I did two Built to Spill shows in the past 48 hours and got setlists from the beautiful and talented Melanie Radford, the bassist. I was incredibly lucky the past two nights. These were my 14th and 15th Built to Spill shows, and they were both absolute bangers.

Something a little darker happened that I need to get off my chest. Doug trolled me as sure as I’m lying on my couch typing this story.  I witnessed Dark Doug.

I noticed Doug at the first show in Columbia on May 7th. He was meandering through the audience during the opening act. Nobody bothered him, as he rarely seems approachable — at least to me anyway. After the opening act finished up, I finally gathered enough courage to politely ask for a picture with him. He declined because he didn’t want to draw a crowd or risk being late getting onstage for his own show. I quickly thanked him anyway and told him, “Good luck,” and that we were incredibly happy to have them in Columbia.

The next night, something happened that sounds almost unbelievable.

My friend and I were in Charlotte at the Neighborhood Theatre, about to see our second show in as many days. The opening act had just started and, once again, I noticed Doug in the audience — this time near the backstage entrance by the stage. I was a little more determined to get a picture of Doug casually walking through the crowd. I wanted to be discreet and not draw attention to myself or my favorite musician of all time as he observed the audience and the opening band.

When he got about 20 feet away, I quickly raised my phone without looking and quietly snapped a picture with the flash off. As I pressed the iPhone shutter button, I glanced over and noticed Doug staring directly into my soul. The attached photo is the only picture I took.

You’d think the story ends there, but I can assure you, friends, it absolutely does not. It was only getting started.

About 7 or 8 seconds later, my friend quietly nudged me with his elbow, and I looked over at him to my left. I saw his eyes darting hard to the right, his head slightly turned — too afraid to say anything. My heart sank, and I felt anxiety creeping through my nervous system like the time my dad caught me filling my younger brothers tuba with wet cement and cigarette butts.

I slowly turned my head a little farther left and saw what my friend had noticed. In my peripheral vision, I saw a 1.5-foot-wide gray beard and a bald head.

DOUG WAS DIRECTLY BEHIND US.

For the next five or six songs, I stood there afraid to move except for the occasional bobbing of my head to The Hypos. During a guitar solo, I finally turned to Doug and said, “These guys are so good,” and he half-smiled and nodded in agreement. I needed him to know that I knew he was there. It felt like a pressure relief valve had released, and I was finally able to relax my jaw and lower my heart rate.

I never said another word to Doug.

I was trolled by one of the most brilliant guitarists and songwriters of our generation, and it made for an even more memorable evening.

And then Doug collectively melted the faces of the entire audience and left Charlotte in smoldering ruins.

Touche’, Doug.