Story written by: Michael Schrecker
Anyone I had been swimming with at MLK for the last who-knows how long probably thought I died.
I quit all extensive movement, aggressive hobbies, and stressful situations the moment my doctor told me I needed back surgery. In that list, unfortunately, was swimming.
Jay, the Cowboys fan, was the only person from the pool who had my number. He was also the only one who knew what was going on with my back. One week in November, shortly after my surgery, he and I had lunch.
“Before I forget, Greenberry asked about you,” Jay said as we were wrapping up.
I had met Greenberry several months before getting cut open. You remember, the guy with electric blue Birkenstocks that I had started to form a kinship with talking about the road, random show notes, and loose discussions about the impact a cold Newcastle consumed in an amphitheater parking could have on one's life.
I was taken back. Here’s a guy I barely know checking on me through a friend. It hit differently for some reason.
I tend to gravitate toward real people. Those that have scars, are vulnerable, and openly share things about their past. People that are ok in their skin. I for one am a pretty sensitive guy. In my experience, when you’re in your 40s, you aren’t exactly floating through a field of bros that exhibit a lot of vulnerability freely.
Greenberry seemed like one of those people, though. I was looking forward to getting back to the pool for a new reason now.
Close friends don’t come around as organically as they once did.
Maybe all those conversations about music resonated more than I thought. Maybe this is more than a pool deck level friendship. I hadn’t had a friend who really understood a music scene in the same context as me in a long, long time.
You have to live Jamband culture to understand it.
I got back to the pool sometime in February hoping to cross paths with Greenberry. Same guy, new tattoo. I filled him in on my disappearance and mentioned that I appreciated him checking on me through our mutual buddy Jay. We made plans to have a beer shortly; however, the flood gates had already opened.
I learned a little about his family, his love for writing and his connection to the scene. I learned he’s a samurai in the festival world of artist transportation, but these days appears to be a cog in the monotonous wheel that a lot of us call corporate America.
Our brief conversations at the pool about music had now extended to text. I learned about grief, mental health, and other vulnerabilities. Outside of the serious shit, we also started sending jokes, memes, and random emojis. The kind of stupid shit bros do.
Unexpectedly at 47, I felt I had a new friend.
Road to the Pour House
I was headed to the Pour House, an iconic venue in Charleston, SC, to see a band I had been wanting to catch for a while: Sqwerv. (NOT a jamband) They are based out of Denver, and were cruising through. It was the perfect evening for a bro in his 40s who loves an outdoor show that includes a setbreak, and most importantly, a 6:00 p.m start time.
I’d be home in my pa-jams by 9. Score.
I am hesitant to invite people to see music with me at this stage in life. There are only a handful I’d even consider inviting. They know I am not interested in anything other than hearing the music.
“Let’s talk at setbreak,” is the nicest way I have asked someone to shut the fuck up when the band is playing. If they aren’t talking, they are slamming beers and would never consider leaving before the last note rings out. Me, not so much.
I’ll have a beer but with a water chaser. I hang back so I have space in case I decide to leave after the first song or the first set, or before the encore. I do what I want. I try to act responsible. It does wonders for headaches and dehydration.
It was a risky move to invite someone. This was a big step for me. I decided to throw caution to the wind and gauge Greenberry’s interest.
“Checking out this band Sqwerv at the Pourhouse on Thursday. 6:00 p.m. Interested,” I texted.
“6:00 first set? That’s so legit,” he responded. A dude in his 30s who is also responsible? Wow.
But then, the follow up text: My mom is in town. Her and Amanda want to come. I’m not sure if they are serious.
RECORD SCRATCH
I finally invited someone to join me at a show. It would be our first real hang, and now his mom may join us? I could feel the ease of the evening sqwerving in a different direction (band name pun!).
I took a step back and thought. After countless hours working on my cognitive skills, I was able to take a beat and try to make sense of it.
I used what I knew about Greenberry up to this point.
He writes about his dad (Pops) a lot. He talks about his dad a lot. Talks about his family a lot.
Do he and his mom have a close relationship? Maybe I should lean into this too? Maybe it could be good for me? Maybe I need this in my life? How do I handle this?
I thought about Jo. The mom I met 27 years earlier.
Jo
I weighed an unflattering 280 lbs in the summer of ‘99. I had both my ears pierced and recently dyed the tips of my dark brown hair - blond. I had a Korn sticker on my car and yet somehow was dating a girl who was significantly out of my league.
I struck the funny bone of this woman so many times over the course of that year she felt like I should meet her family. The kicker: It was a family reunion.
Parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews. All at once. FML.
I threw on some khaki duck head shorts, a shirt with a button and stepped into my flippy floppies. I looked at the JNCO’s in a pile on the floor. “Just this one time,” I whispered to them. Then we headed off to the Sand Dunes Club on Sullivans Island, SC.
I met almost every member of this woman's family in under three hours, but no exchange was as important as the first. The one I was most nervous about. The one that could effectively alter the course of my entire life.
That exchange was waiting behind the front door when we arrived.
I checked the buttons on my shirt and patted down my khakis. “Everything is fine. I’m fine. I got this,” I said to myself.
“Momma, this is Michael.”
“Man, I hope she likes me,” raced through my brain.
“Hey Michael, I’m Jo. It’s nice to meet you,” the woman said as she extended her hand to meet mine.
She was very kind and welcoming to this large, disheveled man who was currently casting a shadow on her petite daughter. She introduced me to the family, but acknowledged how overwhelmed I probably was.
When the time came to eat, she put me at the front of the food line. Not because I was enormous, but because I was a guest. There was this term whispered amongst immediate family members at chow time, F.H.B. aka Family Hold Back, to remind people that guests and others could eat first.
