The show-the whole tour-was going to be bigger, grander, more ambitious than what he’s done before. “I feel like my body was programmed and clocked to be onstage,” he says with the wistfulness of someone describing mislaid plans with an ex. He can’t really describe it, but he’s feeling it right now, like the tingle of a phantom limb. He’d have warmed up the band, and maybe now he’d be taking a preshow shot, or just swapping jokes with his crew right up until the moment the lights dimmed and he could hear the crowd, feel that little surge of energy he always gets right before he launches into the first song. If that hadn’t happened, he’d be backstage, getting ready to perform before a twenty-thousand-person crowd at Boston’s TD Garden. on the East Coast, where, if it were normal times, he’d be making a stop on the tour for After Hours, his new album-which happened to drop on March 20, the same week the gates of hell fully swung open here on earth.
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