Back in Chicago after the end of the tour and a long time away from the city, I'm pleasantly surprised at how much I missed this place and how many lasting memories I'm left with. Traveling to some of the biggest east coast cities and playing my own songs was a childhood dream come true, and nothing short of that. The shows were wildly successful—over the last week, I played with some incredible bands and artists I would never have met had I not worked my butt off for months to coordinate shows in DC, Baltimore, Rehoboth, Philly, and NY. The venues were, for the most part, nothing short of professional and dreamy. It was a grueling week, but traveling around and playing music for old and new friends for seven days made me the happiest I've ever been. My closest friends took time out of their busy lives to see my shows, and for that, I'll be forever grateful.

In DC, I played The Vinyl Lounge at Gypsysally's for the first time, and on the same night The Morrison Brothers Band took the main stage. Some of my oldest friends came out to say hi, and I was overwhelmed by the kindness. Keeley Franklin lent me her couch on Friday night following the show, and I got to see folks I hadn't seen in years from both high school and college. I missed all of you. The turnout was impressive, and everyone was loud, raucous, and fun. After a poolside Saturday afternoon (and a visit to Georgetown's cat cafe Crumbs & Whiskers with Keeley, I left for Baltimore.

As I reached the city limits in the car I borrowed from my mother, I battled traffic and Orioles fans flocking to Camden to face the Cubs. They happened to be in town that night on the road from Chicago. Go figure. I finally put my car up in a parking deck next to the seediest Subway I've ever eaten a $5 footlong at and arrived for my gig at The Bun Shop . It's a rustic bakery and coffeeshop with exposed brick, lots of chess players, and medieval furniture on Light street. There, I witnessed the oddly captivating, bird-heavy songs of 20ooo , and the emotional virtuosity of Randi Withani's voice. It was a small crowd, but full of people who live and breathe music, and those can be the best crowds. The owner—bless his heart—even offered me a couch to crash on. He even bought a t-shirt. Stockett Marr generously offered me a place to stay that evening and pointed me toward the Blue Moon Cafe along the waterfront the next morning, where I had the best plate of chorizo & eggs I'll probably ever have.

Next, I drove the three or so hours to Rehoboth Beach, DE. The Delaware Memorial Bridge is always breathtaking. Rehoboth was, well—full of chain restaurants, trinket shops, ill-attended beach bars, and tourists sweating through their tank tops. Oh, and a water tower. On it, "Rehoboth Beach" is written in comic sans. Jk.

Fleeing Rehoboth as early as I could on Monday morning, I got to Philly around noon. I'd never been to Philly before. It was bigger than I expected. So big, in fact, I took a wrong turn onto the Benjamin Franklin bridge and ended up in Camden after about five minutes driving around the city. I scouted out the venue I was to play at the next night and contacted Patrick Clark , who put me up for the night on his surprisingly comfortable couch and introduced me to Kenzinger. It's basically a heavier, more flavorful Yeungling, I guess.

Pat spent the evening showing me around Philly with his roommates, and I fell in love with the city immediately. Row houses, they're called. Not town houses. Ridiculously charming. Lots of street parking. I suppose I could see myself there someday, but that seems too distant to grasp.

The following afternoon, I grabbed a corn beef sandwich at Reading Terminal (kind of like a more open Faneuil Hall) and later my dear friend and three-time college roommate Ryan Waddell showed up to the Days Inn (aka Days Inn Conference Center) in downtown Philly I'd booked for the two of us. We caught up, went to see the Liberty Bell, checked out Independence Hall (it was closed), and grabbed some cheesesteaks, once again, from Reading terminal. The man behind the register selling the cheesesteaks was Philly through and through. He was quick to tell the man in front of us who ordered a "Philly Cheesesteak," "Bro, you in Philly, it's just a cheesesteak." My hoagie was good.

Via Lyft around 7:30, I arrived at The Fire . Jake Gussman opened the show, and I played a set I was particularly proud of in front of some truly amazing people (you know who you are). Unfortunately, at this point in our story, I also managed to severely damage the interior pickup on my guitar. That means that, by the very last song I played in the set, the speakers my guitar was playing though could barely pick up the sound I was producing. I made it work, but I knew I had New York—the biggest show, in my mind—to play the next night, and I would be trapped on the road without a working guitar. Yes, that is bad. More on that in a minute.

