darling, it's tour

Here are some illustrations that I did, I'm working on getting them cleaned up etc. Thanks to some help from more qualified graphic people.

The Bus:

Any band in their right mind would rent a van. It’s logical. There’s no worry about upkeep, miles, or oil changes. The only obligation to the vehicle is getting it from point A to B, from B to C, and onward through the destinations until eventually the rental is back to its origin.

Not us.

According to H. Stith Bennett in his book On Becoming A Rock Musician

“The unique assortment of meanings which a band vehicle symbolizes for a group is inherent in the association of performing and traveling. Actually, the group goes on tour every time it assembles for a performance. In the sense that its aggregate performance experiences are a history of trips, a group’s vehicle is an appropriate mark of the rock enterprise.”

It’s funny, because when I think of other bands that I know, their mode of transportation doesn’t really come to mind. That probably isn’t the case with ours. As a band we were equally as known for our music as we were for our bus. Scooby Doo and his gang had the mystery machine. The band from the Muppets had their tie-died wonder, the Partridge Family had their bus.


Our transportation was a 1972 Chevy Vandura, or what most people know as a short bus. Not just any short bus, our bus was formerly the City of Muncie’s SWAT team bus (yes, the city of Muncie has a SWAT team, and evidently they travel in style.) It’s painted black from the grill to the back bumper. All of the windows are tinted.
There are lights on the top of the bus, which technically we were not supposed to use, so as not to be confused with an actual police operated bus, but that didn’t stop us.

Rather than having leather seats on the interior, as you would find in a school bus, we had two hollow wooden benches that extended along the length of the bus. These were our seats. The only seat belt was located on the driver’s seat. There were no airbags. The tops of the benches were covered in epoxy, which made them very durable, but also very thick. Without egg-shell cushioning underneath our blankets we moved on the benches like pucks across an air-hockey board.

Our safety was solely dependent on who was driving.

Jordan was an essential member of the band not only because he was our one-man horn-section but also because he was our bus driver. Not many nineteen year-olds can claim to have parallel parked a short bus before, but Jordan made it look easy. He maneuvered the bus through narrow city alleys as easily as if he had been driving a mini-cooper. The five to six hour drives between shows went by without a complaint from him, no matter how late it was, or how in-climate the weather. Jordan’s natural place was behind the steering wheel.

“Musician-careers are often thought of as “easy” in the sense that they are devoid of manual labor. This image is patently false with respect to rock groups. Each engagement means tearing down the existing practice set-up, packing it into a vehicle, unpacking it at the performance site, playing, tearing it down, repacking it in a vehicle, and unpacking it at home. In that process a lot of sweat ensues.” –H. Stith Bennett

Packing the bus is a meticulous and systematic process also perfected by Jordan. Somehow we managed to pack:
• A Wurlitzer
• A banjo
• Guitar Pedals
• Various and sundry xlr wires
• Tamborines
• Two Guitar Amps
• Two Guitars
• A Banjo
• A Xylophone
• A Bass Guitar
• A Tenor Saxaphone
• A Trumpet
• A Bari Sax
• A Tenor Sax
• An entire drum kit
• Merchandise
• A Bass Cab
• A 45 lb. bass head
• A Marching Bass Drum


Into the bus in a matter of 15-20 minutes, not including the equipment breakdown. By the end of tour this arduous process was mechanical and barely took us ten minutes. Jordan stayed inside of the bus telling us to bring him the Wurlitzer first, then the blue percussion bag and xylo-stand, and so on and so forth. He would stack and maneuver all of our instruments until the back windows started to fill to the brim. He made the instruments fit together as naturally as he would connect Lego’s. He would close the back door and we would pile in, throw down our blankets, and leave to the next city.

Anchors, Balloons:


I had been laying down for five hours, reading The Prince of Tides and weaving in and out of sleep when Jordan made an abrupt right turn and parked the bus.
“I guess this is it.”
I mistook his confusion for a general lack of enthusiasm. I understood better when I sat up from the bench and looked out the window.
Mapquest had led us straight to a single story ranch with a minivan and some bikes in the driveway.
We were in suburbia.

