It happened to the Beatles. It happened to Elvis Presley, and then unhappened, and then happened all over again. It happened to Alexander the Great. It happened to Fred and Adele Astaire. It happened to Douglas fucking MacArthur. And now, inevitably (so why does it even have to be said? -- but if the inevitable remained unspoken, how would obituary writers or Usenet groups make a living?), it's happened to Thinking Fellers Union Local 282.
No, not toenail fungus. Not necessarily, anyway. I'm referring to retirement from the road.
Victims of their own international success, TFUL282 can no longer pass up the calls of compositional and quotidian duties for the mixed pleasures of touring. The groupies, the applause, the champagne, the muddy sound, the flat tires, the foreign tongues, the dreadful coffee (does no one know how to brew a decaff depth charge mocha frappe latte con schlag in the heartland?), the frat boys throwing kegs through the banjo board -- these are delights which dim. Although personally I feel that the groupies could've worked much harder. The Local must now respond to a higher cal. Children and chickens and barns must be raised; mortgages and Hollywood agents must be met; que sara sara; whatever will be will be.
Anyway, the band says they'll continue to play the San Francisco Bay area, so keep checking here for advance notice and save up those frequent flier miles.
For that matter, if you save up lots of frequent flier miles, go ahead and bring TFUL282 to your own home town. Exotic places, exotic food, exotic people, and exotic stomach noises are all fine; it's the driving that's the problem. So if you've got five airplane tickets, your own private jet, or even just want to swap your local band's travelling expenses for their band's travelling expenses, write to TFUL282 and make an offer.