Of The Archive , a local math-rock band (but really much more than that) played after me, and absolutely crushed it. They'd only been together for maybe a month, but they were as tight, complex, and downright interesting as any band I'd ever played with. When it comes out, you owe it to yourself to at least listen to some of the album they're working on right now. Hopefully, they'll all be friends for years to come. RENTBOY closed the show with some delightfully weird and interesting rock. I expect big things from them. A few friends and I went out after the show for a bit where I ran into a wannabe comedian with a ZZ Top beard I'd met the previous night. He was working the door at a bar on Girard avenue. I once again told him to at least try his hand at open mic night, that performing your passion with passion was the greatest thrill you could ever experience. I'm paraphrasing here, but he said something along the lines of "nah, everybody at those things sucks." Fair enough.

So there I was, about 12 hours later, 30 minutes outside of New York and trying to follow a rather complicated detour to the Holland Tunnell with a broken guitar in my trunk and a panic in my chest. Was the New York show going to be a total bust? I couldn't very well use my loop pedal—which I use on a big portion of the set these days—with a guitar that didn't have a working pickup. I thought I was totally screwed. I called every guitar expert I knew, to no avail. There were basically no open guitar repair shows in Philly, and New York wasn't looking promising for an emergency repair. I found a shop by the name of TR Crandall Guitars , who I found during a frantic stoplight google search. They said they could maybe fix the instrument for me, if I could bring it in ASAP. By now it was 2 pm, and the show was at 7 pm. T-minus 5 hours.

In the true nature of all stubbornly difficult days, I made a fatal error en route to the guitar store. For whatever reason, I was under the impression Crandall Guitars was in Brooklyn—so I went over the bridge from Manhattan, and went to the 3rd street address I'd written down. A kindly dog walker I encountered informed me that no, in fact, I was not in the correct place, not even the correct borough—and shook his head and gave me a truly empathetic "sorry, man" before walking away with his chihuahua companion. It was now 3:00 pm. T-minus 3.5 hours.

I sat in traffic on the BQE for an hour and a half and very nearly pulled every strand of my long, luscious hair out of my head. I was done. The guitar wasn't going to work tonight. The most important show to me was finished before it'd begun. I'd already gotten a sore throat from (barely) sleeping on couches and eating like garbage for the past several days. Why shouldn't my guitar break down too?

Finally, though, not entirely unlike the image of Moses slamming his staff into the heavy sand, the sea of traffic parted and I zipped through the lower east side to TR Crandall Guitars. I parked in front of a fire hydrant—there was no time, people—and ran my Taylor into the shop. It was heaven. Vintage guitars from wall to wall—no time for gawking! The owner, Tom (and the "T" in TR Crandall), ascended from his basement workshop and asked what the problem was. Like a panicked parent, I could barely explain that "Taylor was broken." He took a look, returned in 5 minutes, and it was perfectly fixed. Tom saved my life, ladies and gentlemen, and the night's show. He's an unsung hero. He's also a very talented luthier and has one of the coolest guitar shops I've ever seen. If you're into music and live in New York, you're doing yourself a grave disservice by not visiting his shop. best places to get homecoming dresses

Anyway, on to the important part. I made it to Rockwood Music Hall with plenty of time to spare. The sound guy (whose name I can't remember and I'm kicking myself for not writing it down) was by far the best, most professional, kindest sound professional I've ever met. He made me feel like we were on the same team, like he was there for me. I can't explain how rare a creature that is in the sound game. Because of him, and because of my sheer determination, that was, hands down, the best show I've ever played at the best venue I've ever played. It was an hour-long performance I'll never forget with some of the best friends I've ever had. It was perfect, absolutely everything I've ever wanted. I can't say how grateful I am to all my friends for making the hike over early on a Wednesday evening, and especially to Evan Tripp for putting me up for the evening and showing me how ridiculously awesome New York is. It stole my heart.

Well, this post got a bit out of hand, but this is the last week of my life. I'm so pleased I could scream—or, at least, write about it obsessively. Thanks for reading, thanks for watching, and thanks for listening. Hope I've remembered everyone here. If not, I love you all. I can't wait for the next tour.

Will