To a band from a college town, “basement show” implies kegs, dancing, corroded walls, warped wood flooring, and musty cement-walls… not shrubbery or mowed lawns.
Ian’s eyebrows were drawn together tightly. It took less than a minute of silence to tell that none of us thought this was where our show was. Like many small bands we were frequently plagued by things such as bad sound systems, bad directions, or bad cuts of door money. Small mishaps like these are corrosive until the songs unwind and performances fail. The last thing we needed on this tour was a bad start.
“Someone should knock and ask I guess.” Gavin said. His voice implied the job was for someone other than him.
“I’ll go.” Justin stood and grabbed his batman messenger bag. His older brother complex had kicked in. I followed him out.
Justin and I were a natural duo, he’s the kind of guy that I wouldn’t be afraid to knock on a stranger’s door with, because we undoubtedly would have something to laugh about later.
“What if this isn’t the house?” I looked at the screened-in porch. There was a bar and a large flat screen TV mounted on the wall.
No one enjoys a stranger at their door, and Justin and I aren’t exactly girl scouts. His beard is the most intimidating thing about him. If it weren’t for his beard, his 115 lb. frame, girls jeans, and band t-shirts wouldn’t scare anyone. For someone who doesn’t know him, Justin can appear quite intimidating. He doesn’t look like the kind of stranger you would want to ring your doorbell.
A pre-teen girl answered the door. A woman sat on a plush leather couch behind her, craning her head to see who had arrived.
“Hi…we’re in the band This Story…we’re supposed to play a sh—“
“Are you guys the other band?” The mother exclaimed, her language was slurred. I looked over at Justin, I was suddenly filled with worry that we had been conned into a birthday show. Maybe there would be balloon animals.
“The show is here, right?” I looked at the Precious Moments memorabilia on a glass shelf next to the door, and the big screen tv that was playing the Cosby Show. Beyond the living room the kitchen was wallpapered with Laura-Ashley roses.
“Yes! The boys are practicing downstairs. Honey, go take them to the boys.” She never stopped smiling at us from the couch.
I looked back at the bus and gave the rest of the guys a thumbs-up, then filed in behind Justin and the preteen. We followed her through the kitchen to the screened-in patio, then downstairs to the basement.

At least it wasn’t a finished basement. The cement floors and uncovered furnace were actually kind comforting. Anchors, Balloons, the band we were playing with were practicing. They consisted of seven guys who looked a bit younger than us. They had just as many instruments, and were very enthusiastic. They stopped their practicing to help us load our things in.
Although Anchors, Balloons seemed to be optimistic about the show, as a band we were less than inspired. The basement didn’t look like it could hold more than twenty people, especially with all of our equipment. Along with this, the house was a pretty obscure location, and the show hadn’t been advertised through anything other than Myspace, or by word of mouth.
But over the hours of waiting and warming up more and more Lombardians arrived. By the time that Anchors, Balloons were performing the basement was packed and overflowing with people. Sweat glazed people’s brows. The audience was enthused, and their mentality was contagious. By the time that we got to play they were completely energized. Over fifty people were packed into a space for twenty, and they couldn’t have minded less. People danced as if their lives depended on it. They clapped along with the rhythm of the songs and sang a long when they could. The performance gained a fantastic momentum, and we were dancing, and singing at the top of our lungs, laughing, sweating, and having a fantastic time. The first show gave us the momentum we were hoping for. We were ready for the western leg of tour.

On June 21st I woke up to a rooster crowing. The farm we had crashed at resembled the Fischer Price play set I had when I was three:hens were pecking, ducks were quacking, sheep were grazing, horses were prancing, and cows were moo-ing.
Earlier daydreams of being on tour did not involve farms.
I peeled myself from the bus bench and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. My skin was glazed in a layer of early morning sweat, matted like dry glue on a finger. Ian and Jordan were still sleeping. Gavin, Joey, and Justin were asleep somewhere inside with our host, Ursula. I glared at the red barn and the white picket fence surrounding it. For acres farm-land covered the ground like a patchwork quilt. We were in the middle of nowhere.

