On October 27, 2011, Taylor and I were in a Nashville parking lot, half into our Halloween costumes, when his phone rang. He stepped out of the car and paced for ten minutes.
Then he came sprinting back, wild-eyed, and nearly tackled me to the ground.
“We’re opening for Paul Simon, motherfucker.”
We were still sleeping three to a motel room and playing half-empty bars to college students who had not come to hear us. Now we were going to open the final leg of the So Beautiful or So What tour.
We did not have polished promotional material. We barely had anything to sell. What we had were songs, a van, burned CDs, and the conviction that we belonged in the room before there was much evidence that we did.
That phone call was the first moment the outside world seemed to agree.