As the clamor of the crowded room grew to an excited roar, our guitarist Chris Shifflett approached with a guest and said, "Hey Dave, someone wants to meet you." I stood up to say hello, and with extended hand, the handsome young man introduced himself with a broad smile. Everyone grateful for life, music, and the people we love. Another show, another gathering of the loving, gypsy-like tribe that we've gathered over the years, all reminiscing about the past and reeling in the present over gallons and gallons of drink. As would happen most evenings, our small, curtained off area would soon erupt into a celebration of joyous reunions amongst lifelong friends and extended family, each greeted with a cocktail, a smile, and a long embrace. From a dirty old couch deep within the bowels of London's Wembley Arena, I watched the usual parade of familiar faces file into the Foo Fighters dressing room as I happily nursed my well- deserved post-show beer, still sweating from another exhausting night onstage.
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