Seven years ago, we gathered up some songs that we had written, made a bunch of little ghosts out of cardboard, and had the honor to start playing shows for you. You – our friends, family, and (much to our surprise and gratitude) our fans.
In the years following, The Deadly Syndrome gave the four of us some of the most memorable moments of our lives. We drove around in a van, playing music and having adventures. We had the opportunity to perform in some of our favorite theaters and bars and warehouses and backyards in Los Angeles. We got to play and record alongside incredibly talented and creative people.
We played shows in which we were all imbued with the same unshakeable commitment and passion, in which we felt synchronized with one another and the audience; in which we felt ourselves transcend our everyday lives and discover something pure and transient and indescribable. And there were bad shows, too. Shows where we were a little too tired from driving, and didn’t have time to soundcheck. Shows in which strings broke and drum stands broke and our hearts sank. Shows where we’d had a couple too many beers. Regardless, they were fun.
So. By now you’ve probably figured out that this is a farewell letter; that The Deadly Syndrome is no more. It is incredibly egotistical to write a farewell letter; the very act itself presumes that anyone cares.
But that’s something that we never had to doubt. We never had to doubt that people cared, because we saw you. We saw you at the shows, we saw you at the merch table after the set. We saw you here on the internet, supporting us and telling people about us. Some of you let us crash on your floors and eat the food from your pantry. You gave us encouragement and praise and unending kindness.
If everyone on the planet could feel, just for a moment, as loved and appreciated as you made us feel, the world would be a better place for it.
Thank you, for everything.