Dear friends,
Sorry for the lack of updates of late; I have been battling a poorly timed case of the flu. Things are coming up roses today, however. For the second time since coming to the beautiful country of Sweden, we have spotted the sun. This elusive star broke the hazy grey for approximately 30 minutes of our three hour sojourn to Hultsfred today, and not a second went unappreciated by our B vitamin difficient crew. Johnny even put on his sunglasses, such was the blaze.
Not sure where to begin really; the kindness and (surprising) size of these Swedish and Norwegian audiences has made for a magnificent and inspiring trip so far. Having spent many years pre Black Lillies playing clubs and coffee shops around the southeast and my hometown for zero to ten people at a time, words cannnot express how unbelievable it is to travel so far from home and have folks show up to the gigs. It warms my heart faster than this dreary, frigid weather could ever chill it.
I have unfortunately, due to the sickness, not really been crushing it as far as sight seeing, but I did a) see a gigantic ship that sank on it’s maiden voyage only to be resurrected hundreds of years later and b) went to an 80’s metal themed bar and had a traditional “Fisherman’s shot” that tasted of menthol and cough syrup. Cruz requested to have a tiny cooked shrimp put in his shot, despite being assured this was not customary.
Hope all is well back home. Please tell Will that I miss him.
Your friend,
Bowman
Stockholm (the poem)
Mottled shades of black stack, blotting winter skies
Translucent skin, wonder when I’ll sprout vestigial eyes
Lost Sea creatures, finer features fade below the ears
Grope about, talk in shouts, drinking all the beers
Send in Snipes, some of these types, can’t be merely man
Dark night I rise, but won’t disguise, that I’m American
Think of Withers, through the shivers, got me to believin’
If there ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone, she’s always gone in Sweden.
– a poem by Bowman Townsend