taken so much L it hardly even mattered.

The farewell was bittersweet. As the Rolling Stones’ Sweet Virginia played over the PA (the ultimate send-off song) I felt a desperate urge to stick around. But reality called; we had to pack up our camp and hit the road to get back to our classes at VCU the next morning.

So long, Lockn’. It was a true highlight of my festival experiences and, as it turned out, the last festival I would attend for nine years.

The Fallout

Getting back to Richmond was an incredible bummer. I somehow stayed awake through our midnight voyage back to the capital city, but the next couple of weeks were fueled by absolute mania. I was wired. The days started blending together as I became increasingly erratic. I felt like the king of the world, convinced I could control my phone and television screens just by looking at them. At one point, I genuinely believed I was video chatting with Hillary Clinton over Instagram. It got weird; I legitimately believed I’d cracked the code to reality itself. It was really scary at times, yet incredibly thrilling.

I quit my job at the restaurant I was working, I just stopped showing up. I mean, What was the point of working behind a bar when I was the master of the entire universe? Everyone and everything felt like it was mine for the taking, and I was certain everyone already knew it too. Classes were starting, which provided a brief container for the energy, but I couldn’t shake the sense that it was all pointless. I was moving on to something much greater, and very soon at that. I won the game, guys! Now, where is my prize?

The “prize” turned out to be a knock at the door. It was my father. He’d mentioned he was coming in to town for a visit, but I’d locked myself out of my apartment the night before and slept through his arrival. He was locked outside for three hours waiting for me to wake up. I had so much exciting news to tell him; I was honestly surprised he didn’t already know I’d won the game. How could he not already know?

We got in the car and headed back to Northern Virginia. I figured that was it for my college stint, I was on to bigger and better things. Once we got home, a sweeping sense took over that my entire family life was a lie. I convinced myself that I was the secret son of Keith Richards, that my mom must have had an affair during their honeymoon in Europe. I was the forgotten son of a rock and roll legend; that had to be the answer to the madness. These were the legitimate delusions filling my head at every waking moment.

The next morning, my parents drove me to a nearby hospital. I assumed it was just one last thorough check-up before I moved on to my next phase in life. After all, I was more famous than Rihanna; I’d already beaten Kanye West at the Twitter game. Everyone else knew, I guess my parents were just late to the game. Even this psychiatrist lady knew. Isn’t that right miss psychiatrist lady? would you be so kind to fill my parents in on the news?

She leaned towards me and said

“David, we have two options for you: Voluntary, or Involuntary.”

“What?…”

“Voluntary, or Involuntary.”

“What do you mean? What’s the difference?”

“Well, if you choose voluntary, we’ll wheelchair you up to the psych ward where we’ll be keeping you for a few days. If you choose involuntary, we’ll have to put you on a stretcher, and then we’ll decide when it will be a good time for you to leave.”

…

I was stunned. The weight of her sentence lingered in the air as the pieces started to fall into place. I’m going crazy… I’m one of them? But I was so close… How could my parents do this to me?

“Voluntary…”

“Okay, great. We have a wheelchair for you right here.”

Tales from the Loony Bin

I spent the next four or five days in the psych ward at Fairfax Hospital. At least, I think it was Fairfax Hospital… I don’t really care to remember that detail to be completley honest with you. The experience was absolutely dreadful. The ward consisted of two hallways that intersected in the middle, forming a cross. At the center sat the nurses’ station and a communal dining area. They had board games, but they were missing most of their pieces, making them more like abstract decorations than entertainment.

I regularly gravitated toward the upright piano in that room. It was horrendously out of tune, but in that environment, even a discordant C-major was better than silence. The one thing that kept me going, more than anything else, was the coffee machine. It only spat out decaf, but it was a ritual I could hold on to.

What upset me most was the lack of fresh air. I didn’t get a single breath of natural oxygen for five days straight. My only view of the outside world was a bolted down window looking over a landscape of a pebbled rooftop and an industrial air conditioner. The brand name on the unit? Eaton. Well, at least I have a good name, I thought. It certainly wasn’t “Richards.”

Family Ties

At some point, the fog lifted enough for me to realize I had been there before. Like seriously, it wasn’t a sense of déjà vu or a manic glitch; I had stood in those very hallways as a child. My mother had been hospitalized in that exact same ward when I was eight years old. We had come to visit her during one of the art therapy sessions. I’m fairly certain the same doctor heading the program was the one I met all those years ago, she looked hauntingly familiar.

The art room was easily my favorite space in the entire facility, but they only held those sessions a couple of hours out of the week. I would have given anything to spend more time in there, but oh well, there was nothing i could do about that.

Solitary Friends

I played the part of the “good patient” for the most part. I shared a room with a man who didn’t speak a single word to me during my entire stay. I don’t know what he was in for, but I genuinely hope he’s feeling better. I attended every therapy session and every scheduled activity. I was desperate to get out, so I made compliance my full-time job.

I managed to make a solid crew of friends, a handful of genuinely interesting people. Some were there of their own accord, and I felt a particular sting of empathy for them; the staff, for the most part, seemed to lack even a basic sense of professionalism or care. Before one of these friends was discharged, he handed me a deck of cards. They were a saving grace. I still have them, actually. I played a lot of Solitaire while watching the clock and waiting for the world to let me back in.

Slowly but surely, the days dragged along. The moments I looked forward to most were in the evenings. I befriended my nurse; a wise, kind woman who had clearly seen it all in this profession. She had a gentle intuition and would give me an extra nicotine patch in those moments when she could tell I was hitting a wall. We were technically only supposed to have one a day, but that small act of rebellion felt like a lifeline.

The Hallway Operator

I swear, at times the mere act of being in that ward made me feel more “crazy” than I actually was. In one of the hallways sat a line of three or four pay phones. They were live, required no payment, and served as our only connection to the outside world beyond the bolted windows. I spent hours on those phones, engaged in desperate conversations with my family. Pleading with them to get me out of that hellhole, and swearing I would never speak to them again once this was all over.

I wasn’t a happy camper. Reviewing my file years later, I still felt a spark of anger; I wish I had the opportunity to hold them accountable for what felt like clear malpractice, but I digress. Those phones didn’t just make calls; they received them as well. I often found myself answering them, only to find a stranger’s family member on the other end. I became the ward’s de facto operator, jotting down messages and phone numbers in the journal they provided for me. It was maddening.

The VCU Connection

All in all, I felt like I was in a holding cell. There were only a couple of occasions when I was pulled aside for one-on-one examinations. My examiner was a fellow VCU student. Seeing the university logo on his scrubs gave me a sudden, hopeful sense of camaraderie. A feeling that he would understand where I was coming from, literally and figuratively. I felt comfortable speaking freely with him, confiding my thoughts and feelings as if we were just two guys back in Richmond.

When it came time for him to give the report, we walked together to the head psychiatrist’s office. I was absolutely floored when he read his findings and determined that I was, in fact, “ill.”

I looked at him in total surprise. “What?! But what about that conversation we just had?” I really thought he had my back on this. He just looked at me with a slight shrug. A silent “sorry, bud”, and that was that.

With his report filed, all I could do was wait for the head psychiatrist to reach her final conclusion. Out of the five days I was there, I only spoke with her twice: once during the reading of the report, and on the day I left, when she handed me my diagnosis and medication regimen. All the time in between felt like nothing more than pushing paperwork.

The Breaking Point

In the moment, it all felt incredibly hopeless. The days leading up to my release felt like an eternity. My dad came to visit me one day, and while we were talking in one of the offices, a patient ran up to the glass panel and dragged herself across it.

“See, Dad? This is what’s making me crazy right now. I need to get out of here.”

The environment was a constant assault on the senses. I didn’t even feel comfortable taking a shower; the requirement for a chaperone felt like a final indignity, so I just waited. I’m sure I smelled awful. On the day before my release, I attended one last group therapy session. Usually, I was pretty quiet. I didn’t have much interest in spouting my business to a room full of strangers, but that day, I just let it fly.

The therapist asked where I thought I should be to most benefit my recovery. I told her the truth: I belonged back at VCU, continuing to study music and my craft, not locked in a prison being examined by people who seemed more interested in prescribing pills than in actually helping people get better. I didn’t hold back. I guess my words really struck a chord; I made the therapist cry. I felt a pang of guilt for that, but she asked me the question, and I gave her an honest answer.

The Verdict

The long-awaited day finally arrived. My parents and I walked into the psychiatrist’s office, where she handed me her official diagnosis: Bipolar Disorder. I didn’t feel like I had any say in the matter, but at that point, I would have signed anything to feel the sunshine again. I signed the papers and agreed to swallow the pills. I didn’t know then that I would continue to swallow those same pills for the next seven years.

As they finalized my paperwork, I sat for one last lunch in the dining hall. The only other person there was an elderly, mostly non-verbal patient. He never attended the group sessions, and our only prior interaction had been a strange encounter in one of the hallways, where he pointed at me and shouted, “It’s him! There’s Jesus! There’s Jesus!”. A flattering thought sir, but I think you’ve got the wrong guy.

Grace in D-Major

After lunch, I sat down at the piano and began to improvise in the key of D Major. After a week of forced reflection, I was starting to feel the doorways open up on the keyboard. It felt like a genuine breakthrough. When I finished, I turned to see my mother sitting at the table with tears streaming down her face.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“See that man over there?” she whispered, gesturing to the elderly patient. “I could tell that he really needed to hear that.”

The El Paso Send-Off

Before I left, my trusty nurse shared one final bit of wisdom. “You know,” she said, “Lithium isn’t all that bad. It’s actually quite abundant in the waters of El Paso. Maybe that’s why people are so level-headed over there.”

I don’t have plans to visit El Paso anytime soon, but her sentiment immediately brought up thoughts of The Dead. Now, whenever I hear that song, I’m wrapped up in that little tidbit. Thanks, Nurse.

When I finally got home I took a shower and went straight to bed. The new chemicals were beginning to take their slow and heavy hold over my brain.

To be Continued in Act III…

David Eaton is a Richmond-based writer, documentarian, and archivist. "2016" is a three-part series exploring the intersection of creative fire, personal trials, and the music that bridges the gap. For editorial inquiries or archival services, visit davideatin.com.

It was Friday morning. The tequila from the night before had worked wonders on my sleep as the sun slowly began to creep into the tent. Visions of airplanes entwined themselves in my dreams; the feeling of flight was ever-present as I began to toss and turn in the morning light.

Along with the warmth of the sun, a new sensation started to enter my dreamscape: a steady walking bass line began to dance in-between the noises of the jets. “Oh, this is lovely,” my sleepy subconscious told itself. Half-remembering where I was, I thought, “I guess Mike Gordon decided to join us after all.” The bass interlude continued for another ten minutes or so. Though in my dream state, it felt like an hour. Then suddenly, the rest of the band joined in with an all-too-familiar riff. No possible way. This was too rich. The “Tweeprize” continued.

I shot up from my sleeping bag and just started laughing. Jess had no idea what was going on, so allow me to explain.

Friday marked the start of Phish’s fall tour. They concluded their summer tour with a legendary run at SPAC where the grand finale was a “reverse Tweezer” show. They segued into Tweezer Reprise almost every other song before ending the show with the shortest Tweezer of their career. It’s a long-running joke that fans have been nerding over for years, and they finally delivered it.

Now, on this glorious morning, the joke landed its final punchline. I wasn’t the only one geeking out about it; another one of our neighbors could hardly contain his laughter as we crawled out of our tents to start the day. Waking up to a Tweezer soundcheck is a happening I’ll probably never experience again. It’s these rare gems that make car camping worth the grit. To be that immersed in the music and the culture gets my vote every time when it comes to choosing lodging accommodations for a festival.

Winnebagos and Tie-Dyes

I noticed the campsite itself had almost doubled in size while we slept. An entire field next to us that had been empty the day before was now packed. The Phish crowd had officially landed in Kentucky and was ready to get down to business.

The Gringo Taco truck in the common area had a mean breakfast selection. I don’t quite remember everything we sampled, but I’m pretty sure we split a breakfast burrito that morning which really hit the spot. We also had some incredible neighbors who offered us fresh instant coffee to start the day. They were so sweet; traveling in a decked-out Winnebago sprinter van that I found myself eyeing all weekend. Those are some real life goals right there. They even offered to charge our devices with their solar setup, but with our newly acquired rental lockers, we politely declined. (Though I’m strongly considering one of those vans down the road.)

We really lucked out with our neighbors this year. On the other side of us were some older “heads,” one of whom was thrilled to see my tie-dye selection for the day. It was a Grateful Dead tour shirt from 1995: their final tour, as well as the year I was born. When I showed it to them, the older of the two was blown away. “MAN! I was at that show... and that show... and that show! Where did you get this?!”

