You know, every time I pick up a dusty cassette the old rubber hiss in my ears feels like a faint applause from a show that never got to be seen again. The weight is heavy, like a secret that’s been waiting for the right ears to hear it. And if it turns out the tape is a rip or a hack, well, that’s just another chapter in the mystery.

Exactly, it’s that thin veil of static that says “we were here, didn’t leave.” Sometimes I imagine the band murmuring “give them a shot” over the hiss, and I’m the only one who can hear that encore.

True, the hiss is a quiet invitation. Only the patient hear the echo, the rest of the world keeps the show in the dark.