Our show in Des Moines the night before had not gone well. We were suffering from a general lack of enthusiasm. The songs were loose, lyrics forgotten, rhythms lost. We played to a crowd of less than ten people, which counts the two people working and the sound guy. A group of four foreign women danced in front of the stage. Shadowed on a bench in the back the opening act and two heavily make-uped girls listened.

On I-80 earlier in the day Gavin told us that none of our shows for the next three days were confirmed. After that night we had nothing to do until our show in Oklahoma.
“We’ll still be in Omaha the day after tomorrow, right?”
The twenty-second was my birthday. Celebrations had been planned by our friends Coyote Bones at the Citrus Lounge, a champagne bar. Gavin looked down at the between the benches of the bus. There would be no champagne.

During a break in our performance Gavin found himself looking at the floor again.
“I know this is shameless, but if anyone in the audience knows of a place where we could crash tonight we would really appreciate it. We’d really rather not sleep on the bus. “
Ursula was one of the heavily make-uped girls on the bench. We followed her half an hour north to her mom’s farm. The next morning, as I ate a homegrown breakfast of eggs and bacon I studied her myspace pictures which hung on her refrigerator with farm-themed magnets. She did not look like the kind of girl you would find on a farm.

By eleven the band was taking turns showering. The rest of us stood outside. We were discussing our plan for the rest of the day when one of the brown hens tried to trample the baby goose. No amount of kicking or chasing would prevent them from stalking us around the picnic bench. The baby goose sought harbor between our legs as we sat. Every few minutes one of us, more commonly Joey or Jordan, would chase the chickens away. There was a sadistic shine in the hens’ eye each time it raised a talon only to stomp down again. The gosling struggled to stretch its undeveloped furry wings to flap in resistance, but was no match for its fowl foe. Chickens are the villains of the farmyard.
Ursula finally fought off the chicken and held the gosling in her thin arms. It shook uncontrollably. Representatives from our record company contacted Gavin to let him know of a show we might be able to jump on in Minneapolis. I looked at Gavin and wondered how long he thought we could keep this up. If we could get on the show in Minneapolis we could work our way through the rest of this tour, one night at a time.
As we took off on the bus down the dirt road back towards more familiar civilization I reflected on the shaken nerves of the goose. Could something so small hold its own long enough until it was developed enough to defend itself? What does it take to fight the odds when you’re that out-numbered?

First half is DONE!




Homesickness

This may be bad for our image, but musicians really do get homesick. We're just discrete about it. Not once throughout the tour did I hear someone say, "I want to go home." (besides Jordan, who was really rather nonchalant about it, seeing as how we all knew that he didn't want to come in the first place.) But near the end of both tours it was implied. You could see it in our growing frustration with each other, on our weary weighted shoulders, or when we would wake up on the bus in the morning, stretch our aching bodies and exclaim,
" I cannot wait to sleep in a real bed again!" Our joints would crack, hinge by hinge, and the subject would drop. Back to the road, on to the next show.

Musicians that are just beginning have it pretty rough. It’s part of the job. Every one has to start off at the bottom to work the way to the top. Otherwise, what would we talk about years later in our interviews with Rolling Stone? If Springsteen can work his way from New Jersey slums to megastar status, then it is not below us either. Hard work separates the local bar acts from the serious musicians. It’s a willingness to leap. There’s more hope in a sleepless night on the wooden slab of a bus bench then there is in a bed at home.

