When Syd and I were living in Chicago, we landed a regular gig at this place called Irish Eyes. Irish Eyes is a sports bar over by DePaul where college-aged (and usually quite a few older people, too) came to get drunk and sing along to live covers of pop tunes. The Pizza Bats played two-and-a-half hours of songs, and in a lot of ways the gig was tyte. It really helped us stay motivated to learn and rehearse new songs as well as test and improve our performance stamina, but after a just a short while doing the gig, it became clear that we needed to do something more creative and writing-focused.
While their regular late-night performer--a cat named Dylan Hankey who’s basically a bottomless superhuman jukebox--rocked out, I passed Sydney a note that said something along the lines of, “Hey, aren’t we writers? We should be in New York or Nashville or LA, right?” and we proceeded to pass the note back-and-forth to each other, adding a little more to the conversation with each pass. We decided that night that we would move to New York City ASAP. The next day, we told our roommates we were moving out and bought one-way tickets to the city.