Until last night. Saw MUSE. It was an unfreakingbelievable spectacle.

Go check out the rest of the set.

I think the happiest moment for a photographer is the moment they KNOW they got the shot that they imagined before they hit the shutter … when the creative and the actual snap together and become one.

This composition has been rattling around in my head since I first saw the arched bridges in photos a friend took at the Chicago show. The way the lean in The Edge’s legs line up with the curve in the railing, the way the body kicks back almost perpendicular to the arc, the highlights from the spotlight … I will swear to the deity of your choice that this is exactly what I wanted.

(OK, the green hue in the background … I’ll credit THAT to serendipity.)

This was one of those perfect moments as a photographer. Everything went into slow motion as the camera locked focus and my trigger finger mashed the shutter button. BAM. Before it came up on the viewfinder I knew I had it.

When I pulled the images up on my computer I didn’t even want to bother processing or uploading any of the other photos. I feel almost like they detract from this one. (But here they are anyway.)

And sweet merciful crap what a stellar show it was … and please play the acoustic version of Stuck in a Moment You Can’t Get Out Of at my funeral.

It’s been a couple years since I was able to attend the Austin City Limits Festival. This year was a fantastic time to finally get back into the groove. The weather didn’t exactly cooperate (sorry, no photos from Saturday!), but it didn’t ruin the experience, either. (At least, not for me.) The torrential rains seemed to suit Flogging Molly just fine. The subsequent Sunday mudfest … gross, but really nothing more than a stinky, slimy distraction.

Overall, I had a blast. Our crew was up close for Them Crooked Vultures, The Dead Weather and Pearl Jam. It’s hard to complain about that.

To see the slideshow of the pics I got, click here.

I’ve missed you, Austin. I hope to see you again soon.

This was my grandmother’s guitar. When she was a teenager she saved her earnings from an entire summer serving lunches and drinks to workers in the fields around her family’s farm to buy it from the Sears catalog.

It originally had a tortoise shell celluloid pick guard that has long since crumbled into innumerable tiny pieces. I suspect the bridge may have been replaced several decades ago. When I first received it I researched old Sears guitars hoping to learn more of the history of this model. Unfortunately the guitar bears virtually no distinguishing markings or characteristics unique to any particular brand.

It is also entirely possible that the family folklore surrounding its acquisition is factually flawed.

Quite honestly, though, this guitar could have been hand crafted by demons in the fiery pits of Hell and handed straight to Robert Johnson by the devil himself and it would not alter its value to me one scintilla. This guitar has a soul — a wicked, yet redemptive soul that is priceless in my eyes.

This guitar is untameable. Due to the odd bridge the strings sit unfathomably high above the fretboard. The player must possess strong hands to keep even the lightest gauge strings pressed against the frets. The frets, made of rough, cheap steel, chew away at your callouses as you play. The tuning pegs may as well be windmills — maintaining consistent pitch is either a quixotic endeavor or a complete waste of time.

Playing this guitar for an hour is like going fifteen rounds with James Braddock while being enticed by the curves of Rita Hayworth. It’s a brutal and exhausting effort — and unquestionably worth it.

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