Jess had picked it up from a vintage-slinging friend in Charleston. She gave it to me for my 30th birthday when we went down to the “holy city” to see her first Phish show. Funny enough, that was the first show write up I published to Substack. If you’re interested in reading more here’s a Link. With the theme of the day being “Tie-Dye Friday,” I think that was the only dress code I actually came prepared for.

Eventually, we made our routine pit stop at the speedway for our daily ice run. While Jess continued to socialize with the neighborhood crew, I took the opportunity to get an early start at the festival gates to get down to jotting down notes from the previous day.

Enjoying the Office View

I reached the gates about ten minutes before they opened. A small group was already waiting outside the camping entrance, a majority of whom were fellow Phans, and we gladly passed the time trading stories of shows past. When they asked what I was doing there alone, I mentioned I needed to get some notes down from our travels and the first day.

“Oh! You’re a writer?”

“Well, trying to be, at least… We’ll see where this one takes me” ;)

Watching the sun crest over the venue was a beautiful sight. There’s something grounding about watching the day settle onto a sparse festival field; it makes the world feel much smaller than it really is.

I made my way up to the viewing deck and got to work as the first act, Darren Kiely, took the main stage. I wasn’t paying rapt attention to the set as I started jotting down my thoughts, but he provided a pleasant acoustic backdrop as I got my notes in order. Funnily enough, the same group from the gate line walked up and said hey again as they situated themselves for the day. I really should consider getting those business cards printed again...

I cannot stress enough how much I love being in that environment. There’s something new everywhere you look, and the scale of that viewing platform made me feel as if I were on the deck of a giant cruise ship. Except, in place of the ocean was a sea of people moving to the rhythm of the artists spilling their souls on the stage. It’s an incredibly calm setting, and the VIP access made it all the more comfortable. I got what I needed down before moving locations; 10,000 Maniacs were up next, and I felt that a cigar would fit the mood nicely while I sorted through more of my thoughts. I got situated at the Pappy Lounge and lit up a stogie just as they began their set with What’s the Matter Here?

What a dream. The soundtrack they provided took me straight back to the CD cabinet in my childhood home. I could almost smell the oak and cedar of the display case opening up as I eased back into a Catalonia lounge chair to finish my notes. Hearing familiar tunes like Hey Jack Kerouac and These are the Days kept me in a steady trance of cohesive thought; before I knew it, the set was over. Both my olfactory and aural senses hit a really nice sweet spot with that combination of stimuli. It was the first of many magical moments in that chair, but I’ll save the rest of that lore for the next dispatch.

Rounding up the troops

Jess met up with me at the lounge before long, and we began catching up with a lovely couple we’d met the day before. They quickly became a solid through-line for our weekend, and I was always eager to hear the stories they had to tell. The one the fellow really drew me in with involved a photo op he had with Bruce Springsteen at a private party. We continued our rapport as Trampled by Turtles serenaded the field with their uplifting “jangle-folk” playing in the background. Hearing them got me itching to catch my first bluegrass set of the weekend.

The one name that stood out to me on that lineup was Wyatt Ellis. The last time I saw him, he was thirteen years old and sitting in with Billy Strings for Doc Watson’s 100th birthday celebration. We had a chunk of time before he was scheduled to start, and since some of our neighbors were interested in checking him out too, we moseyed back to camp as Iron & Wine sang us out. With Sam Beam’s Richmond roots, I didn’t feel too guilty about skipping their set. Either way, we could hear them clear as day as we walked back to the tents to rally the troops and enjoy some cheap cold ones.

Upon our return to the grounds, it was Guster’s turn to dish out their jams. We were starting to part our way through the masses when I heard a familiar tone. Well, would you look at that! Mike Gordon dropping in with Guster.

Given the immense amount of talent surrounding us (and seeing Derek Trucks accompany The Lumineers the night before), the surprise guest didn’t come as a total shock. If anything, Mike’s well-known passion for bluegrass was a sign. It was time to pick up the pace and get to the bluegrass tent to see what Wyatt Ellis had in store for us.

A Step Back in Time

The bluegrass stage was nestled inside the Big Bourbon Tent, which was everything I expected and more. The long stretch of tables included almost every big name in whiskey you could imagine, all lined up in one central location, a never-ending stream of liquid gold. With so many options, I drifted toward something familiar: a select batch of Basil Hayden on the rocks. It was light and refreshing, and it paired perfectly with the tail end of the cigar I was smoking. The cool warmth of the bourbon really hit the spot as Wyatt Ellis walked onto the stage with his old-time string band.

I was hooked from the start. The intimacy of the bluegrass stage felt like an old-fashioned hoedown at a county fair. There was plenty of room to spread out and dance, and although we were under a tent in a paved parking lot, my memory prefers to believe we were standing in the middle of a grassy knoll scattered with straw.

It was impossible to ignore the level of dedication this group had for their craft. At only 18 years old, Wyatt has jumped lightyears ahead of what most bluegrass musicians could even dream of. The music rolled over us like a steady breeze, and the licks trickled out like a babbling brook. They were as legit as could be and I’m glad we took the time to scope them out. I could tell we weren’t the only ones either.

I looked over and saw a fellow in some bluegrass podcast’s branded t-shirt jotting down notes; that’s always a good sign that you’re witnessing something spectacular. Wyatt humbly announced that their next number had just hit the top of the bluegrass charts earlier that day. You really can’t make this stuff up. We were witnessing history in the making, and I cannot stress enough how humble and genuine these young performers were. I’m not sure what the future holds for Wyatt Ellis, but from sitting in with Billy Strings to this chart-topping single at Bourbon & Beyond, I’m proud to say I got to see him in these early stages.

Bravo, Wyatt! There’s no doubt in my mind you have a bright road ahead of you.

Roots and Recoup

We had a tall order ahead of us for the rest of the night. Phish was scheduled to start their set at 8:25 PM, with Khruangbin setting the pace at 7:10 PM. In the middle of all the hype was Trombone Shorty & Orleans Avenue playing on the far stage. What a predicament. Unfortunately, we couldn’t be everywhere at once. Though, in the grand scheme of things, these are exactly the kind of problems you want to have. We knew we had to get some solid food in us before the night really kicked off, so we reconvened in VIP where Joe Bonamassa helped ground us back to reality.

I’m not going to lie to you: I really needed that. I was still reeling from what we just witnessed at the bluegrass tent, and we had covered a lot of miles over the past couple of days. Taking the time to just kick back and take a breather as this blues legend rocked our souls was exactly what the doctor ordered.

We ended up meeting a couple of really interesting guys at the cigar lounge. I don’t remember their names or where they were from, but they were incredible conversationalists who imparted some genuine wisdom about how family truly is everything. At one point, a lady turned to us and said, “Y’all really got the best seat in the house.” So, we just stayed put, ate some tacos, and chatted away.

It really blows my mind how no matter what happens at these festivals, the rhythm of it all tends to take you right where you need to be. Whether you realize it at the time or not. Having the comfort of the VIP lounge to return to, filled with such an eclectic variety of people, had me thinking to myself, “I could really get used to this,” more times than I could count.

Preparing for Launch

I really mean it when I say that this night of the festival was a melding of the cosmos. I guess when you start the day “waking up in the freezer,” you really shouldn’t expect anything less.

The last time I was at a festival with both Phish and Khruangbin on the lineup was Lockn’ 2016. Khruangbin was only just getting started back then, and I had the pleasure of seeing them among a tiny, dedicated crowd for a late-night set in Garcia’s Forest. Needless to say, they have grown by leaps and bounds since then. Now, here they were, playing to a ginormous sea of 30,000+ people and opening the floor for two sets of Phish. It was otherworldly.

They cast an infectious, mellow groove across the entire crowd. It was impossible to escape their trance as they calmly grasped and caressed the attention of the masses. The stage was set up like a “Vaporwave” Greek theater. I wish I’d snapped a photo, but honestly, it wouldn’t have done the spectacle any justice. If you have yet to experience a show from these guys, I couldn’t recommend them highly enough.

Knowing their catalog pretty well, we took the opportunity to groove through the field and stake out a prime spot for the evening’s main event. We had our trusty travel blanket from Bamboo Cafe (a Richmond staple), and we were itching to put it to some use.

Lift Off

Oh, how I’ve missed festival Phish. Ever since that year at Lockn’, I’ve only seen them in large arenas and amphitheaters. They bring such a unique energy to every festival they play, and in my humble opinion, it’s an experience we don’t get to enjoy often enough. Spending a whole day at a music festival is a marathon in itself, but to be rewarded with three hours of Phish is a special kind of undertaking.

I was genuinely curious about what they had on the “menu” for us this evening and whether they planned to utilize the dual-stage setup. They kicked off the first set with a ripping 46 Days and once I realized only the right stage was being used, I knew we had to get in for a closer look.

We did the classic Moma Dance shuffle toward the front of the stage, where we anchored down for the remainder of their first set.

I’m not entirely sure when we decided to leave that prime spot, to be completely honest with you. I don’t know if something was slightly off with the sound or if I’d simply had my fill of the pit for the day. Seeing “A Day in the Life” was a massive check off my list, but for whatever reason, I was ready to get a move on. We started slipping our way out of the crowd just as the boys began segueing through the start of their second set.

We made one last stop at our lockers to grab our phones and backpack before heading toward the VIP exit. I stopped dead in my tracks the second I heard the opening notes of a tune that I’ve been chasing for a lifetime: Ya Mar. Oh, sweet bliss. I dropped everything and just danced through the whole thing on the turf. The moment was finally mine for the taking, and I took every last second of it.

With that out of the way, the deal was sealed. We began preparing to beat the crowds for the grand exodus. We watched the rest of the set from all the way in the back and I couldn’t complain one bit. I’d made the rookie mistake of not bringing my earplugs this year, so giving my ears a break was a wise move for the long run. Plus, seeing the light rig, CK5, work its magic from the back of the field was a treat in itself. We really got the full spectrum of the crowd experience from both ends.

The night ended with a series of heaters: a whopping Carini, followed by a soothing Everything’s Right, before they closed the show with a much-welcomed Harry Hood (a personal favorite). My heart was already full, and these were all songs I’ve had my fair share of, but still to this day I can never find the will to leave early from a Phish show.

They delivered a classic encore, starting with Chalk Dust Torture and sending us into the night with a well-deserved First Tube. As I saw the moon begin to peer over the top of the stage, I knew we had made the right choice to stick around. Catching this video of Trey raising his Languedoc in line with the waning quarter moon was the perfect ending to a perfect day.

Thank you for following along on this journey!

It’s days like this when I remember what it’s all really about. Music festivals, like Bourbon & Beyond, are incredible resources for deepening our understanding of music and culinary craft. More importantly, they serve as a unifier: bringing people together through the commonalities of that which we love and cherish.

In Dispatch IV: Dancing Among Legends, that sense of unity continues to grow in ways I could have only imagined. Trust me, this is a page in my book that you won’t want to miss.

See you next week!

David Eaton is a Richmond-based documentarian and writer specializing in the intersection of music, culture, and high-fidelity archival. For editorial inquiries or festival coverage contact: david@davideatin.com

The Stars are Falling.

Convocations of pin points,

Guided by the Moon.

I’ve been seeing a lot of buzz about 2016 floating around online recently. Plenty of posts from people talking about how it felt like the last year of “normalcy” (whatever that means). That it was a time before the world felt like it was flipped upside down: Obama was wrapping up his last term, the nation was still getting back on its feet after the housing crisis, and COVID wasn’t even a speculative thought.

For me personally, it was a year of some of my highest highs and lowest lows. This is a piece I have been dreading to write for a long time. As we are winding through the tail end of the year of the snake, I figured now is as good a time as ever to shed this layer of my skin.

2016 was, hands down, the absolute worst year of my life. It’s a year that has continued to haunt me for close to a decade now. No matter how hard I’ve tried to shake off the ghosts, I still find myself sitting with them. I am certain that taking the time to untangle these knots, one string at a time, will help me understand how it all happened and what I really learned from these trials and tribulations.

Originally, I planned to put this series behind a paywall. What I am about to get into is a deeply personal narrative that touches on the raw nerves of family relations and interpersonal struggles that I usually keep close to the vest. But, as I started gathering photos for this piece, I saw something that I didn’t expect:

I saw the spark in my eyes before the trials hit.

Looking at where I am now, I realized I stayed strong enough to keep that spark alive through some of my darkest moments. I know the person I was all those years ago would be glad to know that I somehow made it to the other side.

So, let’s get into it.

2016: The Year that tried its Damndest to break me.

Moving Mountains (The High Points)

My year started on a really high point (literally). My best friend and I were invited out to Mammoth, California, to spend a few days on the slopes with some close family friends. The conditions were absolutely stellar. They were having a record season, and most days we woke up to fresh powder to carve into. Here’s a photo of me on New Year’s Day, literally on top of the world.

