So picture this: it's 2018, the world’s doing its usual dance of madness, and somewhere in the middle of all that noise, a guy named Mike has a flash. Not just a thought, not a “what if,” but the real thing—a bright, full-colour vision with sound, friends, and probably a splash of rum. A live album. Honest-to-God music, made by real human beings, with all the joy and chaos that implies.
He picks up the phone, calls some musical co-conspirators, and before you can say “check one, check two,” he's roped them all in like a grinning cattle rustler with a PA system. Fast forward to January 2019: the mics are hot, the night is alive, and something real gets caught on tape.
Now, after the echoes settle and the gear’s barely cooled off, this cat named Reed—he runs Dockies, a local spot with more soul in its floorboards than most places have in their entire ZIP code—he walks up, all casual, and says something like: “Yeah, you guys are playing here. Regularly.”
Just like that. Like it was gravity. Like it was meant.
And thus, like all great things in history—jam, democracy, and the banana peel gag—it began.
With the astonishing Ben Payne doing things to a guitar that most guitars would need therapy for, the delightful Dave Pitman laying down basslines that made the floor vibrate in a rather sensual way, the thunderously talented Spencer Wood on drums (who, it's said, can summon weather systems just by tapping out a 4/4), and Mike Hind pouring out vocals like a man trying to bottle happiness before it escapes—magic happened.
Every Wednesday at Docksiders, the magic happens. People from everywhere—locals, tourists, wanderers, musicians, dreamers—step into that little corner of the universe and plug into something bigger. They bring their instruments, their stories, their scars, and they jam.
It’s not polished. It’s not perfect. It’s alive.
And in a world that sometimes feels like it’s running out of miracles, that’s one hell of a thing.
We play every Wednesday at Docksiders on Front Street in Hamilton, Bermuda