We leave the gig by the back stairs. Inside everyone is still lost in the excitment of the aftermath. Outside seagulls hang like white paper cutouts against a cobalt blue sky. We sit drinking beer on the cold stone wall and I tell him how it never really gets properly dark here at this time of year and he tells me how touring is a good time to get through a ton of books and I ask him what he’s been reading and he tells me Cormac McCarthy mainly. I think how much I could like him.