All this week, Mike Kinsella has been losing sleep over a guitar solo.
On a Thursday afternoon in mid-January, Mike is seven chicken wings and two tall gin-and-sodas into lunch at Lottie’s, a favorite sports pub in Chicago, where trash collectors in neon vests belly up to the bar beside servers from far more ostentatious restaurants. Early this week, a singer-songwriter more famous than Mike will likely ever be sent him a song that was essentially finished. There was already a guitar solo on the track, right after she screamed her way out of the second verse, but she told Mike she wanted him to replace it with something more—her words—“Midwest emo.” Could he do it?
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