It really doesn’t get much better than that. It was my first time on a California mountain, and those runs were absolutely massive! My traveling companion and I spent a good amount of time together on this trip, exploring everything the mountain had to offer, from the moguls to the back bowls. He and I had been on many ski trips in our Scouting days, but the freedom of flying down that mountain with him as adults was a true thrill that I will always remember fondly.

The trip as a whole was a much-needed break from my own reality in Virginia. I was about to wrap up my junior year at VCU, and our neighbors who invited us along could tell that my class load and other life stresses were starting to weigh on me. When they offered us this opportunity, it was nearly impossible to resist. I mean, you can really feel the excitement radiating from my face; I was literally beaming from the feeling of being in my own element.

The only slight downside to the trip was that I was not yet 21, so I was unable to join the rest of the gang as they made their local pub visits. But all in all, I had a blast. I really hope I can make it back to that mountain someday while my knees are still intact. The massive mountain faces and never-ending skylines were a true spectacle. It was a massive upgrade to the slopes we were learning on at Timberline, WV.

On the day of our departure, my friend and I lugged our bags to the shuttle that was supposed to get us back to Reno, where we were scheduled to fly out the next day. Of course, the shuttle we were expecting to catch didn’t run on weekdays… so we had to make a backup plan. We somehow got to the Mammoth Airport, a tiny little runway on the outskirts of the ski town. As we were waiting for our friends to arrive with a credit card for us to borrow (we didn’t have one of our own at the time) I noticed a couple in the small waiting room.

The guy had a Pelican case with some stickers that I recognized. Is that? No way… Slow Magic? What are the odds? I went up to say hi and asked if he would sign my sketchbook, which he did!

I had noticed some posters around town for his shows. Unfortunately, being the broke college kids that we were, our money was already allocated for rentals and lifts. But at least I got to make an introduction!

Cursed Casinos and Full Circles

What happened next was a crazy road trip back to Reno. I’ll spare you the details of our traffic violations (I don’t want to get my friend in too much trouble) but that night at the Golden Nugget was one for the books. I quickly realized how cursed casinos are: the slot machine junkies chain-smoking cigarettes next to the Bloody Mary bar; the plastic showgirls kicking their legs in the air next to mechanical bull riders; the never-ending rows of bars and green and red felted tables crowded with “funny money” and phonies. It was a nightmare.

However, my friend was slick enough to secure our hotel fare at the roulette table. 50 on red, 50 on black; that was our hotel room and a little extra for some liquid refreshment.

Now, fast forward a few months. My father took my brothers and I for a boys’ spring break trip to Aspen, Colorado. His college roommate had a sweet gig out there managing hotels, so we had the “in” for lodging and lift tickets. This was a real full-circle moment for everyone. My middle brother and I spent our first days on snowboards at Buttermilk many years ago. Now that we were older and much more skilled, we had an absolute unit of a day tearing up Snowmass. Spending a whole day with my brother on that mountain was a dream come true; we had full reign to just tear that sucker up. It was smooth sailing.

The Double Black and the Dancing Bear

My bro had to leave a day or two early to get back to school, which left me a whole day to conquer Aspen Mountain on my own. And boy, did I fly. I threw David Bowie’s discography on my iPod and just let it rip. I remember being a kid and looking up at that rocky peak at the very top; never did I think I would actually have the opportunity (or the balls) to face it. But there I was. I stumbled down a majority of that double-black run, but I did it nonetheless. Childhood mission accomplished!

I believe that was the same day I came out to my dad. We were having dinner with his college mate at a steakhouse in The Dancing Bear. What a conversation. The hours just flew by, and at some point, I just felt the need to get that off my chest. It was something I’d been wanting to tell him for a while, and the lingering confidence of owning that mountain was still ever-present. So, I just let it out. It felt like the right time and place.

They were both a little confused at first. “Bisexual? What does that mean?” My dad promptly got up to use the restroom, and his buddy leaned in and said, “Dude... you just dropped a bomb on your dad.” I really didn’t think it was that big of a deal. The hours continued to escape us, and the conversation flowed effortlessly, as it does in such rare moments. Before we knew it, we were the only ones left in the dining room.

Gonzo Spirits: Freak Power

The next day, we all stopped by a local board shop where Dad let us all pick out a commemorative hat. The one I picked was a knit, pinkish, pom-pom beanie. I still wear it often and refer to it as my “coming out hat.” We got a tip that there was a Gonzo exhibition in town highlighting the era when Hunter S. Thompson ran for Sheriff of Aspen: “Freak Power.” When we entered the museum, we were the only guests in attendance. The curator could tell I was invested, and he allowed us to take a “behind the scenes” tour, which included more niche artifacts and posters of the time.

I was blown away. This was my first time laying eyes on original works and sketches by Ralph Steadman and Shepard Fairey, and even a to-scale model of Thompson’s funeral pyre (the one commissioned by Johnny Depp). Funny enough, the curator was also named David. I purchased one of his gallery books, and he even signed it and mailed it off to our home in Virginia.

The Descent: Impasses and Impulses

After coming back from those two trips of a lifetime, getting back into the rhythm of college life felt stale. I enjoyed my work for the most part (and there was no shortage of it), but outside of school I was playing in my band: Tribal Rites.

We were starting to hit a wall. I felt overwhelmed by the pressure to write new material; we had essentially beaten our set to death over the past couple of years, playing every local stage and house venue in the area. I was at an impasse. I knew I had to buckle down and finish my degree, that was non-negotiable, but I also felt called to keep the passion project alive. That music meant a lot to me back then, as it still does today. We created a lot of magic in that project.

In the middle of it all was my “partner in crime.” I’ll omit her name, as we haven’t talked since that year. She was the keyboardist in our group and acted as our very talented band manager. She had a gift for finding unique opportunities that rapidly drove our success. it was because of her that we got to play The National, among a long list of other gigs. Her personality was electric, and she knew how to use it. With her as the “people person” and I as the band leader, we were a formidable team. Unfortunately, we made the foolish mistake of falling in love and entwining our relationship with our work.

Sometimes we were over the moon with our successes; other times, things got extremely bleak. It was a polarizing partnership. We both had our demons, and while I tried a few times to end it, she just had a way of reeling me back in. I’ve learned that being young, dumb, and in love teaches much tougher lessons than you could find in any novel.

The Impasse

We were going through a rough patch. I was stressed by the weight of my course load and songwriting, and she had her own personal struggles. She ended up taking the semester off to seek professional help. In her absence, I foolishly looked for company elsewhere. Craigslist, of all places. Grosssssss. Stupid, stupid boy.

Tinder was just starting to be a “thing,” but I couldn’t be seen on that app; everyone in Richmond knew who we were. Word would have gotten out the second I appeared, especially while she was out of town on mental health leave. I never actually connected with anyone, but still… it wasn’t my proudest moment, but it is the cold hard truth.

Eventually, she came back to town after her break. I made my first ever road trip down to Florida to pick her up. All seemed “normal” for a while. We spent our days lazing around and playing video games while I procrastinated on my schoolwork. A couple of weeks went by, and then, on one fateful day, an email notification popped up on my phone.

It was a random lady from North Carolina responding to a Craigslist ad. Fuck.

“What is this?”

“I can explain…”

“What the fuck is this?!”

“If you give me my phone back, I’ll explain everything. Just please, calm down.”

“calm” had long since left the building.

The Impulse

What ensued next is something I hope nobody ever has to experience. The yelling, the broken window, the handcuffs… It was an immense flash of heated trauma. Our upstairs neighbor couldn’t help but hear the hysterical shouting. I locked myself in the guest bathroom as the yelling continued… until: Knock. Knock.

“David, it’s the police. They need to talk with you.”

There were a few officers there to see what the fuss was about. As I walked to the front door, I was promptly put into handcuffs and escorted to the alleyway next to the house. I told them everything: the Craigslist ad, the notification, her running off with my phone, me trying to snatch it from her hand, her side-stepping into the front door causing the window to break, which infuriated me enough to swiftly jab her in the shoulder in a sudden burst of anger (this wasn’t the first broken window in our relationship, after all). I told them about picking the broken glass out of the window and slicing my fingers in the process. It was a total mess.

The officer I spoke to was understanding, and he gave me a solid piece of life advice: “Being a ‘party guy’ is fine; if you want to sleep around, that’s your business. Being with one person is also fine. The key is, you just have to pick one. It’s really one or the other.”

Before they escorted her back to her place, we had a moment to talk. She asked what I told the officers. I said I told them everything.

“So you told them that you hit me?”

“Well, yeah. What else was I supposed to do?”

“You dumbass! I didn’t tell them that.”

Insult to injury. Noted.

I was charged with three misdemeanors: destruction of property with intent, underage drinking, and simple domestic assault. They took her home in the cruiser, and I got to work fixing my front door window.

That incident marked the end of many things: our band, our relationship, and many of our mutual friendships. But it also sparked the beginning of a level of toxic behavior I hadn’t even dreamed was possible. Or maybe I had. I just feared it was finally my turn to be on the receiving end.

The Wallowing

Welcome to my first rodeo. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, but breakups suck. This one had its own special flavor of spite and low blows, but the fact of the matter remained: bad news travels fast. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about living in this “big, little town,” it’s that people talk.

With her being the “people person,” I caught the sting of the cold shoulder and the evil eye almost instantly. 2016 was a pinnacle year for cancel culture across Facebook and social media, and boy, was that fun to trudge through. I was getting hit from all sides; from close friends no longer speaking to me, to her cronies threatening me at my workplace, to actually being physically assaulted at a bar one night. It was incredibly isolating.

I felt defeated, like that was it. My social life was ruined, my shot at a music career was finished, and no one wanted anything to do with me. I was banished, excommunicated, a ghost. Some would even say dead.

My 21st Birthday

With this newly bestowed life sentence, I spent a lot of time alone and in the shadows. I’ve always been an avid music listener, and at this particular point in time, I was just at the tip of the iceberg of exploring the jam band scene. The breakup also occurred just a couple of weeks before my 21st birthday. Naturally, alcohol became a predominant method of coping.

Funnily enough, on my 21st birthday, I was listening to a Grateful Dead show: 5/7/1972 - The Bickershaw Festival. It was my first time ever listening to this show. I took a walk while it played through my headphones, and I kid you not, as soon as I stepped foot into the closest ABC store (the one on Broad Street near VCU), the Dead broke into “Happy Birthday.”

I was GEEKING. What are the fucking odds? Even the store attendant was wondering what the big smiles were all about. He was wearing one of those resin pinecone necklaces, so I was sure he’d appreciate that little bit of lore. It was a glorious moment in time. I picked up my first legal liquor purchase and made my way. That was the day I discovered I shared a birthday with Bill Kreutzmann, the original drummer of the Grateful Dead. Trust me, its only going to get stranger from here.

The Journey Upstream

All of this was happening while I was still working my first Richmond restaurant gig at Shoryuken Ramen (RIP). That place was a true safe haven for me. Not only did I gain an incredible depth of knowledge surrounding broth and Asian cuisine, but the chefs were also huge “heads” who filled me in on some crucial jam band lore. I was a certified “Ramen Ninja” through and through. Legend has it, if you ask the right people, you can still find a video of me singing an Italian aria while mopping the floor.

That place opened a lot of doors for me that I’m still realizing to this day. A big component of the dining room was a large wooden cutout of a koi fish. Painted on to its scales were the names of the donors who helped fund the opening of the restaurant.

Now, Richmond is famous for its tattoo culture. I had just turned 21, just went through a horrible break up, and was just itching to finally get my first real piece. I guess after looking at that wooden koi for so many shifts, my mind was made up. I thought it was a pretty standard “starter” tattoo at the time; something I could build from later down the road. So, I went to a local shop and booked the appointment.

When the day came, my artist asked what I wanted. I nervously said, “A koi fish?”

“Hmm,” he thought. “How about a Dragon Koi?”

“Yeah, sure! That sounds good to me.”

My nerves intensified as he took the time to draw it out. When I finally saw the size of the stencil on my leg, I knew it was a “nut up or shut up” kind of moment. “Let’s do it.”

As I was getting the line work done, my ex texted and asked if she could come by to see it. We were still talking pretty regularly at the time. The artist was okay with it, so she dropped in for a quick visit. She paid us a nice compliment, something along the lines of, “This definitely earns you some badass points.”

But when the artist asked why she felt the need to come in, she just said:

“Because I wanted to see him in pain.” After she left, the artist shook his head a little and said, “She wants to see you in pain, bro?... oof.”

He continued working on my leg as I stared at a pencil drawing of GG Allin on the wall. We got some good laughs out of that one.

I’m glad he ended up steering me toward the Dragon Koi. It wasn’t until I got home that I actually looked up the meaning behind it. It alludes to an ancient Chinese legend of a persistent koi fish that swam upstream. Eventually, it broke away from the rest of the school and swam over the Dragon’s Gate of the Yellow River, where it transformed into a dragon of its own.