The second day of tour, while listening to “America” by Simon and Garfunkel, I wrote, “I can’t decide what leaves me more enthused…seeing America, or seeing, really seeing and knowing Justin, Ian, Joey, Jordan, and Gavin and growing together in a way that no one else will ever be able to understand.” In those first few days I lost sight of the fact that learning something never comes easily. I went on to write, “I’m worried that this could consume me and I could get the ache. The nomadic burn. It could take a lot of me to settle in one place…Being on the road and seeing the country like this has made me realize that I want to see it all.”
But then just six days later
“It’s weird how torn this is resulting me to be. Half of me is loving this experience and wants nothing more than for it to continue, and keep meeting people and signing and mingling…and half of me wants to just exist in one place.”
By July 23rd, while listening to Willy Nelson’s version of “Unchained Melody,” I wrote, “I am ready to be home. And I recognize that I am in an atrocious mood today…Today I am just exhausted, fatigued, and beaten.”

At rest stops we would disperse out to various worn picnic tables and call our families or friends. Phone conversations were difficult, as our experiences were hard to summarize. How do you tell your mother that you slept on a stranger's floor or that you brushed your teeth at a gas station? My best tactic was to keep conversation about home, daily tasks that were taking place, how my little sister was doing, the above ground pool that was being installed in our back yard. I would close my eyes while my mom was talking and imagine the sunlight cutting through the curtains of the bay window in the kitchen.
Slowly we would pile back on the bus and hit the road again, headed to the next venue for another night of nameless faces. Jordan would turn the key in the ignition and we would rumble down the highway. There were times when I would put my book down, and look out the blurred landscape of America, like a painting doused in paint thinner, and miss the solid look of land that stands still.





We all had different relationships with the road.
Joey would lay fetal style, facing the metal interior wall of the bus with his cell phone cradled to his ear. He would talk to Stevi until his battery drained.
“Stevi I love you so much.”
“Baby I miss you so bad.”
The rest of us would pretend not to hear his conversations, hiding behind our headphones or our books, but every once in while we would catch each other’s glances, look over at Joey’s back and roll our eyes.


“Every night my dream's the same
Same old city with a different name
Men are coming to take me away
I don't know why, but I know I can't stay”
-Arcade Fire


Gavin just immersed himself in the idea of rock-stardom. He and his girlfriend Julie had been intermittently together for over two years when we left for tour that summer. The first day on the road he set the tone for us.
“Julie said she doesn’t care what I do on the road or what happens with anyone, as long as I come back to her when it’s over.”
He loved everything about the idea of being a musician on the road, the mystique of the singer/songwriter. He knew the power that it gave him over girls. He wanted to throw himself into as many experiences as possible at whatever the cost. Gavin is doesn’t expect to grow old. His idols are Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash, and Holden Caulfield. Everyone your parents tell you not to look up to.
Gavin didn’t pick up a girl every night. He did make attempts. It was his flirtations that got us a place to stay both nights that we were in Des Moines.

His scenario went like this:
Girl approaches Gavin, or Gavin approaches girl. After some introductory chatter…
Gavin: (Casually, almost with indifference) Yeah, I’m in band. We’re on tour right now.
Girl: Oh my gosh! That’s so cool! What do you play?
Gavin: (looking at his knees, or the ground. Stress on no eye-contact) I’m the singer, and I play guitar.
Girl: What kind of music?
Gavin: (shy smile) We’re kind of a folk band…
Girl: (eyes shining, and smiling.)…oh wow.

And with that his play was made.

“I keep a close watch on this heart of mine

I keep my eyes wide open all the time

I keep the ends out for the tie that binds

Because you're mine, I walk the line”
-Johny Cash

I was never sure how to handle my relationship with Tony. I didn't want to seem needy, or overwhelm him with phone calls, so I called every other day to give him an update, or to see how his french classes were going. He would ask me eager questions. I would anticipate our reunion silently. I never soberly told him that I missed him.
In Tahlequah Oklahoma, a few nights before we came back he addressed my infrequent calls. 
"You know Laura, you can call me more often." 
He was right. I could have. 
But by not talking to him more often, I could more efficiently deny the fact that I had missed him the whole time.

