Our days in Atlanta were spent hanging outside of Thunderbox Studios. A big industrial space inside of which lay a labyrinth of practice rooms for Atlanta’s musically inclined. During the day it was a bit slow. Musicians would shuffle in and out, some bringing gear, some taking gear. All the while a man named Mr. Anderson, a long haired remnant of a southern rocker’s past, shuffled about the building and lot sweeping and picking up trash and making sure that the beer and water was properly iced. He told us it would pick up later in the day, once folks started getting out of work. You see, unlike Los Angeles, Atlanta is a town where folks have nine to fives and keep their dreams on the side. Think of it in these terms, a good handful of them sit in cubicles all day, longing for the clock to strike the hour when they’ll be released to go to a different cubicle. The type lined with sound proof padding and filled with amplifiers and instruments. This is the cube where they do their dreaming, hoping that one day it will take them away from the other cubes.
When Shantih Shantih loaded into The Van night had indeed fallen and the procession of musicians had indeed picked up. Gathered about was a small crowd, cracking beers, lighting butts, and watching as these girls moved their gear into a rectangular shaped cube, and continued their dreaming within. It was a good evening to say the least, and no time cards needed to be punched.