It’s a story of persistence and perseverance in the face of absolute adversity. Little did I know, my own journey upstream was only just beginning.

To Be Continued in Act II…

David Eaton is a Richmond-based writer, documentarian, and archivist. "2016" is a three-part series exploring the intersection of creative fire, personal trials, and the music that bridges the gap. For editorial inquiries or archival services, visit davideatin.com.

Walking into the grounds was like crossing the threshold into a sovereign state. The production scale was utterly massive. Truly a tier of professional infrastructure unlike anything I’d navigated before. The camping entrance emptied us into a turfed common area, a functioning hub of lockers, vendors, and the mandatory first-stop: the welcoming mural.

The first thing that struck me (besides the size) was the intelligence of the layout. Their attention to detail was equally reflected in the curation of their merch. They had styles for every breed of collector: old-school cinema-inspired posters sat alongside sleek, modern typographic designs. There was even a dedicated “early access” booth for the campers, a dangerous temptation for our wallets this early in the game, but we kept our cards tucked away for now. In a festival of this magnitude, you never know when those extra dollars become survival funds.

As we trickled in with the first wave of attendees, the sprawl of the main stage area came into focus. This wasn’t just a party; it was one of the largest music and culinary summits on the planet. With a projected draw of nearly 400,000 people over the weekend (roughly 50,000+ per day) seeing the grounds in this sparse, morning state was a rare treat.

The Expansion

The word on the ground was that they had essentially doubled the scale since last year. This new rendition included:

• 6 Stages of varying sizes and sonic profiles.

• A 3-Story VIP Viewing Platform (the crown jewel of their new layout).

• Kentucky Kingdom Access: A full-blown amusement park integrated into the festival footprint.

• 120+ Musical Acts: which were strategically scheduled for the drawing of crowds.

As we looked over the map, I was curious if the sonic bleed would factor into our experience on the viewing platform. I wondered if the proximity of the stages would create a muddy wall of sound, or if the engineering would actually hold its own. From how it looked on the map, I had the impression that we would be able to see both stage areas from the top viewing deck.

As it turned out, the spacing was smarter than I’d given it credit for. The platform was a dedicated addition to the main stages, while the smaller stages were tucked far enough away that the sound didn’t overlap. The scale was actually far larger than I anticipated; it felt less like one giant event and more like two full-scale festivals running side-by-side.

Richmond Flavor in the Bluegrass State

Kolby Cooper was the first to strike a chord on the main stage. While his music didn’t quite grasp me, the environment did. The decision to lay that high-grade synthetic turf over the pavement was a game-changer. I’ve done my time at “parking lot festivals,” and I will take faux-grass over hot tarmac any day.

As we navigated the center of the grounds, I spotted a familiar silhouette: one of the ginormous art installations was the work of fellow RVA artist Christian Taylor. Seeing that Richmond flavor being represented in the heart of the Bourbon State made me feel instantly at home. It was a “small world” moment in a very big place.

While we were admiring the art, a media operator swept in with his steadicam rig, asking for a pose. The scale of the production team was as impressive as the stages themselves. Camera crews swarmed the grounds with a level of politeness and precision usually reserved for film sets. Their content team was clearly operating at a 1:1 ratio with the scale of the talent, which explained the cinematic quality of the recaps hitting the socials in real-time.

VIP Amenities: The High Life and the Realities

After our “cam glam” welcome, we moseyed over to the VIP section. It served as our central meeting point for the rest of the weekend, and for good reason. The viewing platform was massive: three tiers, each equipped with its own food and beverage stations and plenty of lounge seating.

Despite the ample space, the seating tended to fill up fast. Groups of attendees had a habit of camping at their respective outposts for the entire day, which could be a bit of a hurdle if you were looking for a quick place to sit. That said, I mean it when I say there really wasn’t a bad view in the entire venue. Between the clarity of the audio engineering and the massive, crisp stage monitors, you could see and hear the performances regardless of your proximity to the stage.

The VIP area also featured its own dedicated food court, which included a live stream of the main stage performances. It was a practical touch; even when we stepped away to grab a bite, we weren’t missing the set happening just a few hundred yards away. While the food options were slightly more upscale than the common areas, a genuine perk was the drink prices in VIP were a few dollars cheaper than the general stands. When a single beer could run you $18, those savings actually start to matter over a four-day stretch.

Adjacent to the food court was an abundance of air-conditioned bathroom trailers. For those of us camping for five nights, having access to a climate-controlled restroom is a luxury that requires no further explanation.

Pro-Tip: If you’re considering the “Angel’s Envy” ultimate VIP package for next year, it’s worth noting that food and beverages are inclusive. If you’re a heavy hitter on the culinary side, that’s a significant game-changer to factor into the ticket price.

For me, the biggest advantage of the VIP experience was the mobility. We could walk up to the front of the main stages at almost any point during a set without having to wrestle through a crowd. As someone who loves to wander and see multiple acts, the ability to dip in and out of prime vantage points with zero friction made the pass worth it.

The final component (and the one that surprised me most) was the Pappy Van Winkle cigar lounge. Conveniently positioned next to the live-stream area, it quickly became our go-to “Home Base” for the weekend.

The Final Lay of the Land: Forks, Flasks, and Throwbacks

With our home base established, we headed out to see what the other side of the expansion had in store. Our first stop was the “Fork and Flask” culinary stage, conveniently located right at the VIP exit. I didn’t plan on spending much time watching cooking demos, but then I saw the name “Derek Trucks” on the schedule. I assumed it had to be a different guy with the same name. The Derek Trucks talking about food and bourbon? I made a mental note of the time; if it really was him, this day was about to get a lot more interesting.

The two smaller stages were a solid half-mile trek from the viewing deck. They were tucked away in a massive, open section that felt like its own self-contained ecosystem. Complete with endless rows of shops, oddities, and more food vendors than one person could possibly sample in four days.

On the far side of this area, near the GA entrance, sat the Big Bourbon Tent and Bluegrass Stage. This was the festival’s central bourbon hub, a single location housing every bourbon brand on the grounds. While most brands had their own individual outposts scattered throughout the venue, this tent allowed you to cut through the spectacle and get straight to the tasting while catching intimate sets on the Bluegrass Stage. In the afternoons, this spot transformed into a community hub for line dancing and local showcases.

The 90s Time Machine

As we wrapped up our walkthrough, The Band Feel was kicking things off on the smaller stages. They were solid, and their set cemented a realization: this was where the quintessential 90s acts would be holding court all weekend.

Unlike the main stage area, this section was straight pavement. The heat radiating off the ground took me back to the old DC 101 Chili Cookoffs’ in the RFK Stadium parking lot. With the sun hitting its peak for the day, we quickly realized that shade was no longer a luxury, it was a priority, so we started the migration back toward home base.

The final stop on our “Day One Tour” was the indoor merch booth housed inside the Kentucky Expo Center. The walls were lined with posters, shirts, and every imaginable piece of festival swag. While the selection was impressive, it was clear that the real draw for most people was the blast of air conditioning and the public amenities.

The relentless Kentucky sun is the one factor you’re never 100% prepared for, but the organizers handled the logistics well. They had plenty of free water stations scattered around, and I never once had to wait in a line for a refill. Water access is often a big “make or break” point for a festival of this scale, and Bourbon & Beyond nailed the execution flawlessly.

Settling in for the Ride:

With the lay of the land established, it was time to actually start living in it. We made the executive decision to head back to the campsite for a few “budget-friendly” brews before the evening sets took off. We didn’t have a hard deadline until Blind Melon at 5:00 PM, and as much as we loved the VIP lounges, there’s no substitute for your own slice of home, especially when it saves you from $18 liquid refreshment. We took the mile-long walk at a leisurely pace, with the soulful sounds of Jade Bird wafting through the air.

One of my favorite parts of any festival is the “theater of the transients”. There is rarely a dull moment when you’re just walking around and people watching. Every step feels like a scene from a larger, unfolding legend, populated by a cast of characters that only exist in this specific four-day vacuum.

This year, the organizers introduced daily dress-up themes. I’ve always found that kind of thing a bit cheesy, but I have to admit; seeing the crowd go all-out for Throwback Thursday added a great layer of absurdity to the weekend. The highlight was definitely a woman we met later that night doing a spot-on Sally O’Mally (the Molly Shannon SNL character). Seeing a full-grown adult in a red jumpsuit doing the “I’m fifty! I can kick, stretch, and KICK!” routine in the middle of the campsite commons was hysterical.

With our cans crushed and our spirits high, we headed back toward the gate. We were smart enough to leave the sunscreen behind this time, but the “Gatekeeper” from my last dispatch was still looking for a reason to be the only downer of my day.

This time, he decided my cigar case was a high-threat item. He went as far as trying to peel back the inner foam lining, muttering about how “these kids are trying to sneak in acid any way they can.” Acid? In a foam cigar lining? Please. I’m sure I could’ve come up with something more practical than that. At this point, even his coworkers looked like they were getting tired of his “due diligence.” I just stood there and let him play detective until he finally realized he wasn’t going to find any “mystery powder” in my Macanudos.

We walked back into the main stage area just as Ashe was starting her set. I’ll be honest, I hadn’t paid much attention to her name on the lineup, but her performance was impossible to ignore. She commanded the stage with her sultry, yet high-energy pop that immediately shifted the mood. It was the perfect “loose and fun” energy we needed to slip into the evening.

With the vibe officially set, we headed back toward the Fork and Flask stage to solve the Derek Trucks mystery. As for what happened next... I guess you just had to be there. (But I’ll fill you in anyway.)

Ass Pocket Whiskey

Sure enough, there was the man himself. Derek Trucks, the legendary slide player from Tedeschi Trucks Band, in the flesh and on the Fork and Flask stage. He took part in an interview for the grand unveiling of his new whiskey line, Ass Pocket Whiskey. Talk about being in the right place at the right time. Out of the tens of thousands of attendees present, only about 100 people were there to witness this piece of history in the making.

He told us some incredibly insightful stories from his time on the road as the youngest member of the Allman Brothers; I’m sure what he had to say was only the tip of the iceberg. Naturally, the stories revolved around whiskey and the culture that surrounds it on tour. He mentioned some artists and crew members go so far as to pack their most prized stashes in Pelican cases to travel around the country. As he was getting into the meat of it, Jess and I promptly slid into line to get some pours for ourselves. It was a real honor to share a proper toast of his own product with the man himself. He even went as far as to pass around a couple of bottles for the crowd to sample and share.

One thing he said in his interview that still resonates with me was about when he first started enjoying whiskey at this level. He was surprised by how different whiskeys could bring on different effects. He recalled drinking with a mentor one night and being blown away by how the whiskey was hitting him, going as far as to say, “Like, was there acid in there or something? I had no idea whiskey could have that kind of effect.”

This was the big surprise of the day; I really wasn’t expecting to get such profound insight from a legendary artist’s side venture. The whiskey itself was really good. Hot as hell, but incredibly balanced. I typically like my finer whiskeys neat, but I found that this one had such a dense layering of notes that slowly adding ice cubes not only prolonged the experience but also started to peel away the density, unlocking more underlying notes as it opened up.

I was also a big fan of his branding. There were a couple of screens with promo videos of concertgoers at a nightclub reaching into their back pockets, or “ass pockets”, to pull out the bootleg-shaped bottle. Clever as all get out, I must say. I’m not sure if his bottles have hit local shelves yet, but I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for this one when I get around to starting a whiskey collection.

Let the Games Begin

With a little fire in our gas tank, we were ready to take on whatever the rest of the night had in store. We hiked back to the Revival stage to catch Blind Melon. These guys have been on my bucket list since high school, and they cast a cheerful, welcoming vibe from the get-go, opening their set with an energetic “2x4.”

Having Blind Melon set the tone for the smaller stage acts was a perfect choice. Their pining lyricism and distinct groove were a true foreshadowing of many other acts to come over the next few days. There was even a guy riding the rail in a bee suit, as you do for such occasions. “Change” was a song I truly needed to hear; it was a big homecoming moment. Of course, they played their massive sing-along hit, “No Rain,” to wrap up the set. Knowing I was part of that moment made the whole trip worth while. It was hard to believe we still had three more days to go, and were just getting started.

With so many artists packed into the lineup, the sets were relatively short. Most of the earlier acts only had 30-minute slots, so they typically played a “festival hit set” to give the crowd what they came for. I’m glad I took the time to see all of Blind Melon, but I was quickly realizing that wouldn’t be an option for every group. Between the heat and the sheer number of artists I wanted to see, I knew there would have to be some sacrifices. In this case, we passed on TV on the Radio on the main stage in order to do the “Ass Pocket and Blind Melon” dance.