Score.
I immediately counted the people ahead of me and zeroed in on the only deviled egg plate at the far end of the table. I should be good.
The rest of the day was a breeze. I’d go to a lot of these, I just didn’t know it yet.
I met my second family that day, but most importantly, I met Jo.
Nobody calls her Mom. Not her daughters, siblings, grandkids, nephews and nieces. Hell, even her husband calls her Jo. Mommas are few and far between these days.
She has been there for me, my kids and her daughter countless times. I can’t say we haven’t butted heads over the last 27 years, but I'd also be lying if I said anything overtly negative about the relationship I have with her.
She just gives, perhaps too much sometimes. Not for any reason in particular, but because she’s just, well, Jo.
I’ve considered saying “Hey Mom” a few times over the last 6 months when I see her instead of “Hey Jo”. That truly reflects how I feel about her, and a big step for a son-in-law.
I got lucky. She is mom to me.
Maybe someday I’ll write more about that relationship. But for the context of Greenberry and I’s encounter at Sqwerv, just know when that text came through about including his mom, I imagined Jo.
Return to Sqwerv and the Pour House
Think Michael, think!
Tread lightly. If this guy is a possible friend, don’t insult him for wanting to hang with his mom. Obviously he does not give a fuck, he’s bringing his mom to the Pour House!
“Damn, that’s actually pretty badass. I may be jealous,” I thought. So, I pushed all my chips in and replied: "It's a lot of pressure for me to meet your mom on our first date ya know…”
Yeah, that’s what I said. Read it again.
Grand slam response to a bro you’ve known for 8 years. But how would it land only 8 months in, maybe even shorter if you account for my hiatus. I may have hit the gas a little hard, but ya know what, this is me. Take it or leave it.
Response came through. It was a skull emoji followed by “Dude, I’m dead. You’re an idiot”
Vibe check passed.
I confirmed my idiocy, warned him it gets worse the more we hang, and we locked in on our double date +1.
We met at the Pour House the next night for Sqwerv, officially stamping the first show we’d see together in the history book. The music was good. Really good actually. Go see these guys when they cruise through your town. #NoAdd
A perfect sound for new friends to hang out with, get to know each other, and just enjoy good company. I couldn’t think of a better place to meet my new friend's Mom. She told me about her love for Billy Strings and basically all things Greenberry. We chatted, between songs of course, like I had known her my whole life.
She was cool.
“Man, I hope she likes me,” I thought.
I wish I could foresee the next 27 years and tell you what an impact this new mom has been on my life. But, that story has yet to be written. Truth be told though, I think I can predict it.
For a son to naturally invite his mom to any Jam-band esque scene without hesitation, she’s gotta be cool. I’ll obviously never compare this relationship to the one I have with Jo but it’s so great to have met a young man who is, for whatever reason, so close to his mom.
If I play my cards right, maybe this new mom will be in my life too. I could only be so lucky.
Was this real? Was I entering a new stage of life? Have I been working towards this over the years and has it finally arrived? Catching music with new friends and sharing the excitement of being home early?
We were cracking jokes about jam band stereo-types, Lot shenanigans, and our new found love for hydration. Chatting it up with my new bro’s mom on the deck of one of my favorite venues that was 5-minutes from my house.
Life was good. I needed another beer. Actually, just water.
A Naive Melody began playing towards the end of the night. I had already stayed longer than intended, and so did my new friends. It appears I had found some kind folks that enjoyed being adults and being somewhat in control of life. I brought several waters back to our spot, handed one to Greenberry to cheers and smiled.
“We’re responsible wooks bro,” I said as I delivered an ice-cold cup of H20. He laughed. I laughed. We all went home. In bed by 9 p.m.
Score.
I got a phone call from Greenberry the next day. Not any kind of, “Thanks for being cool that my mom came last night,” as if he needed to state that. It was more of a serious tone like he was gonna say something impactful.
“Hey man, we should trademark what you said last night.”
I leaned in and questioned his idea. What in the world could I have said that would warrant a trademark application?
“We’re responsible wooks”
—--
Date: April 09, 2026
Band: Sqwerv - Instagram
Venue: The Charleston Pour House - Instagram
Location: Charleston, SC
Set 1: I'm a Worm > Here or There > I'm a Worm, Skyline Baby, A Cabin Riff, For Lafleur
Set 2: Heatwave, This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody)[1] > Magma, Strange Satisfaction, Echoes of Ourselves, Cookie Jar[2], Won't Be Long, Gotta Be This Way
[1] - Talking Heads
[2] - Lee Ross
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About the Author:
Michael Schrecker
Bio: Charleston native. More specifically, Hanahan. My first concert was Vanilla Ice at the King Street Palace, but the one that changed everything was Widespread Panic at the House of Blues in Myrtle Beach in 1997. Before that, I was all heavy music. Korn. Limp Bizkit. Pantera. Panic opened a different door, and I've been walking through it ever since.
I met my wife in 1999, married her in 2003, and spent a year living in Colorado before finding our way back home. Along the way came Red Rocks, road trips to Vegas, camping trips, and plenty of nights at the Mishawaka outside Fort Collins. Some of my favorite memories started with no plan beyond seeing where the road went.
I earned a degree in graphic design and somehow turned it into a career in marketing. Over the years, I've had the chance to work on everything from corporate brands to the occasional concert poster, logo, or t-shirt.
These days, you'll usually find me with my wife and kids, working on the house, watching football, playing bass or standing somewhere near a soundboard.
Reach out: michael@responsiblewook.com
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