In the fall of 1992, with my tail between my legs, I moved to Lincoln, Nebraska. I was “restarting” college at the University of Nebraska after flunking out my freshman year at USC and maxing out my credit card on shows and CDs. My parents still owned a house in the suburbs of Omaha. I could cut the purse strings and go it alone in L.A., or I could take classes at UNL with cheap in-state tuition.

At the time it felt like being banished to Siberia. I had no idea it would introduce me to people I still call my best friends 30 years later. In L.A., music was big-time—think of your “local” bands being Porno for Pyros or Red Hot Chili Peppers. In Lincoln, the local bands were the dudes who worked at the coffee shop or sat next to you in art history.

At that time, there were very few music venues in Nebraska. Those that did exist were often bars that didn’t allow minors and would very rarely book an interesting indie band. Shows were pushed to coffee houses, rentals, and my favorite format of all time: the house show.