Three Minutes to Better Days – An Xperience Article – by Charla Earney.

An Interview with Chris Sanders and The Better Days

I have lived most of my life in three-minute increments.

Three minutes is the time you’re given at a town meeting to present what you believe matters most. Three minutes is about the average length of a TikTok video. It can take three minutes to condense frustration into coherence. Three minutes to stand at a podium and explain why something should be but isn’t. The expectation is that you arrive prepared, regulated, concise. The clock does not bend for emotion. Three minutes is also the average length of a song. In three minutes, you can walk streets that have no name. Climb mountains. Lose someone, forgive someone, fall in love. A beat drops, and suddenly your body remembers something your mind hasn’t processed yet. Three minutes can alter a mood. Redirect a day. Shift a life.

I worked ten years in State Administration. I know what can be built, approved, ordered, and signed in under three minutes when your brain slips into hyperfocus. Permissions granted. Deadlines recalibrated. Entire workflows rerouted. Time in that world was transactional. Measured. Logged. Accounted for. Music, though … music is the place where time bends. That’s why the working-class musicians scattered across the Tri-State area feel like hidden treasure to me. My professional world was structured and predictable. But every so often, something pierced through the routine. One summer afternoon, I looked up and saw a bagpiper on the roof of an Albany facility. Fifteen minutes of wind and sound and complete presence. I missed a meeting. It was with HR. I already knew what they were going to say. Music won. That was a good lesson: when time opens, step into it.

I first met Chris Sanders at an open mic at the Rustic Barn Pub. Metallica T-shirt. A lion’s mane that refused to be ignored. I didn’t know he was about to perform. I didn’t know he was a veteran. I didn’t know I was watching a man who understands time differently than most. Military service does that. It teaches regulation. Initiation. When to move and when to hold. That hesitation can cost you, and discipline can save you. Whether in peace or conflict, service etches into a person’s relationship with time. Chris carries that.

I walked into RadioRadioX to interview Chris Sanders and The Better Days-Brian Clayton (guitar/vocals), Eric Roberts (bass), and Blake Dewey (drums), and their photographer, Austin Sanders, Chris Sanders’ son. I wasn’t expecting magic concerning space/room. The station felt young and simple. Mismatched chairs. A couch that looked like it had survived both a dorm room and a hospital waiting area. Clean. Sparse. A blank slate. I left a cup there, empty, thinking maybe I’d fill it later. I like waiting for the “how” to arrive. It never goes as expected. They all arrived on time. When Chris tells the story of how The Better Days formed, his entire body participates. He describes driving down the road and spotting Eric loading what looked like music gear into his car. He didn’t hesitate. He whipped his Jeep around. As he reenacted it, his arms stretched wide like an American eagle mid-flight. His eyes lit up. That moment, turning the car around, is initiation.

Some people think bands form through slow networking, careful planning, or casual jam sessions that accidentally bloom. Chris formed this band through decision. Through recognition. Through acting inside the moment instead of watching it pass. He pulled the team together himself.

Not by accident. Not by drift.

Alignment gets overused these days, but here it fits. It wasn’t mystical. It was intentional. A veteran’s instinct to identify the target, assess the terrain, and move. He arranged rehearsals. Scheduled around day jobs. Coordinated communication. Facilitated songwriting. Booked gigs. Held structure so creativity could live inside it. Regulation creates freedom. That’s something musicians don’t always admit.

The Working-Class Band.

One of the first things I asked them was what they do for day jobs. Time matters differently when you punch a clock. These aren’t full-time touring rock stars insulated from reality. They have families. Responsibilities. Schedules that don’t bend easily. The long-term goal for The Better Days isn’t delusion — it’s evolution. Growth without losing foundation. Building something sustainable. Choosing bandmates at this stage of life isn’t casual. It’s closer to choosing a partner. Maybe even choosing a marriage. If success arrives, if the secular jobs fade away, these are the men you’ll be tied to. That requires trust. Watching them interact, what struck me wasn’t just respect. It was admiration. Genuine fascination with each other’s abilities. The way they finish bad jokes. Give space. Laugh at inside references without excluding the room. If the band were a family, you could feel the roles without anyone declaring them. The steady hand. The spark. The glue. The wildcard. The emotional anchor. Chemistry doesn’t just happen.

It’s maintained. I asked if they intentionally built it with retreats, writing camps, rituals. Their answer? They show up. And just hang and jam. Showing up is the most underrated team-building exercise on earth. Is creativity something you tap into? Or something you discipline yourself into? Chris bridges both worlds. There’s the romantic myth of waiting for inspiration. Then there’s the military understanding that you initiate action and let momentum build. He used to bring his guitar to work and hide in stairwells to practice. Concrete echo wrapping around fifteen carved-out minutes between responsibilities.

I know those stairwells. I walked through those halls for years. When he described playing there, I pictured climbing between floors, hearing music where there shouldn’t be music, freezing mid-step, following the sound. How do I know I would have done that?

Because I did. With bagpipes on a rooftop.

Creativity doesn’t always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it hides in stairwells and waits for someone to recognize it. When I asked what a writing session looks like, the answer returned to space. Lyrics might start with it. Or melody. Or chaos. Sometimes tension leads. Sometimes emotion. Creative disagreement? It happens.

But there’s an unspoken rule: The song wins. Not ego. Not volume. Not seniority. The song. That’s trust.

If someone secretly filmed rehearsal, fans might be surprised by how ordinary it looks. Jokes. Debates. Minor arguments. Chaos. Probably a group chat name that makes sense only to them. But underneath it all is timing. Who comes in on the downbeat. Who holds back. Who knows when a song is done and who never thinks it is. Time in a band is layered. Musical time. Relational time. Career time. The Better Days are not rushing theirs. They’re building Presence.

We’re told constantly to live in the moment. Be mindful. Be present. It sounds simple. It isn’t. We’re wired for survival. We scan terrain. We anticipate threats. Presence requires intention. Chris learned regulation through service. You don’t dissolve into chaos when others depend on you. That training shows up in how he leads. He initiates. He prioritizes. He creates structure so others can create freely. That’s rare. What struck me most after hours of conversation wasn’t a single quote. It was a feeling. They’ve got this. No scrambling to prove legitimacy. No insecurity masquerading as bravado. Just quiet, grounded confidence. The best days aren’t nostalgia. They’re ahead.

When I asked about long-term goals, the answers were steady. Growth. More shows. Stronger catalog. Wider reach. Bigger rooms, maybe. But not at the cost of each other. Do listeners hear that chemistry? I do. It’s in the restraint. In knowing not every moment needs to be filled. Silence is on time too. Three minutes can change everything. But it’s the thousands of three-minute blocks — rehearsals, drives, stairwell practices, open mic nights — that build a band. Chris turned his Jeep around because he saw possibility loading gear into a trunk. That decision didn’t take long.

Three minutes.

That’s all it takes to decide to initiate something. The rest is discipline. Alignment. Showing up. Better days aren’t accidental. They’re built. Chris Sanders and The Better Days are the sum of a thousand small initiations — a veteran’s regulation, a musician’s instinct, a group of men choosing alignment over ego.

Three minutes.

That’s all it takes to turn the Jeep around.

The rest?

That’s the work.

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