June 29th, 2007: Strange Maine, Portland, ME

The awkward loudness of his voice—the lank, sweaty hair in his eyes—his laughter like a bucket kicked down the stairs—his seemingly unstoppable ability to lead all threads of conversation back to Star Trek or things of its ilk—his flinching eyes—his obvious discomfort among strangers—his obvious discomfort among friends—his stutter and his shakes: all of it melts away when he steps up with his guitar and his pre-recorded backing band, when the electronic kick-drum starts pounding in double time, when he glares down at the strings of his axe and starts to fucking shred man, huge theatrical riffs that make Iron Maiden and Savatage look like a bunch of melodramatic sissies plinking second-hand Fenders in some dad’s garage, and when he finally looks up to make unwavering eye-contact with all eight or so of us and sings straight and unadorned stories that remind us again why dragons have been and always will be awesome, it becomes clear that this kid’s in his element, that this is the only place he can be himself—with these songs, with these licks—this is the only way he can look anyone in the eye, that this is his only chance to be free.

This is his only chance to be free. He knows this. He rides that horse until its legs are bloody stumps.