Dear Clash,
After 7 hours and 55 minutes of riding high in the nimbus-strewn jetstream, eating plane-arid ‘chicken’ so dry it turned my mouth Sahara, I’ve landed wide-eyed and renegade in New York. Standing in an immigration queue troubadour-rich (Micachu with a rucksack stuffed full of acoustics) and CMJ-ready, I suddenly became 5-years old, excited about playing here this week.
In 1626, Dutch explorer Peter Minuit purchased the island of Manhattan from the Algonquin tribe for $24. This, ‘ironically’, is the same amount my canary yellow cab cost to take me to my East Village abode for the next few days. Ah?
Unpacked (un-showered as well) and still standing in the same clothes, I took a jet lag-defying stroll across town to the West Village where, shortly after I trod heel then toe in dog shit, I happened upon a stunning little restaurant called The Spotted Pig. I stumbled inside, dizzy in thirst for what can only be described as THE best burger I’ve ever tasted in my fucking life.
I’ve arrived and I’m smiling. I’m sat writing this while drinking ice-cold root beer and I think I may have just complained that I’m tired. What a prick I am. There are skyscrapers outside, just as big as they’ve always been in my head, and a neon city that needs to be explored…
Tomorrow we’re playing an acoustic show at Lil’ Frankies, which I’ll be filling your eyes about, (and making out as though it was the best gig ever) and going on adventures yet to be written. Wherever you are and whatever you’re thinking, I hope this finds you dazzling.
Yours, already in love with New York,
Aaron xx
Ps. “I’m walkin’ here.”
