The life of a megastar on the road can be tough and lonely. We love our fans. After all, without them we would probably be just as unremarkable and insignificant as they are. But all that adulation can wear a chap down after a while and it’s important to have somewhere you can go to get away from the groupies. For us, that place is a little bar called Pour Choices.

The other night, I had arranged to meet up with guitarist Dee Sharpe and fiddler Beau Strokes for a quiet pint. It was a warm night, but we all arrived in trench coats with the collar turned up to avoid being recognized. The bar was empty except for the barmaid, Misty. The good folks at Pour Choices understand our need for privacy and ensure this by having almost no other clientele. It’s a questionable business strategy in the long term, but we appreciate them for it. Anyway, there I was sitting at the bar, avoiding Beau’s look of disdain as Dee and I sipped our IPA while he threw down his third Miller Lite, when Dee said, “You know, we should write a song about this place.” We were both pretty drunk by this time. Three of those IPAs are just as intoxicating as Beau’s eight Miller Lites. Dee picked up his guitar and noticed a couple of other sad looking customers drowning their sorrows at the end of the bar. None of us had seen them come in. He strummed a few plaintive chords. By the time our roadie, Ford Van Drijver arrived to pick us up, we had this song.

The next night, we dropped in again. We didn’t see the sad looking customers this time. We did notice a mirror at the end of the bar.