In a strange twist of events, we ended up on a rather grimy--yet worn and comfortable--couch on the Mayers’ side of backstage with the bruisers. Mistah Mayaz not in attendance.
Nice guys actually. Well, fun guys. Never before has any one human ingested that much peanut butter and ecstasy in one sitting. Bruiser Number Two’s black-on-black attire now donned dandruff, sweat, and saliva from where he would drop peanut butter, swipe it up with a finger, lick clean that finger, and then swipe again. Impressive and scary and disgusting and “I think we’re gonna be goin’. Have a good one fellas.”
Full of peanut butter and short one magical capo, we were forced to hit the road to make our next show in Cincinnati. The whiteout blizzard was nearby, according to one of those genius meteorologist, so we double-timed it after one more desperate “idiot check” around the stage and backstage for the capo. Nope. Stolen. …prick.
We allotted two and a half hours for our drive through the whiteout. Instead we made it in just over an hour. Now, pissed at Mayer and the Dayton local weather team, the guitars came out and the JMSMC song began. It has since received many edits, additions, and “fuck you”’s, but that first sugar- and anger-infested jam led to a loud bar-chords concoction …
May your nights be short/ May your day be dull / You claim naive/ May your presence lull
Coming to tear down/ Don’t go up a step/ May your run end with me/ Every step to get you back
Your chords are mine/ licks for sure/ Fuck you (fuck you) (fuck you) John Mayer