“A disheveled guy unlocks the doors. While we thaw out inside, he checks our bags, takes a loose roll call and switches from German to English for the most important news: the responsible person will let us into the sound check ‘just as soon as she comes back from the toilet.'” What happened when definitely-not-intoxicated D.B. Miller met Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.
“For a second, she thinks about the description of dying her friend intercepted from the spirits: falling and fighting it with every muscle pinched in panic until the horizon tilts, hands float to the surface … and she lets go.” The latest instalment from D.B. Miller.
“Thirty-four years after the letter, I find myself in the back of an SUV on the way to a Who concert. While my parents discuss dinner options from the front seat, I try in vain to forge a link between the teenage fan and the adult.” D.B. Miller’s latest installment.
“If you slip and almost step on a waterlogged mouse, do not attempt an artsy contortion. You will pull a muscle in your back.” D.B. Miller walks us through eight steps to success when attending Zürich’s open-air festival.
“Fact: If you want to get close to the stage, you have to prepare. Some call it a military operation. I call it war.” D.B. Miller scans the audience in the pit with a series of vignettes.
“This is punk. This is what it’s for. A woman half my age is my teacher. And she didn’t come here to dance.” D.B. Miller faces off the Petrol Girls and Dead Kennedys in her new series.