Beyond the schedule, we had another puzzle to solve: power. With all the walking and our phones nearing exhaustion, we noticed locker stations nearby, including one conveniently located near the cigar lounge in VIP. I made the call to bite the bullet on the price, and honestly, I’m glad I did. I paid a stupid amount of money to rent it for four days (like, $100 stupid) but having a place to stash the backpack and a secure spot to charge our phones for the weekend was worth it. Next time, I’m definitely figuring out a better portable charging setup.

Over on the main stage, Cage the Elephant was absolutely destroying it. I love those guys and I’m glad to see them still climbing the festival circuit; they seem to be doing very well. I’ve been fortunate enough to catch them a handful of times, so it was nice to just sit back and sing along to familiar tunes. We were saving our energy to get up close for Alabama Shakes, so we took a little cigar break and shared some empanadas.

When it came time to claim our spot for the Shakes, Benson Boone was finishing up on the adjacent stage. I didn’t actually know who he was, but he certainly has an adoring fanbase. In front of him was a dense sea of teeny-boppers and their guardian dads. Funnily enough, this was the only bottleneck we experienced the whole festival.

The stages were set up to “flip-flop”. While one act played on the left, the next was setting up on the right. We had to slowly inch our way past the sea of fans crowding the left stage to get to the empty rail on the right. It made me realize that Angel’s Envy VIP access would be a major plus for next year, as they had immediate access to both sides. We made it soon enough and met a lovely couple with a portable sticker printer who took this awesome photo of us! That was a class act, guys, thanks!

After Benson finished his backflips and closed out with that “HEY! WAIT!” number, it was time for the real heart of the night. As soon as Alabama Shakes took the stage, I was hit with a wave of, “Wow, we’re actually here.” Brittany Howard strummed that first chord, and the tears just started streaming. It was just starting to get dark, and the stage beamed with their soulful, powerful presence. Since the band had been on a bit of a pause while Brittany focused on her solo work, seeing them back together was a spectacle I felt privileged to witness. We stuck around for most of the set until I started feeling restless again. You couldn’t escape their sound if you tried, so we decided to head toward the Ferris wheel to see how the stage looked from the top.

The Carnival

I don’t know if it was the bourbon or the atmosphere, but walking through Kentucky Kingdom that night had me feeling some kind of way. We wound our way through the brick and concrete footpaths, passing glowing game stands and flashing carnival rides. The park was still piped in with theme park music, which began to eerily blend with the distant sounds of the Shakes. From where we stood, it sounded like Brittany was in the middle of a deep, wailing guitar solo. Honestly, I had no idea she could jam like that.

The whole scene was disorienting yet delightful. The sensory overload made me feel like I’d stepped into the Joker’s Funhouse from The Killing Joke. We finally found the path to the Ferris wheel and were about halfway up the steps when a group coming down told us it was stuck and currently out of order.

Well, I suppose we dodged a bullet there. Everything turned out fine, and the rest of the riders were able to get down before the night ended, I even noticed it spinning again before we made our exit. We never did make it back through the theme park. honestly, carnival rides just make my head hurt these days. But that walk through the park was a unique, unforgettable experience, and a brilliant addition to the festival’s expansion this year.

The Final Welcome Wagon

The night was drawing to a close, but there were still a few surprises left in store for the opening day festivities. We made our way over to the smaller stages so Jess could catch a glimpse of Pat Benatar and Neil Giraldo. The names rung a bell, and Jess assured me I’d recognize her voice the second I heard it. We were toward the back of the crowd, but as I’ve said, there really weren’t any bad seats in the house.

We were welcomed into the graces of some real Kentucky soul. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was hearing at first, but I was definitely into it. It wasn’t until the chorus of “We Belong” that I had that “OHHHHH, this chick?!” moment. I’ve gotta say, she’s still absolutely got it.

The echoes of that iconic power ballad carried our spirits back over to the main stage, where The Lumineers were closing out the night in their headlining spot. Now, I’m not going to lie, I had considered passing on them altogether. I’d had my fill of that “Ho Hey” indie-pop revival back in high school. We were actually in the middle of grabbing our bags and beginning the long walk back, wading through the crowd, when all of a sudden... Oh shit! There he is again!

Joining The Lumineers on stage was Derek Trucks. He played along with them for a couple of numbers, including a well-executed cover of Dylan’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues.” Of course, we had to stick around for that, it was a once-in-a-lifetime moment. Derek had even mentioned during his interview that he wouldn’t be able to stay because he had to catch a flight to get back to Susan in Connecticut. I guess The Lumineers found a way to talk him into it. I mean, how could you resist letting it rip for a crowd that massive? His playing might not have been his tightest work (maybe a little too much bourbon) but I can’t blame him for that.

The last thing I remember was an explosion of white confetti filling the air. The radiant white stage lights caught it perfectly as it slowly drifted over the crowd. What a sight.

First Night Shenanigans

Our walk back to camp was spent reeling from everything we had just witnessed; it was a lot to take in for a single day. The music of The Lumineers sailing over us on our walk sparked a flood of distant “coming of age” memories. I really should give that band a more thorough listen; it’s remarkable how many of their songs became part of a soundtrack to my life, whether I asked for it or not.

Now that we had a better handle on the layout and the rhythm of the grounds, we started mapping out the next few days. We knew we needed some well-deserved rest, but it seemed the “festy gods” had one more trick up their sleeves. We were just about to call it a night and went to brush our teeth, but then we met Jim.

Now, Jim has been doing this a long time. Jim knows a thing or two about what life has to offer. Jim had a handle of Jose Cuervo, and Jim insisted that we take a seat in the grass and talk with him for a while. So, that’s exactly what we did. We passed around the handle and listened to the tales he had to tell. I don’t remember exactly what was said that night, but Jim is not the kind of person you ever forget. We knew where his camp was set up, and we knew this wasn’t the last we’d see of Jim.

The other person we met during that encounter, whose name escapes me, had “Camp Unicorn” set up over yonder. She invited us over for grilled cheese sometime. As tempting as that sounded, that last swig of tequila was exactly what we needed to finally silence the roars of the jets overhead and get some sleep.

To be continued in Dispatch III: Waking in the Freezer…

Thank You for following along on this leg of the journey!

Day 1 set a high bar: between the “Ass Pocket” toast and that final confetti storm, it was a lot to take in. But as Jim and his handle of Cuervo reminded me, the real stories usually happen when you least expect them.

In Dispatch III: Waking in the Freezer, we trade the Kentucky heat for a chilly morning soundcheck. I’ll be diving into the Day 2 happenings, including the deep grooves of Khruangbin and the long-awaited arrival of Phish.

If you’re digging the story so far, consider subscribing to stay tuned for the rest of the series. The crowd is just getting warmed up.

David Eaton is a Richmond-based documentarian and writer specializing in the intersection of music, culture, and high-fidelity archival. For editorial inquiries or festival coverage contact: david@davideatin.com

I prefer straight lines.

I was never great with knots.

I would love to learn.

The cold has arrived.

Many dark days are ahead.

The key is layers.

I was scrolling through Instagram one evening when I came across an ad for Bourbon & Beyond, a music festival in Louisville, Kentucky. Seeing Phish on a roster is usually enough to stop my thumb, but as I continued down the list, I almost couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

Jack White, Sturgill Simpson, Ringo Starr, Khruangbin, Alabama Shakes. The list just went on and on, and the more I read, the more my curiosity piqued. Pixies, Blues Traveler, The Spin Doctors, Blind Melon, Third Eye Blind, The Goo Goo Dolls… Was this real?! Where the heck did this lineup come from? It was a culmination of all my favorite modern acts blended with the heavy hitters of the 90s I thought I’d never get the chance to see. All in one weekend? I had to be there.

I hurriedly showed the ad to my friend Jessica, and she was just as blown away as I was. Without delay, she pulled the trigger on a VIP payment plan, and the rest, as they say, is history.

The months leading up to September were a gauntlet. Jessica decided to put her house on the market, so our summer was spent moving into our respective apartments, making repairs, and prepping the interior for viewings. It was a high-stress string of months, to say the least; but knowing we had this magnificent weekend ahead of us was the light at the end of the tunnel.

Departure: Making the Midnight Run

With the massive to-do list involved in getting our housing situated, packing became a frantic afterthought. It wasn’t until a couple of days before departure that I finally sat down to read the FAQs and fine print. It had been nine years since my last camping festival, and the realization hit quick: we were missing pretty much every essential. Most importantly, we were a camping duo without a tent.

Fortunately, the woman who sold us our parking pass was super kind to throw in an early entry pass, giving us the option to enter the grounds at 9:00 AM on Wednesday. To make that window, we had to leave Richmond late Tuesday night for the eight-and-a-half-hour haul. Naturally, Tuesday became a blur of frantic shopping and provision-gathering.

We hit REI and scored a Kelty tent bundle (four-person tent, two sleeping bags, and two pads) for $300. Even the employee was shocked at that steal; these days, a single sleeping pad can easily run you $80. We rounded out our “living room” with an REI deal on an E-Z UP, and a trip to Walmart for the low-stakes essentials like our cooler and tarp. All in all, we secured our base of operations for about $500, a solid investment for a repeat traveling setup. To cap it off, we swung by the local Havana 59 for some budget sticks, which included sample packs from Sindicato and my personal favorite, My Father.

My final order of business was my weekly volunteer shift at Studio Two Three, stuffing envelopes for their big annual auction. It was honestly some really fulfilling work, they had a summer camp theme lined up for this year (how fitting). Nevertheless, the crew could tell I was itching to hit the pavement. They took some pity on me and let me off an hour early to finish the Tetris-act of packing the Honda Civic. Thanks guys!

By nightfall, we were Louisville bound, from one river city to the next. The drive was a steady rhythm of yellow strips whizzing past as we climbed the dark inclines of the Blue Ridge. In the pitch black, it felt like one smooth, continuous line, but the strain of the engine and the occasional popping of our ears told us we were gaining altitude. That, and the speed at which the gas needle was dropping.

We made the requisite stops for fuel, snacks, and cigarettes. The algorithm caught the mood perfectly, serving up a mellow “midnight rider” soundtrack that matched the deserted road ahead of us. The miles kept ticking by, and we were fueled by enough excitement and conversation to keep our eyes open. Before we knew it, we were rolling into the Derby City, just as the sun began breaking over the horizon.

Arrival: Off to the Races, Big Boy

We pulled into Louisville around 6:00 AM, leaving us with a three-hour eternity before we could join the lineup. The festival grounds were right off the highway, giving us a literal sneak peek of our destination. It was a beautiful sight: the string lights still glowed in their signature oranges and purples off in the distance. So far away, yet close enough to pinch with your fingertips. We’d be there soon enough, but first, we had to finalize the supply list.

Being housed in the middle of a prominent city, Louisville offered plenty of options for our final provisional checklist. Most importantly: ice, snacks, beverages, and baby wipes. We pulled into a nearby Walmart, just as the doors slid open, and loaded our cooler right there in the parking lot. I truly love the quiet, frantic energy of those kinds of mornings.

With a few hours left to kill, we figured a solid breakfast would do us some good. We recalled seeing a sign for a Big Boy back on the highway and, having only ever heard the legends, we knew we had to stop. Growing up further north, we had “Bob’s” Big Boy; down here, they have “Frisch’s” Big Boy. I guess it’s one of those regional naming splits, like Hardee’s and Carl’s Jr., but regardless of the name, the brand felt like a relic of a bygone era. Seeing that illuminated sign and the iconic smiling mascot was a dream come true. We pulled up just as the opening staff began their shift.

It was everything a classic diner should be: a breakfast buffet, textured plastic Coca-Cola cups, and our 71-year-old waitress, Bonnie, who had been working those floors since she was fifteen. Jess and I split a Big Boy burger with a side of Goetta. Just the mention of it made Bonnie look at us a little sideways; apparently, it’s a regional thing. A unique Ohioan sausage-and-oat pancake. It was savory, dense, and exactly the kind of protein foundation we needed for the marathon ahead. Bonnie even let Jess “sneak” one of the Coke glasses into her bag as a souvenir. We tipped her a little extra for the conspiracy. Shhhh.

We hopped into the festival entry line around 8:30 AM. We knew we were pushing our luck, but we were greeted by a young staffer who just smiled and waved us through. Weaving through the entrance felt like pulling into Busch Gardens as a kid, triggering that far-off, yet ever-lingering sense of childlike wonder. We merged into the growing caravan of RVs, Sprinter vans, and overpacked commuter cars. Then, we waited.

We turned off the engine and began to mingle. I’m always inspired by the ingenuity of festival setups; the way people can seemingly pack their entire lives into a vehicle and be ready to move at a moment’s notice. Eventually, the security checks began. Even with nothing to hide, there’s always that prickle of tension when the K-9 units start sniffing through your stuff. It became clear they were primarily hunting for ammunition and fireworks; a heightened security measure the organizers had emphasized in the FAQs, and one I greatly appreciated.

After getting the “all clear,” we lurched our way towards our patch of grass we’d call home for the next five nights, took it all in for a moment, and got back to work.

