It is 2002 in Eau Claire, Wisconsin upstairs in a rented student house and Justin Vernon is in my arms weeping, saying, “I just want my band back.” Over a decade has passed and still, just today, I was on the phone with a writer from the New York Times who was doing a story on Wisconsin music, and really all anyone wants to talk about is the early aughts in Eau Claire. How many fucking times can my dear old friend Vern have his truly magical narrative incanted? How many times must his story be invoked by another, held up by an also-ran?
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