Turning a corner in Asheville

The Drive

It was a 10-hour drive from Chicago to Asheville. And another 10 back.

That’s long enough to second-guess the whole thing on the way down — and long enough to realize on the way back that something had changed.

We rolled in late Tuesday night and the first of the run was already underway. I had an uneasy mix of FOMO and low-grade anxiety that comes with arriving after something has already started.

We crashed at an Airbnb that was also housing a couple other Goats and overlooked a square that attracted a noisy group of late night revelers.

The next morning we got straight to work, setting up our studio space that would serve as home base for four days.

Asheville marked the first time I had cameras out.  And I had a proper studio space — street-level, great light, right off a main drag, and just a couple blocks from the arena. Close enough that it felt connected to the scene, but controlled enough to actually sit down and talk.

We got in, set everything up, dialed the space. Between interviews, we’d blast Billy through the speakers so people walking by — or coming in — knew they were in the right place.

By early afternoon, we finally stepped out. Asheville wasn’t just hosting a run — it felt like it had been overtaken by it. We walked into one of a dozen Shakedown-style pop-ups at a distillery. And from there it just kept unfolding: Billy promotions, signs, people with instruments posted up on corners.

You didn’t have to go looking for it; it was everywhere you turned.

The arena and the main lot were the center of gravity — a full Shakedown setup directly across the street — but the energy spilled way beyond that. You could walk a few blocks in any direction and find another pocket of activity.

The Flow

Most mornings and early afternoons, we stayed in the studio. I had time scheduled with a few folk I knew would be in Asheville for the run, but left space for people on the fly. Again, the studio was essential — no noise, no chaos, just space to actually talk.

Then, late afternoon, we’d head out. Back to the lot and back into it: Talking to people, telling them what we were doing, handing out cards, pulling a few into quick on-the-spot conversations. A handful of those turned into scheduled interviews back at the studio later.

That flow — studio → lot → studio — became the rhythm of the week.

By the end of it, I came back with more than ten hours of interview content, across a range of voices that went beyond what I’d hoped for.

I’m hugely grateful for all the people who took the time to share their stories with me.

 Meet Andy

I brought my buddy Andy down with me. When we left Chicago, he was just helping out, but by the end of the trip, it felt like something else — like the beginning of a real partnership.

This was his first real exposure to Billy. And you could see it happen in real time.

At first, it was just curiosity — hearing the music on the drive, being around it in the studio. Then we hit the lot. And that’s when it clicked.

But I still didn’t have tickets. I came down without them because I didn’t want to jinx anything. I felt that if the week went well, we’d have earned it.

And by Thursday night, I knew we were in and I bought us GA tickets for Friday.

Game on.

People kept asking Andy if it was his first show. And every time he said yes, they lit up. All day long, strangers were hyping him up, telling him what to expect, what to listen for, what moments to watch.

You’d think after all that buildup, there’s no way the show could deliver.

But if you know, you know.

The boys came out blazing with “The Fire on My Tongue,” and it was obvious.

Both of us just stood there, kind of stunned, as he went into “Bronzeback” and then “Red Rocking Chair.” I caught a couple I’d been chasing “The Cuckoo” and “The Train that Carried My Girl From Town” and the whole thing was transcendent.

By that point, we actually knew people — people we’d met, interviewed, spent time with throughout the week. We were running into them in the crowd, in the pit, on the floor.

And somewhere in there, I had this strange realization: For the first time, I felt like I wasn’t just observing this; I was inside it.

And at the exact same time, I knew I had a 10-hour drive home in less than 48 hours — and I was already thinking about how much I didn’t want to miss Saturday. That feeling… that’s new.

Saturday — Alone, But Locked In

Andy had to leave early Saturday morning — back to Chicago to keep building his own thing.

Which meant the entire final day was on me. And it was stacked: Back-to-back interviews from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. No breaks, no reset. Just conversation after conversation after conversation.

It was exhausting, And also kind of perfect. Because by that point, the thing had momentum. People were showing up. The schedule was full. The work was happening.

At the end of the day, I packed everything down solo — a lot of gear, a lot of moving pieces — loaded up the car, and got ready to head out.

The Drive Home

The first real moment I had to process any of it was the drive back. Early start. Just me, ten hours through the Smokies.

And my brain just running.

I hadn’t had a second to step back all week. It was just go, go, go. But somewhere on that drive, it all started to settle in. What worked. What didn’t. Who I met. What this could become.

And more than anything: It felt like something had turned.

Like this wasn’t just an idea anymore. It had weight, it had shape, and it had momentum.

Milwaukee was the spark. 

Louisville was the commitment. 

Asheville was the turn.

Next stop: St. Augustine.