“What a day for spaghetti straps: The wind pummels her from all directions, the kind of gales that drive horses mad and ravage any trace of a blow-dry. Every gust tangles her hair and cuts through her new coat—all sheen and no substance, probably glued together by kids half her age.” D.B. Miller’s latest installment of Tales from the Pit.
“Most of her soft rock, standards and show tunes have been rationed because, baby, we’re on the clock. We skip through history and the flashbacks hit me like rain: the gummy back seat of my mom’s car. The pimply audition, when I had to warble about never falling in love again about a decade too soon.” D.B. Miller shoulder-rolls down memory lane to the crooning of Dionne Warwick.
“When you read a book, of course it’s a portal to the lives of the characters, but it’s also a portal to your own life. A book is an expression that we want to belong.” D.B. Miller talks with Uli Beutter Cohen about books, New York subway behaviour and belonging.
“Train, tram, trek—by now I know the way. It’s my sixth Zürich Openair festival, the first that I’m hell-bent on hitting all four nights. I hang a quick left before the sewage treatment plant and start up the dusty path to the grounds.” D.B. Miller’s latest dispatch from Zürich Openair.
“Inside the club, you were tempted again. One of the guitarists was setting up inches away, likely the last tour he’d be doing that himself. But you remembered the time Noel Gallagher told a heckler he had a message from Liam—that he ‘shouldn’t disturb his brother while he’s fucking working’—and kept quiet.” D.B. Miller’s latest dispatch in Tales From The Pit.
“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.