Setting Up Home Base

The first impressions of the campgrounds were... interesting. We were in a rent-a-fenced-in grassy field in the middle of a semi-industrial urban sprawl. A giant UPS logo glowed in the distance, and every fifteen minutes or so, a massive airplane would roar overhead. Either descending toward the tarmac or taking off to the sky from the nearby airfield. It was actually a pretty neat feature; at times, they flew so low you could see the landing gear retracting into the undercarriage.

Our plot was ideal. We were in the furthest row next to the main road and just a stone’s throw from the row of portajohns. We set up camp at a leisurely pace, making introductions to our neighbors as we assembled our respective accommodations. Once the tent was staked, we promptly collapsed for a well-deserved nap. At that point, I think we’d both been awake for thirty-some hours.

Once rested, we set out to get the lay of the land. This was my first ever festival that had showers included in the admission, a blessing that I will never take for granted again. The communal area featured a campground bar, a taco truck, and a general store that generally had anything you could need, in general. It was stocked with anything you might have forgotten, as a general store generally does: blow-up furniture, camping supplies, and refrigerated energy drinks. The only thing they lacked were price tags. I’ll get into that bit of sticker shock a little later, but otherwise they were fully stocked and ready to go.

We capped our first night with a quesadilla from the Gringo Tacos truck. I’ll be honest: it was the best damn quesadilla I’ve ever had. Masterfully seasoned and cooked to perfection, it was a friendly reminder that sometimes the festival convenience costs are worth every penny. With food in our bellies and a big weekend ahead, we crawled into the Kelty and drifted off to the steady roar of airplane engines.

Morning of Day 1: Sonic Alarm Clocks

Naturally, we woke up early. The sun seeping through the Kelty tent walls mixed with the steady roar of airplanes didn’t make for an ideal “sleep-in” environment, but we adjusted to the noise pretty quickly. The mechanical jet engine whirrs and whistles became a prominent through-line in my dreams. We started the morning by testing the showers, and I was genuinely impressed; The water was good and hot, there was plenty of space, and the layout felt more like a clean gym than a typical festival hose-down. (Next go around, I’m definitely bringing better flip-flops.)

One of the biggest perks of car camping was the sonic bleed from the main stages. Even from the mile-or-so distance to the gates, you could hear the production waking up with crystal clarity. As we eased into the morning, I took a walk to get a preview of what was in store. Cars were still filing in, but I got as close as I could to the gates and was graciously rewarded for my efforts.

Taking their soundcheck on the massive stage was none other than Alabama Shakes.

The groove that they established right then and there set the pace for the rest of the day. There is a specific heavy pocket that this band sits in, with a soulful and rhythmic integrity which seemed to circulate the Kentucky air. Watching the grounds come to life to that specific sound was a privilege. The massive screens were flickering to life and the speakers were being dialed in with immense power. I honestly can’t think of a better start to the day than hearing this band get into the groove with Brittany Howard’s voice sailing over the top of it all. It was a breathtaking and soul fulfilling wake-up call.

The Final Stride: The Gatekeeper

Witnessing that soundcheck left me energized and ready to move. But as the midday sun began to climb, we realized we had forgotten one final essential: sunscreen. We popped into the trusty General Store, fully prepared to pay a small convenience fee, only to find a $31 price tag… Thirty-one dollars? For a spray bottle of SPF? No thanks. I can understand an up-charge for the set up and logistics, but that felt like highway robbery. $17 for a bag of ice? I was starting to think I should get into the freezer business.

Fortunately, we caught a tip from some B&B veterans who pointed us toward a local easter egg. Just a half-mile up the road, situated right on the outskirts of the security fence, was a Speedway. There were guards stationed at the gate 24/7 who were kind enough to let us pass for resupply runs. That gas station was a true saving grace for our wallets; I would gladly make the trek for a $2 bag of ice and a Slurpee any day of the week.

When the time finally came to make our grand entrance, we packed our clear backpack and headed for the gates. The walk to and from was surprisingly scenic, winding along the back end of Kentucky Kingdom. Passing the roaring roller coasters and carnival rides added a thick layer of nostalgia to the trek. This year, they actually opened the park to festival-goers, granting us free reign of the coasters, the Ferris wheel, and the midway games. Having that kind of adrenaline-fueled excitement at our disposal made the whole experience feel that much richer, and provided an incredible, kinetic backdrop for the performers to gaze at from the main stage.

For the most part, the bottleneck at the gate flowed seamlessly. We rarely even had to utilize the “exclusive” VIP line because the general traffic moved so well. It was all going fine and dandy until we hit our final hurdle: The Gatekeeper.

I’m sure he’ll come up again in this series. I don’t know if he just didn’t like my dancing bear hat or what, but for some reason, this specific security guard seemed to have it out for me. To his defense, I wasn’t aware that aerosol cans were a venue “no-go” (that was definitely on me) but the man always found a new excuse to give me a hard time for some reason.

Regardless, this initial hold-up resulted in my first real workout of the weekend: a literal two-mile sprint back to the campsite to ditch the sunscreen and a race back to the gate where Jessica was waiting. My legs were burning before the first act even hit the stage, but as I finally cleared the metal detectors and my shoes hit that synthetic turf, the stress vanished.

The journey was over. The city was built. We were in.

The rest of what unfolded that magical weekend was a tale for the books.

To be continued in Dispatch II: Ass Pocket Confetti...

Thank You for following along on this first leg of the journey!

This is just the beginning of a multi-part deep dive into the magic, the grit, and the music of Bourbon & Beyond. I’ve got plenty more photos and a notebook full of “you had to be there” moments that I can’t wait to share with you.

In Dispatch II: Ass Pocket Confetti, we finally hit the turf for Day 1. We’re talking art pillars, the VIP smorgasbord, and a set that brought on the first stream of tears during this trip of a lifetime.

If you enjoyed this journey so far, consider subscribing to stay tuned for the rest of the series. It’s going to be a wild ride.

David Eaton is a Richmond-based documentarian and writer specializing in the intersection of music, culture, and high-fidelity archival. For editorial inquiries or festival coverage contact: david@davideatin.com

I didn’t originally intend to share this. Yesterdays’ events left me exhausted and world-weary. The kind of tiredness that makes it hard to pull yourself out of bed the next morning. But as today progressed, I couldn’t shake the profound sense of unity still echoing in my head. In a world that feels increasingly broken, I felt a responsibility to share the raw power of what I witnessed, in hopes it might provide some comfort to those feeling isolated or alone.

I - The Vigil and the Vessel

My day began in the wee hours of the morning. Black Iris was hosting a celebration of life for a beloved member of the RVA community and abroad, Kirby. I don’t think I have ever seen the place so packed; it was a true night of camaraderie and remembrance, with all proceeds from the bar being donated to his family. I didn’t intend to stay long, but I kept running into old friends, colleagues, and coworkers that I hadn’t seen in ages, all of us pulled together by the same common thread of loss. It is without a doubt that he was well-loved, and I hope he is at peace in his eternal rest.

When I got home around 1 a.m., I sat in the dark silence of my bedroom and practiced the solo I was scheduled to sing at the morning service: I Waited for the Lord by Felix Mendelssohn. It was a solemn time of dedication to my work. Letting the beauty of that piece wash over me helped me sleep a little easier that night.

Morning came, and I arrived at church earlier than usual to run the duet with our organist and fellow tenor. Personally, I enjoy the practices more than the performances. The piece was in a much higher register than either of us are used to, and there is a sacred kind of comfort in singing to an empty room rather than a crowd of Sunday attendees. The moments leading up to a performance often leave me in a quasi-state of panic and perfectionism; I really wanted to get this one right and pay due diligence to the composer of such a beautiful piece.

When it came time to deliver the offertory anthem, it went… ok. There’s always room for improvement, and I know we could have pulled off a sharper performance, but I didn’t let it bother me. We gave it our best, and the congregation was thrilled, offering a nice string of compliments afterward. If I’m not mistaken, that may have been the first male duet they’ve heard in years. With the service concluded, I felt like the physically taxing work of my day was finished.

For those interested in hearing the piece, a recording of the full service is available on St. Matthews Youtube. Our duet begins at 44:35.

II - Pivot to the Public

When I returned home, I got to work polishing the write-up for Shelley Star and the Galaxy. Editing the remaining photos and getting the piece published was rewarding, and I realized my earlier procrastination had been accidentally well-timed: I ended up posting it just in time for Shelley’s birthday. The hours flew by while I was zoned in on the details, and before I knew it, I hit “send” and it was time to head out the door for the next event.

It was a cold, bitter evening. A wet snow had begun to fall, so I grabbed an umbrella and started the walk over to St. James Episcopal to attend an Evensong in remembrance of the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. It was my first time attending such an event, and I didn’t quite know what to expect. The draw for me was them hosting the Norfolk State University Choir; I knew that a combination of gospel and organ music would be the right balm for the soul, especially when channeled through the spirit of a saint as profound as Dr. King.

As I walked, notifications began to pop up with positive comments on the Shelley Star piece, but I was running behind and didn’t have the time to respond. I put my headphones in, and Pastor John by Animal Collective came on shuffle. That song always brings back a flood of memories of contemplation and tender hardships. While focusing on the music, I nearly walked right past the son of my church’s pastor. We both paused, looking at each other for a second until it clicked. We exchanged handshakes and smiles, and I asked him to send my best to his father who was traveling to visit extended family. It was a warm coincidence at the beginning of a cold evening.

I continued through the familiar territory of the VCU campus. I restarted the Animal Collective track as I reached the corner of Harrison and Grace. The neon lights of The Village and the nearby eateries stood out sharply against the steadily falling snow. It was an intensely cinematic moment. I’ve walked past that intersection a million times. I used to live on that very block a decade ago, but this time felt different. The stillness of the air and the bitterness of the cold seemed to encapsulate a fleeting moment in time. Everything felt right, as if the snowfall were purifying the sacred space I was about to enter. Despite being in a hurry, I took a moment to just stand there and take it all in before continuing up Franklin street to get to the church.

III - The Evensong

I walked up the slate church steps where the heavy wooden doors stood open, framed by two acolytes holding burning candles. Between them stood a little girl, perhaps four or five years old, who greeted me with a program extended in her hand. I couldn’t help but smile, offering a sincere thank you for her service before making my way into the sanctuary. The pews were already packed. Though I had arrived right on time, the music had already begun.

Entering the nave was disorienting. I could hear and feel the music surrounding me, but I couldn’t immediately tell where it was coming from. It took a moment to realize the sound was not just above me, but behind me. I lifted my gaze and turned around to see a mass of choirs and one of the grandest organs I have ever laid eyes on. It was a staggering sight.

The center pews were full, so I moved toward the front right, finding a vantage point where I could watch the conductor at work. I caught the tail end of the prelude, George Shearing’s There is a Happy Land, which established a mood of solemn respect. I draped my wet coat over the banister, careful not to dampen the velvet cushions, and began to soak in the grandeur. The architecture was astounding: stained glass lining the walls, marble floors, and columns reaching toward a domed ceiling with gold accents that caught the light beneath the church’s famous grand steeple. The blending of the choirs and the organ encased the room in an eloquent tenderness that is difficult to put into words.

The service began with a familiar hymn, Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing. As the procession started, I noticed the Bishop walking up the aisle, a surprise that made it clear we were in for something truly significant. The service proceeded with psalms and lessons, including Matthew 5:1-12. The Beatitudes (“Blessed are the poor in spirit... those who mourn... the meek...”) have been resonating with me deeply lately. Now that I am a frequent attendee of these services, I found myself settling into the rhythm of the ritual, yet I was still floored by the sheer talent on display. St. James’s had a few different choral ensembles, each bringing their own distinct highlight to the evening.

As the rituals concluded, the program transitioned to two readings from Dr. King. The first was from “I’ve Been to the Mountaintop,” the speech delivered in Memphis on April 3, 1968, the day before his assassination. It was at this moment, as the weight of the words began to hang in the air, that I realized I should have brought a handkerchief or at least a few tissues. Of all the beautiful prose and calls to action recited that evening, this was the passage that hit closest to my heart. Dr. King’s words, though spoken decades ago, felt as though they were being written for us in real-time:

“And another reason that I’m happy to live in this period is that we have been forced to a point where we’re going to have to grapple with the problems that men have been trying to grapple with through history, but the demand didn’t force them to do it. Survival demands that we grapple with them... It is no longer a choice between violence and nonviolence in this world; it’s nonviolence or nonexistence.

That is where we are today... Let us rise up tonight with a greater readiness. Let us stand with a greater determination. And let us move on in these powerful days, these days of challenge to make America what it ought to be.”

