Rum Runner

Eight years. One hundred condemned halls. Five hundred odious bars. Ten thousand miles of lonely highway. Two hundred thirty squalid parking lots. Eighty eight suspicious security guards. Fifty-six dubious police officers. Seven justified public drinking offences. Three showers. Ninety wistful phone calls to loved ones. Two visits to the emergency room. Eleven stitches in the head. One thousand broken strings. Four hundred broken bottles. Five broken hearts. Five shattered dreams. Five disenchanted personas. Five crestfallen vagabonds. Five unrepentant Calgarians. Five persevering outsiders.
Eight years. Thirty-eight taxing studio days. Dozens of idiomatic anthems. Two eclectic producers. Three aberrant seven-inch records. Six commendatory catalysts for ideas. Three dogmatically resplendent full-length records. Five tortured souls reprieved. Five proud artificers. One disdain towards the prevailing winds. One contempt towards musical definition. One perpetual propensity towards levity.
Eight years of respite. Eight years of camaraderie. Eight years of inspiration. Eight liters of blood. Eighteen liters of vomit. Eighty liters of sweat. Eighty thousand pints of Guinness. Five solar pessimists. Five romantic egotists. Five disheartened idealists. Five dipsomaniacal sentimentalists. Five steadfast traditionalists. One perpetual sense of apathy towards anybody else’s opinion on the matter.
- Derek Stevie, 2009