My hands remember things I don’t. I can pick up a guitar after not playing something for years and watch my fingers go somewhere before I have any idea where they’re going. A shape appears. A chord follows. My right hand finds the rhythm. Something that would take me a minute to explain happens without asking permission from my brain. Then I stop and try to think about what I just did. Gone. Apparently my hands have decided some information is none of my business. I’ve been n

There are currently three instruction manuals on my desk, a Gibson SG leaning against my chair, and more cables on the floor than any reasonable person should own. Apparently this is what starting again looks like. Not starting over. I’ve done this before. There was a time when making music meant three women, a truck worth of gear, enormous amplifiers and a rapidly developing addiction to volume. BØTTØM came out of New York City’s Lower East Side in the late ’90s. We rehearse