As the reading concluded, I looked around the sanctuary and realized I wasn’t the only one struggling to hold back tears. In light of current events, especially those unfolding right now in Minnesota, this passage continues to shed a necessary light on the struggles our nation is still facing. Each generation is met with its own unique set of challenges, and hearing these words in such a sacred space made our current obstacles feel all the more urgent. While we have certainly made progress since the Civil Rights era, it is clear there is still a vast amount of improvement to be made.

The St. James Youth Choir moved to the front to sing All Will Be Well by Will Todd as an interlude between the readings. To say this performance tugged at my heartstrings is an understatement; it was a difficult battle to contain the waterworks as the first few tears began to stream down my face. Someone put immense thought into choosing that piece for this moment. Hearing the youth sing those words was a gentle, piercing reminder: “In the end, all things shall pass, and all will be well.”

The next reading was one I’m sure we all know by heart. Dr. Harlan Zackery, a Professor of Music at Norfolk State University, took to the podium to recite from “I Have a Dream.” He was dressed with immense dignity, and I could only imagine the honor he must have felt in that moment. Both recitations that evening were delivered with precision, but what truly touched me was seeing many of the NSU singers come down from the choral stands to stand in solidarity with their professor on the congregation floor. Seeing them with their direct attention to their professor as he delivered one of the most prolific speeches of all time was a powerful image of communal strength.

The service continued with the Apostles’ Creed and communal prayer. Because I usually sing in my own church’s choir, I’m not accustomed to kneeling among the congregation. As the St. James choir sang the prayers, it felt like a gift to be on the ‘receiving end’ for a change. After the powerful rhetoric and poetry that had filled the sanctuary, the opportunity to kneel and reflect was a welcomed pause. I bowed my head in serene silence, a final moment of stillness before the magnum opus of the evening.

What happened next was one of those incredibly rare moments that I am eternally grateful to have witnessed firsthand. The grand Anthem for the evening was It Is Well with My Soul, composed by Philip Bliss and arranged and conducted by Dr. Carl Haywood. The NSU and St. James choirs combined for a true spectacle of a performance. I was utterly transfixed, gazing up at the conductor as he moved with such purpose, power, and precision. At times, I felt transported back to my middle school choir days, remembering what it was like to work with Kevin Sapp, a fellow choral director and person of color who taught me so much about the weight of a song.

The dynamics of this arrangement were otherworldly. You could feel the deep, intuitive connection between the choir and their conductor; their dedication to the profoundness of the piece was tangible. Every wave of Haywood’s arms was carried out with a conviction that turned the music into a thin veil between us and the heavens. I was awestruck. When the congregation stood to join in for the final verse, I wasn’t familiar with the tune, so I simply stood there and basked in the glory of it. The roar of the organ, combined with the sheer power of every voice in the room, was earth-shattering. It felt as though the roof might lift off the building at any moment. It was pure bliss.

As the resonance of the final chord dissipated, the conductor was met with an explosive standing ovation. It was a picture-perfect moment. Dr. Haywood was smiling from ear to ear, his hand over his heart, waving to the crowd with genuine, heartfelt gratitude. I can only imagine the pride of seeing a lifetime of hard work come to such a spearhead. As Dr. Whitmire from St. James made his way toward the stairs, he caught my eye and said with excitement, “Great Singing!”

I couldn’t have agreed more. Bravo, Dr. Haywood. Bravo, indeed.

The service continued with the congregation singing Amazing Grace, a fitting favorite that echoed the weight of what we had just witnessed. After the greeting and the collect, we were invited to a reception in the parish hall. While the invitation was tempting, I had one final event to attend to. It had already been a long, transformative day.

The NSU choir moved to the front to perform their final string of anthems. They offered four selections, each lovely in its own right. I was struck again by their discipline; every note was memorized, and their dedication was visible in every phrase. During these final selections, I took a moment to check the notifications for my show write-up. I was greeted by a string of compliments from the band, most notably from my friend Alan. Knowing he was reading my words while I sat listening to a choir that reminded me so much of our own middle school days with Mr. Sapp was an all-encompassing moment. It was a treat to hear those choral scholars perform while I processed the wealth of fond memories they had stirred up. One of my favorite moments was a soloist’s performance during Fix Me, Jesus; her voice was absolutely flawless. I would credit her by name, but she wasn’t listed in the program, nevertheless she was an anonymous but unforgettable talent.

The service concluded with a prayer for Dr. King and a blessing provided by Bishop Mark Stevenson, the perfect “icing on the cake” for such a powerful evening of fellowship. We closed with the hymn Lift Every Voice and Sing, which the entire sanctuary sang with a joyful, collective spirit. If there is one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that the world could always use more singers.

The postlude was a sweeping improvisation of We Shall Overcome, with Dr. Haywood at the organ. By this point, I was feeling well and good and overstimulated. So I made a quick exit, grabbed my umbrella, and stepped back out into the night.

The Evensong was an incredible experience. Beyond the caliber of the music, the historical depth of what occurred in that room was significant. People of all ethnicities and backgrounds were in attendance, many of whom likely have vivid memories of the 1950s and 60s. As a younger person, it can be easy to forget that the Civil Rights Movement really wasn’t that long ago. Events like these put the significance of figures like Dr. King into perspective, reminding us of the importance of reverence for the sacrifices made so that we can stand together where we are today.

IV - The Quiet Echos

My last order of business was a music and literary event at Gallery 5. A friend who works there had sent me an invite earlier that day, thinking it would be right up my alley and that I might be interested in participating down the line. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but I recognized Reggie Pace on the lineup, and knowing the nature of the gallery’s events, I was sure it would be a great way to wind down my day. My mental capacity was nearing its limit, but the short, brisk walk in the cold woke me up just enough as I made my way to the old firehouse.

Upon entering, I was greeted by Tristan as I headed to the bar for a cup of water. It was great to catch up with him in person, and I deeply appreciated his kind words about the Dumb Waiter piece. I mentioned the Evensong I had just come from, to which he replied that he’d be looking forward to this write-up (lol, no pressure). Honestly, that bit of encouragement was exactly what I needed. I also ran into my good friend Jessica, and it was a treat to have her company as we sat down to watch the second half of the performance.

What ensued was an inspired blend of improvisational music and spoken word. Josh Hahn took his seat at a rig that included a miniature baby grand piano. The first poet of the set, Emily Okamoto-Green, offered a personal reflection on family history and the memories that surface when looking backward. Josh provided a musical backdrop of toy piano and “plunky” keyboard tones that danced around Emily’s stories. The part that stayed with me most was her mention of the Japanese proverb, Hana yori dango, literally, “dumplings over flowers.” It’s the idea of choosing substance and sustainability over fleeting beauty; a reminder to value a love that supports us over one that simply looks good.

The interlude was a duet between Josh on flute and a cellist whose name I didn’t catch, though his talent was unmistakable. They played a mysterious, pastoral piece that trickled through the room like sand pooling in an hourglass. The mid-section seized my attention with masterful harmonic bends and bowing techniques from the cello that were as difficult to play as they were beautiful. After the explosive anthems of the Evensong, entering this dreamlike territory was exactly what my mind needed.

The final act of the evening was Amber Nelson, who began her set with a poem written by the late Renee Good. I hadn’t realized Renee was a poet, and Amber’s recitation was greatly appreciated. Sharp, deliberate, and unrelenting are three words that come to mind. Accompanied by Josh on the flute, the set was brimming with wit, hard truths, and the heavy recollections of loss and grief. She ended on a lighter note, however, with a work about “good advice” that you still shouldn’t follow. Her sly smile as she finished was a beautiful sentiment to end such a long and taxing day.

Afterword

It truly is incredible how life has a way of hitting you all at once. From the collective mourning at Black Iris to the spiritual realms of St. Matthew’s and St. James, and finally to the intimate truths shared at Gallery 5. The sheer diversity and resilience of the communities here in Richmond never cease to astound me. It is a true honor to stand in the middle of it all and document a small piece of the living history unfolding in this city.

Finding myself surrounded by such a wealth of talent; whether through grand, earth-shattering anthems or the quiet bridge between music and poetry. I felt provided with a comfort of necessity. It was a true reminder that we are never quite as alone as we sometimes often feel.

To wrap this up, I would like to share one more quote from Dr. King:

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that”

I was shown more love and light in this little city today than I could have ever imagined, and for that, I thank you.

With Love,

-David

In numerology, 111 is a signifier of powerful new beginnings. A signal that you’re on the right path toward turning manifestations into reality. How fitting, then, that Shelley Star and the Galaxy chose this date to drop into my hometown and ask me to photograph their first-ever performance in Richmond VA. It was a true full-circle moment where dreams felt like they were finally catching up to reality.

To understand why this was so significant, let me give you a little backstory. I’ve known their keyboardist, ‘Alan Xtra,’ since we sang together in the All County Choir back in 5th grade. Since those early days, Alan and I have built a lengthy shared resume in the performing arts. We both sang in the Madrigal Choir at James Madison High School, stole the show as “Dancing Cowboys” in a production of Annie Get Your Gun, and had the honor of performing at the Kennedy Center alongside the National Symphony Orchestra. Looking back, it blows my mind how many incredible opportunities we shared before we even moved on to start our own careers.

As life often does, we eventually drifted toward our own separate pursuits, but I always kept an eye on what Alan was up to, even more so when he began working with Shelley Star. I especially remember seeing the buzz around them winning the Battle of the Bands at Jammin’ Java a few years ago. Since then, they’ve been grinding across Northern Virginia, gaining steady traction, and building a dedicated fanbase.

In that sense, I felt like I already knew this band long before I finally met them on this fateful Sunday (“Never miss a sunday show 😜”). This show marked the first stop of their first tour, hopping from one iconic venue to the next: starting at The Camel, heading to Cat’s Cradle, and wrapping up at The Evening Muse. They hit the road with Lena Traynham and Lily Hain (who I’ll dive into below), with Chyna providing the local support to close out the night.

I really can’t stress enough how stoked I am for everyone involved in this run. Each artist brought their own distinct flavor and flair, and getting that first tour under their belt is a massive milestone.

So, without further ado, let’s get into it!

Shelley Star and the Galaxy

I arrived at The Camel early to grab a bite and snap some portraits of the group. They were still in the midst of hair and makeup when I walked in, but before long, I was greeted by none other than Alan Xtra. We caught up while the rest of the band suited up, and the energy was high from the get go, peaking at the moment Shelley Star appeared debuting her newest accessory, a light-up cape! It was a stunning sight to see.

From the very first click of the shutter, I knew this photoshoot was going to be a milestone moment. The stage side of the venue was as dark as could be, but Shelley’s cape provided just the right amount of ambient light to pull everyone into view. Whether it was a happy accident or a moment of divine timing, the result was cinematic. (You can see the full portrait set on our Instagram accounts!).

When they took the stage, the room was immediately transported into an intergalactic love story filled with aliens, crash landings, and raygun shootouts. It was a dazzling, high-production spectacle that felt like a rare treat in such an intimate setting. With the help of her newly acquired diva headset, Shelley had the freedom to dance through the audience, bridging the gap between the stage and the floor. I don’t often see such polished power-pop at the Camel, and you could tell the staff was loving it as well. The house music for the evening was shifted to Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, and the like to set the mood between acts.

About halfway through their show, they were joined by Ari Voxx, another character in their universe of stellar adventure. This addition added a theatrical layer to the intergalactic turmoil they’ve so carefully crafted. I was incredibly impressed by the production quality; Shelley’s background as a dance instructor (covering everything from ballet to hip-hop) was evident in every move. The confidence she exuded was nothing short of inspiring.

Since Richmond is close to their Northern Virginia roots, the group was joined by their full live band for this stop. While they continued the tour as a duo for the remaining dates. Experiencing the full ensemble was a game-changer. The drums were tight, the bass was locked-in, and the guitarist provided soaring solos that demanded the room’s full attention. It’s clear that every detail of this project, from the time signatures to the textures, has been labored over with love.

I’m certain this won’t be the last we see of Shelley Star and the Galaxy in Richmond. There are plenty more venues for them to sweep and conquer, Battlestar Galactica style. Space Pop has officially landed in the Capital City, and I hope it’s here to stay.

To infinity and beyond.

Lily Hain

Setting the mood for the rest of the evening was Lily Hain, an NYC-based musician who brought a spunky, grunge-forward attitude to the stage.

Performing as a three-piece: drums, lead guitar, and Lily on an acoustic. Her set was a masterclass in raw, heartfelt songwriting. She leaned into themes of heartbreak and perseverance with a sincerity that felt like a more cutthroat Avril Lavigne who could actually go toe-to-toe with Kurt Cobain.

The bare-bones nature of the backing band and Lily’s green-striped sweater dripped with ‘90s nostalgia. Even the lighting seemed to dim down to a candle-like flicker, giving the whole set a vibe reminiscent of Nirvana’s Unplugged session.

Shelley and Lena previously joined Lily on her home turf in NYC, and Lily returned the favor in DC back in October on the first leg of this tour. While they all fall under the broad umbrella of female-fronted pop, the sheer variety on display tonight was a testament to how expansive that category can be.

