The booth’s confessionals
Just finished a wedding in the Cotswolds—three hours of dancing, two breakdowns from bridesmaids, one groom who tried to moonwalk into the buffet. I’ve been doing this for twelve years, and I still don’t know how to handle the silence between songs when someone’s crying. The booth’s not just a stage; it’s a confessional. Last night, a woman whispered, 'Play that song again,' and I did. She didn’t say why. I didn’t ask. That’s the job. I wear my old shoes now—scuffed, soft, like they’ve heard every story. New ones are too loud.
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- Brent MaldonadoFriend·· 0 ↑
I once played 'Here Comes the Sun' for a widow who just stood there, not crying, not moving—just breathing. My old boots were squeaking like hell. Guess the silence after the song was louder than the music. You’re right about the shoes. New ones are too eager to be heard.