The night of June 21st in Minneanapolis we worked our way onto the bill with five other local acts at a bar. We played first, when the only other members of the audience were members of the other bands. We played early, and our friend Sarah, who we would be staying with that night, couldn’t let us in until later, so we stuck around the bar.
We coerced the bar-tender into letting me start celebrating my birthday a few hours early. I had a few gin and tonics and called a few friends. Word got around the show that it was my birthday. The lead singer of one of the acts came up to us. “I heard there’s a birthday girl at the table,” he looked at me. The guys sized him up. He was incredibly tall, with sandy blonde hair, and a strong bone structure. “What are you drinking?” I told him Gin and Tonic and he went over to the bar. The guys rolled their eyes.
“What? It’s a free drink. It’s my birthday. It’s not like I’m going to go home with him.”
Gavin walked over to me, “Laura, you need to grow some goose feathers.” I asked him what he meant. “What I mean is, he’s not just trying to be a nice guy. You’re a girl who is drinking, who will only be in town for one night.” “Oh come on Gavin, it’s a drink.” I walked over to the bar where my gin and tonic was waiting. I didn’t even know this guy’s name, and I had no intention of learning it. We made some small talk. He told me about how elliot smith had been a regular at the bar before he killed himself, and how Haydn had played there before, even Bob Dylan. One of his friends had to tell him something, and he left for a moment. When he came back I was on the phone with Tony telling him everything about the venue I had just learned. It took the tall sandy-haired singer songwriter ten minutes to realize that I had no interest in him. He walked away. I kept talking to Tony.

“I wish you could be here with me
I would show you off like a trophy
The road it winds and twists and turns
My stomach burns…
I won’t be seeing you for a long while
I hope it’s not as long as these country miles
I feel lost…”
-Camera Obscura


The next day Joey’s homesickness became so extreme, and his love so longing, that it proved the impossible possible. On June 22nd a ten-year old Neo Geo with over 100,000 miles on it made the drive from Muncie, Indiana to Des Moines, Iowa. The couple could no longer stand be away from each other.
Earlier that morning Stevi had called to wish me a happy birthday.
“What if I drove up to Des Moines?”
Stevi’s action is solely based on impulse. If I told her it was too dangerous and that she shouldn’t come, she would come. If I told her she should come, she would come.
We went through the con’s list. We both knew the pro’s. I reminded her that she would have to drop out of her summer classes, that her car was unstable, that it would cost her quite a bit of money, and that she would be making a seventeen hour drive in one day by herself and would have to leave sometime within the next few hours if there was any hope of her reaching us before the next morning.
She said that she would think about it.
“Do you think she’ll come?” Joey was sitting cross-legged across from me on his bench. His eyes were large and shining. I laid down and got my book out of my purse. “Should she? No, not at all. Will she? Probably.”
He smiled.
Fifteen minutes later my phone vibrated. It was a text message from Stevi:
See you tonight!

That night Justin, Gavin, and I sat perched on stools on benches of the coffee shop stage, armed with a banjo, an acoustic guitar, a shaker, a tambourine, and two voices. Our usual artillery of instruments was gathering dust on the bus. Ian, Joey, and Jordan were in the audience, which consisted of seven or eight people outside of themselves.
I sipped on a Sierra Nevada and thought about what my friends and family were doing. Stevi was well on her way. Tony was probably at home in his room, reading. My parents were probably eating dinner in our kitchen, sitting around a round table and recalling the days events.
I felt misplaced.

“There were friends, they were laughing hard
They looked just like my own
With no face, no name, no voice I know
I finally made it
I made a clean get away.”
-Maria Taylor


Stevi got to the apartment around three o’clock in the morning. She was greeted by Joey’s open arms.

That night, Gavin got us a place to stay with some girl that he had met outside of our first show in Des Moines two nights prior. She promised that she was going to throw me a birthday party. He rode with her in her red sport car forty-five minutes West of the city. Her blonde hair waved to us out of her open window. She drove so fast that she lost the bus a few times. Gavin had to call us to let us know where to go. There were twenty-five strangers at her apartment when we arrived. They were ready to celebrate my birthday. Someone handed me a drink. I don’t remember any of their names.