The Bus/Anchors Balloons
Posted by reallyrelyay | | Posted On Tuesday, March 4, 2008 at 9:25 PM
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.
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.
