December 01, 2021
My Dearest Annabelle,
I write to you though the hour is late, but I must confess that the situation we find ourselves in is most dire. I fear this battle of the bands will rage on for eternity.
Nearly a fortnight has passed since we departed for Atlanta. Our men are severely tired and sick after every single one of us contracted dysentery from that Cracker Barrel in Vicksburg. Yesterday we accidentally left Gary the merch guy in a Citgo bathroom outside of Charleston. We cannot call him as he had the only phone charger.
We reached the “FANTA AND FRITO LAY Presents the Battle of the Bands” in Atlanta this morn, and what our eyes witnessed was enough to make even the hardiest of men question their faith. Nearly the whole day has passed and we’re still waiting to load in. The men are growing restless, and whispers of pop punk bands with 17-year-old entourages in today’s lineup makes me wonder why we ever left Philadelphia.
I saw a young bass player, already stricken with the rickets, stub his toe trying to move a trunk. Doctors had no choice but to amputate. He refused whiskey, being in a straight edge band and all, before they operated. His screams will haunt me for the rest of my days.
—
We set up camp near a broken air conditioner outside the venue. Only three bands have gone ahead of us, while we remain to eat a box of crackers and wait for any news of a set time. Our equipment is in desperate need of repair. I fear a light breeze may break the strings off this ol’ Tribute. Still, we remain vigilant and ready to play.
—
Finally some news. A grindcore band from Baltimore just returned from the front, their spirits broken, not not their bodies. They say the crowd is 5,000 strong and barely three brain cells between ‘em. One of them said the band before them mentioned off hand that they had just gotten their vaccines, and were met with a volley of Natty Light bottles. I am beginning to think we should hastily strike our cover of “Nazi Punks Fuck Off” from the setlist, if only for our personal safety,
My love, though the odds are very much stacked against us, I have not forgotten my solemn vow to you that we will return victorious with spoils in tow: $5000 and a record contract with 0.07% royalties yield. Pray I return home to you safely, and no worse for wear.
Yours Always,
Henry Wordsworth
Neutral Milk Hotel California