We transitioned from Shelley’s intergalactic high-production spectacle to Lily’s ‘90s unplugged grit, and as the night progressed the energy shifted once more into the soulful, melodic territory of Lena Traynham.

Lena Traynham

Tying together this group of merry-making travelers was Lena Traynham, who hit a solid creative streak last year with the release of her debut EP, twenty somethin’. As the title suggests, her songs revolve around those in-between years of finding one’s identity, giving us a genuine glimpse into the life and mysteries of a budding artist.

A bassist joined the backing band to round out a classic Americana quartet, adding a rich fullness that supported Lena’s role as the lead storyteller. The band clearly has a sense of humor too. between songs, I noticed them trading back and forth various licks. I definitely caught ‘Back in Black,’ ‘Shine On You Crazy Diamond,’ and a few power metal riffs. I couldn’t help but chuckle, but in all honesty, this group brought some serious heat to Lena’s contemplational lyricism, truly putting the ‘power’ in power ballad.

Towards the end of their set they slipped into a cover of ‘Need You Now’ by Lady A, and that’s when it all clicked for me. I hadn’t thought about that song in ages, and the reintroduction really tugged at my heartstrings. I’ve been revisiting Sheryl Crow’s catalog recently, and seeing these youngsters keeping that soulful, storytelling spirit alive was a treat. I’m excited to see where the journey will lead Lena Traynham next.

Chyna

Bringing it all back home at the end of the night was Richmond’s own creative soul, Chyna. I had stepped out front at the start of her set to catch up with the touring crew, but as we were chatting, I felt their sound pouring out of The Camel like a sultry breeze seeping into my psyche. I knew I had to go and get in on this.

These guys truly blew me away. Their eclectic blend of styles drew me in like a moth to a flame, and they brought an incredibly supportive crowd with them. Everyone in the room seemed transfixed with her calm story telling and soulful vocals that filled every corner of the space. In terms of synesthesia, I was swept away by strong, vibrant senses of purples and blues.

I was thrilled to discover that Chyna has a live recording of a show at The Camel from last year up on her Bandcamp. I highly recommend checking it out. Rounding out this ‘power-pop’ heavy lineup with some local R&B flavor was a brilliant move, and I’ll definitely be keeping a lookout for future show dates.

See you in the Crowd

This night was a solid reminder of what it’s all about. It’s one thing to see a project forming from a distance, but it’s another thing entirely to see it in full form as they begin to break out of the NOVA bubble and start hitting the road. Watching Shelley, Lily, and Lena kick off their first tour at a venue as storied as The Camel felt like seeing the groundwork finally paying off.

Getting to document this milestone for an old friend like Alan, almost two decades after we were just kids in a choir together, made the whole thing hit a bit closer to home. It is so incredibly rewarding to be a contributing player in their story.

Big thanks to The Camel for hosting, and providing such an inclusive space as always, and Chyna for the soulful RVA welcome.

Support your local musicians, go see a touring band, and I’ll see you at the next one.

- David

It’s hard to believe I let so much time pass by without paying a visit to this gem of a venue. I guess I need to get my act together, because it really is incredible the amount of breadth and variety you can find here. They host shows and events most nights of the week, even earlier today they had a blues and brews performance for the happy hour crowd that I was tempted to attend. There’s rarely a dull moment in this place, and if you’ve lived around RVA long enough, I’m sure you too have some strong memories associated with this venue. The stories these walls could tell.

What brought me in this evening was to catch a farewell show for Kayla, False Nectar’s guitarist. While I wasn’t yet familiar with Serqet or Hot Lava, seeing Dumb Waiter on the bill definitely sealed the deal. One of the first things I noticed upon entry was the long line of amps stacked along the load in bench. Which jogged a whole stream of memories of lugging my own equipment through that hallway years and years ago.

Not much has changed about this place, and I mean that in the best way. From the lingering smell of cigarette smoke to the dedication of local fanbases coming in to support their friends. A lot of magic happens here, and I hope they continue to channel that energy for lifetimes to come.

False Nectar

The show began with another explosive performance from my good friends, False Nectar. I’ve really enjoyed becoming more familiar with their new material as they’ve been playing it out recently; This new batch of songs feels more dynamic than their earlier work, and that’s really saying something. The crowd was fixated from start to finish as the band weaved a musical tapestry of anguish and perseverance. The tension became increasingly palpable as they would reel us back into a sense of serenity before completely blasting us with dense and powerful segments. Like waves of a rough sea relentlessly crashing against a cliff.

About half way through the set Harrison announced that this would be Kayla’s last show with them. I’m sure most in the room were aware, but it was a really genuine moment that contributed to the bittersweetness of this performance. I’ve always loved their sibling dynamic, and needless to say her guitar playing is just out of this world. I’m sending her nothing but the best as she continues on to her next pursuits.

The set continued with more new material, including a debut. The sound was stellar, and I was especially impressed by Harrison’s vocal precision. His voice floated clearly above the mix, and seeing him utilize his falsetto more in these new arrangements adds a layer of vulnerability that makes the heavier sections hit even harder.

All in all, it was another masterful and polished performance. Harrison made sure to let us know that this is only the end of a chapter, and the project will continue. I look forward to seeing what’s around the corner for them, and hopefully hearing these new songs on a record soon.

Dumb Waiter

I couldn’t think of a better act to follow up that emotionally driven performance than Dumb Waiter. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen them last, but I still vividly remember the first time I had the pleasure of getting swept away by their unique blend of avant-garde, prog-rock, and… doom gaze? They’ve been a true inspiration over the years, and I’m stoked to see them still going strong.

Their set was epic, to say the least. The crunchy audacity of their bass felt like a seismic event, opening a portal to a netherworld ridden with anger and disgust. I could really feel the weight of their lyrics too. A brutal, honest cynicism that felt perfectly reflected in their music.

This band is known for pushing boundaries with their sound, particularly through their saxophonist, Tristan. He’s one of the few players I’ve seen run a sax through an extensive pedalboard, effectively utilizing his instrument as a dynamic synthesizer. The tones ranged from eerie, atmospheric backdrops to abrasive, shrill creaks and groans that added a sharp complexity to their rhythmic breaks. There were even a few moments where he sang directly through the setup, which was incredibly powerful to witness. Their guitarist mirrored these synth-like textures, often using his rig to drive the rhythm and atmosphere of a piece. The interplay between the two creates a massive, otherworldly sound that you really have to experience for yourself.

In many ways, they feel like an evolved extension of Morphine. Sharing a similar attitude and dark dynamic, but with a tighter, more rhythmic execution. Their drummer mentioned that the evening’s selections were all from a new record they just cut. I believe this will be their first album to feature a lyric sheet (correct me if I’m wrong!), and if this set was any indication, they’ve dug incredibly deep for this one.

They closed with an absolute banger. Every member of the band locked into a bombastic, communal rhythm that practically blew the roof off the place. This definitely felt like the climax of the evening, for me at least. Bravo.

Serqet

From one frontier to the next, Serqet took the stage and provided a fine landing pad for the room. Their set marked a noticeable shift in energy; after the harsh intensity of the opening acts, their more mellow, expansive feel made me yearn for westward travel.

Their Instagram labels them as ‘psych-rock, peace-punk,’ and I can definitely get down with that. They maintained an uplifting, steady pulse that progressed in intensity throughout the set. At times it felt like tunnel vision, like I was transported into a ‘groove tube’ similar to the steady pulse you’d experience wandering about a music festival. The sound had a glossy sheen reminiscent of long car rides with a Tom Petty soundtrack: easy-going, but with solid, punchy guitar solos that grabbed your attention right when you needed it.

After analyzing the complexities of the first two acts, returning to more familiar territory was a welcomed change of pace. With a traditional setup of rhythm, lead, keys, bass, and drums, Serqet brought a sense of classic cohesion to the bill. It was a well-timed breath of fresh air that kept the evening’s momentum steady before the final act took us home.

Hot Lava

Tying it all together at the end of the night was Hot Lava. These guys were a whole lot of fun! I could feel the inclusivity radiating from the dance floor as their singer performed songs written about their friends, most of whom were right there in the crowd dancing along. They brought a snarky, undeniably danceable energy that served as the perfect send-off for the evening.

I would love to see these guys play at a backyard pool kegger, arm floaties and all. Their upbeat, feel-good tunes are the exact vibe you want to crack a beer to. It felt like they brought the unseasonably warm weather inside with them, and I wasn’t complaining one bit. The quirky choruses, filled with gang-vocal ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs,’ hit a very happy place in my inner being. If that’s what the ‘Jangle-Pop’ revival is all about, I’m totally here for it.

They made me wish I had an extra cup of coffee in me just to have the energy to cut a rug. I was pretty beat after a long day, but these guys really made me look forward to the coming spring and all the joyful energy that comes with it.

See you in the Crowd

As always, thanks for reading and supporting the folks who keep the RVA scene moving. Huge thanks to The Camel for being the foundation they’ve always been, and to False Nectar for letting us share in a bittersweet milestone.

Keep your ears open, go see a band you’ve never heard of, and I’ll see you at the next one.

-David

So instead of grabbing dinner, I went out to grab my camera.

The crowd was starting to file in as I made my way back. Originally the show was set to take place at Govinda, an Indian restaurant up the street. I wasn’t even aware they book shows there… The more you know. The lineup was organized by CLAYHOUSE, and they put on a fine fare of local support to the kick off of the first show of the tour for Wallace, Tonight!. Fortunately the shift in venue went super smoothly. It would have been a shame for all these acts to have to cancel, especially with the touring band coming all the way from Philly. In all honesty I think Iris was the better fit for this evening. The paintings from Charlie Westbrook fit the mood just right. His interpretations of zoo animals and highway mile markers from his “Roadkill” series melded very well with the spirit of the music.

False Nectar

The show began with an explosive start from False Nectar, who performed as a 3 piece. They played an entire set of new material which kept the audience in a trance. Kayla’s guitar wizardry backed by the powerhouse duo of their rhythm section never ceases to impress. This group always comes prepared with an extra trick or two up their sleeve, which they flawlessly executed with an equal amount of finesse and brute force. It’s plain to see that they’re continuing a cohesive streak of thoughtfulness in crafting absolute rippers.

This marks the second to last show with their lead guitarist, Kayla, who is taking a break to focus on other life pursuits. If you get the chance, she has one last show scheduled with them at the Camel on January 9th along with Hot Lava Serqet and Dumbwaiter. Hope to see you there!

Circle the Drain

I was excited to see these guys on the bill. I’ve been hearing their name getting passed around recently and was glad to finally put a face to the name. They put on a really fun performance that had a lot more groove than I was anticipating. From the soundcheck it was clear that their keyboardist had some serious chops, which was a nice change of pace from the heat that False Nectar brought with them. Their singer was very performative and had an excellent stage presence as she grooved along with the band. Their basslines even got borderline funky along with the technical aspects of the guitars and keys. That being said, this group also packed a solid amount of bite.

They had asked me to take photos, so I wasn’t paying all that much attention to their lyrics but I really enjoyed the feel of this band. The diverse range in their sound kept me guessing, and I’m interested in seeing what directions they explore going forward.

Wallace, Tonight!

Coming all the way from Philly to kick off their tour was Wallace, Tonight! These guys were a hoot. On their merch table was a magic erase board that simply stated “Need a loosie? Ask a Wallace!” which I thought was particularly clever. I really liked what I caught from their set, one comparison that came to mind was the Meat Puppets. Not quite as goofy, but I definitely caught a similar whiff of whimsey as they rolled through their set. One song I can highly recommend from them is “Peach”. They played it towards the end of their set, and even the folks in the cigar lounge upstairs thought it was sounding particularly tight. I’m glad to see that it’s up for streaming on Apple Music, so go and get a taste of that one for yourself and wish them well on their tour.

Human Worm

Yet another pleasant surprise to tie off the evening. I noticed Katie from Strawberry Moon among the crowd and didn’t realize that she had taken part in another project. Human Worm, the name itself evokes some pretty gnarly imagery. The dark synthwavey atmosphere was the perfect send off that the evening deserved. I didn’t get a good look at the gear their synthesist was using, but I was really impressed with the control of sound that they were getting out of their set up. They cast a playful eeriness about the room that was palpable. With Strawberry Moon being the local staples that they are, I’m sure this project will continue on as another solid addition to the ever-expanding music scene in Richmond.

See you in the crowd

As always, thanks for reading and supporting the folks who keep Richmond’s pulse high. Massive thanks to CLAYHOUSE and Black Iris for the quick pivot, and to Wallace, Tonight! for making the trek to the River City, hope to see y’all again soon.

Til next time,

-David

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We all have a breaking point,

I think you found mine.

Sometimes that’s what’s best.

Stop thinking, just let it out.

See where it takes you.

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Something’s got to give.

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