"A certain perfection can only be achieved by the endless accumulation of the imperfect."

I happened across this line in a book a few days before our final show, and it turned out to be a fitting epitaph for our dearly departed punk rock band.  If Public Access ever amounted to anything, it was "the endless accumulation of the imperfect." We weren't master instrumentalists, or even good ones for that matter. We played plenty of bad shows; fuck-ups, false starts and faked enthusiasm were common themes. We broke strings and drumsticks and amplifiers and drum heads and saxophones and laws, nearly every weekend, for seven years straight.  Showed up late to almost every show we played. Changed out members every year or so. Talked shit about everything. Didn't always get along.

However, over the course of those same years, we managed to build something, to evolve into an entity that was much greater than the sum of its parts. We recorded the kind of album we always wanted to make, we played with bands we never thought we'd meet, we travelled to places we never thought we'd see. We met the kind of people that only ever seemed to exist in theory, that kind that are inherently good and unfailingly compassionate. The kind of folks that take you in as one of their own and cook you eggs and pancakes, even though they just met you and don't owe you a thing.

For all its faults and shortcomings, this band provided me with at least a hundred brief glimpses of perfection over the years. Memories I wouldn't trade for the world. Drinking High Life out of McDonald's cups at 2 in the afternoon under the Washington Monument with the Flamingos. Bourbon Street and jambalaya and Steamboat Willie on trumpet. 4 days stranded at the Stuck Lucky compound with no shows to play, but a seemingly never-ending supply of Pabst Blue Ribbon and good people. One massively triumphant feast at the Wallingford, Connecticut Chili's a few weeks ago.

And while we were never consummate professionals on stage, there were moments at shows here and there that seemed bigger and better than anything I'd ever been a part of- from the first applause we ever received as we walked out in front of the RCS High School bleachers as awkward 15-year-olds to the bewildering din of a hundred people screaming the words to our songs at our last show in Connecticut. Perfection was reached, at least at that second, in that grimy, sweaty club or basement or community center. It fades as quickly as you recognize it, but it's there all the same. It was in seconds like these at our last three shows that I realized we made it, in our own way. We accomplished more than we could ever have hoped to- and right down to the way we bowed out, we did it all our own way and on our own terms. I have honestly never been more proud of anything.

But let me tell you- it's pretty strange to eulogize a major chapter of your life.

We put the band to rest almost a month ago, and it still hasn't completely hit me that we're done. I put all the nails in the coffin-  closed the band bank account, cleaned out the old practice place and threw away a bunch of random tour-acquired stuff accumulated in merch boxes... but here I am, checking the Myspace and filling mailorders on my lunchbreak. The band has been around in the background for so long that it seems strange to have it completely out of the picture. At the same time, it's exciting in a way to have some extra free time to ourselves and no musical agenda to report to. I doubt you'll see the last of any of us in the musical realm- whether it ever makes it back to a stage remains to be seen. Bob's playing brutal metal in a basement near you in Day of Attrition until he goes away to school in the fall. Joe's on tour with Young and Divine playing shows for fourteen year olds and record execs. Chris, Derek and I will inevitably start a 90s skatepunk or Weezer cover project (Blue and Pinkerton albums only. Duh). Matt will be wailing in some Newburgh jazz quartet soon enough, I'm sure. In any regard, it's sort of refreshing to have the musical world wide open again.

I can confidently say that I learned much more from my seven years in the band than in twelve years in school and four in college; our last show seemed vastly more important in my mind than graduating from either institution. The band outlasted friends, relationships, homes, musical influences and entire phases of life- when we started playing in early 2001, none of us even had our drivers' licenses. Public Access taught me many things, but the greatest lesson I learned was that even in a world that may seem greedy and callous, generosity and kindness are everywhere. Strangers took us in as friends, and friends gave us the encouragement to keep moving. It would be absurd to even try to acknowledge all of the amazing people we met and the great times we had. I won't even bother. All I can say is that we truly appreciate everything. It's been a great ride, and none of us will ever forget it.

So we're not playing shows anymore, but not all that much has changed. Everyone in this band will always be like family to me. Maybe we won't see each other all that often, but we'll always have great stories to laugh about when we do. We still have records for sale here and at Community Records. Buy one so Greg can keep his great little label going. I'll still be checking this page, updating here and there as I see fit, hopefully getting some photos and video from the last few shows up soon. I'll still be putting on shows for our friends when they come through town on tour. Maybe we'll play an awkward, middle-aged reunion show someday. Til then, I'm pretty happy with how this all turned out.