Dane always knew he’d be a musician someday. Not anyone on the charts, maybe, not simply a singer or entertainer, but a musician, a man who lived for music, dreamed in song. His mom’s a single mother who worked long hours as a realtor to put him through school and saved for years to buy him a guitar when he turned sixteen. His first guitar, his only guitar—that’s still the one he has today, a little worse for wear and he’s replaced the strings more times than he can count, but it’s been with him for so long now, it’s a part of him, like his talent or his mind. Every song he’s ever written has been worked out on that guitar. He heard once that Randy Blake’s used the same guitar for over thirty years, claims no other plays just right in his hands, and Dane knows what he’s talking about. He’s
