My Portugal. The Man experience started sometime in May. I had driven to Alaska with my girlfriend and gotten a job working on a commercial fishing boat.
Even in the best of circumstances it is really hard to be cramped into a 52 foot boat with a dog that bites and an a**hole who likes to call you “college boy.” But this was not the best of circumstances on a 52 foot boat with a dog that bites and an a**hole who likes to call you “college boy.” Other than the dog and a**hole the other three people were also pretty close to nucking futs as well. So for two months as I drifted to sleep with the rocking of the sea and the sound of a sleep apnea sufferer choking on his own tongue I started to listen to A LOT of Portugal. The Man. The Satanic Satanists and Magestic Majesties evolved from new-to-me, kind of interesting albums to pillars in my fight to maintain sanity. Close to three months removed from Alaska I hoped that the show would be some cathartic escape from the PTS symptoms of the boat.
At the show I was initially confused as to why the roadies who had just done sound check were getting back onto the stage. The thick, THICK, haze from the fog machine suggested it was prime time for the band to show up. When the roadies started playing it felt ridiculous to not have known that the band had been getting the stage ready for themselves.
The show was, naturally, amazing. And, as expected, the demons from before were exorcised once and for all. Thank you, Portugal. The Man.
Thank you! Ha, yeah, we have a pretty solid crew. Live working with them. Good times.