Black Rebel Motorcycle Club


There is a ten foot marble man levitating on his side. There are Jimi Hendrix paintings on the wall.A hotel reception desk. A bistro and cathedral sized foyer. All of it is drowning under neon blue light, doing nothing to calm the red faced business men in the Cumberland Hotel, pacing around , babbling into their blue tooth devices. It’s taking its toll as I stare at the revolving door, waiting to talk with two thirds of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club about music, death, hope and the most difficult album of their fifteen year career.

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