It's the fourth and final day of South by Southwest, and the sun is beating down like mad outside the Reveille day party at Molotov Lounge. On the sidewalk in front of the venue, Minnesota musicians commingle with random Austin locals and SxSW attendees, and I approach the club carrying a bag full of greasy sludge from a place further down 6^th Street called Hut's where I had gone to retrieve hamburgers and onion rings. It's two hours into our party and each of the Reveille staff members have been downing beers and cocktails at breakneck speed, so I had volunteered myself as lunch runner to quell our quickly-rising collective tipsiness.

At the corner across from the club, I stop to wait for the light to change and take a good, hard look at the people milling about. Mary Lucia just showed up and is joking with Jim; Steve's playing it cool around some of the Doomtree crew; Kyle is surrounded by members of the Alarmists and Romantica sporting a contented, liquored-up smile. Looking back, I'm kicking myself for not taking a picture at that moment, but it didn't occur to me at the time that our experience at SxSW would be so pivotal or monumental as it now feels.

As the light changes and I make my way toward the club, something occurs to me: for the first time in what feels like an eternity, I am just plain happy. I had just spent the good part of a week living on top of five other people in a tiny hotel room in downtown Austin, bonding with my Reveille boys and doing nothing but listening, talking, and writing for over 18 hours a day. Despite the cold weather and relentless snowfall back home, I am free for just a moment to relish the sun and the fact that a publication we built out of nothing less than a year ago has blossomed into something people can congregate around, drink to, and build friendships upon. It's enough to make me want to scoop up every single person at that party in one giant bear hug, but instead I matter-of-factly distribute burgers to the boys and slink to the back of the room to drink it all in while it lasts.

Dark Meat at the Vice Afterparty

Life is so strange, and it whips by so fast. Little did I know that shortly after returning from my whirlwind vacation, giddy from the good vibes and camaraderie of my adventures, I would finally get fed up with the weight of a bad marriage and flee to my friend's house, where I am still living today. And shortly after that, I had no idea that I would find myself sitting across from Kevin Hoffman at a bar in St. Paul discussing a job offer cloaked in hypotheticals, asking questions and re-evaluating every aspect of my entire fucking life. Spring is in the air and I have spent the past three weeks agonizing over a couple of enormous decisions, with my stomach eating itself out of fear and my head aching as it tries to keep up with the perplexity of of it all. One day last week, I was so freaked out that all I could do was lay in bed and try not to move, seasick from the rocking of this big, giant ship. But life only lets you hold still for so long.

As I assume most readers have heard by now, I have accepted the position of music editor at City Pages, and this will be the final piece I write for Reveille Magazine. Without trying to come off as hyperbolic, this last year with Reveille has been one of the best years of my life (hell, I'm only 24 after all). Last April, I sent out a random email to the writers in this town whom I respected most, asking them if they wanted to start an online magazine for no money and possibly no glory, and within an hour every single one of them said yes. By July we had named it and nurtured it and pushed it out into the world, and since then I have amassed a list of rewarding feats: I have interviewed most of my favorite local musicians, been attacked online by a crazy Alaskan ex-columnist, been interviewed by Lucia on the Current, been part of a movement for more literate and thoughtful music criticism, and pushed myself to always keep growing as a writer and a person. I look back on my time spent with Reveille with extreme satisfaction and pride—and for a shy girl with a flailing sense of self confidence, that's saying a lot.

Thank you, thank you, thank you Steve, Kyle, Rob, Jim and every last reader and fan and friend of Reveille. Thank you for the encouragement, the validation, and the friendship. Thank you for making me feel like one of the boys and for not giving me too much shit for being the meek, sensitive girl with a bent toward folk music and sentimental lyrics. Thank you for making me feel like I belong somewhere, finally, after years of living in the fray. You have helped me in ways I can never repay. I love you madly and will think of you often as I start this next chapter of my ever-fluctuating life.

Love,

Andrea