To premise the different angle of this week’s road story, I want to begin by explaining my motivation for writing this column. First, based on my own touring experience and that of many musicians I know, there is really no shortage of funny, strange, and ridiculous events that happen on the road, no matter how much one would sometimes just like things to be “normal”. Myself, I have been nearly kidnapped in London, hit a kangaroo in Australia, ‘accidentally’ broke into a shack with a hitchhiker, inadvertently played at an Ottawa strip club, was fingerprinted in Nashville... the list goes on. Thus, I thought I would have an unending supply of funny stories from bands coming through our fine town.
Second—and possibly more subversively—my hope was that readers would learn more about the behind-the-scenes of touring, and perhaps gain a bit more appreciation for how much effort goes into bringing a show to your local bar or venue, for which you sometimes pay as little as $8.
The band I interviewed this week provided me with a “story” which failed me on both qualifiers. So much so that I don’t even want to tell you which band it was; they humiliated themselves so badly. Their story was neither funny nor edifying; basically they told me three anecdotes about getting really, really drunk. One involved one of them drinking so much he actually shat himself, the second story involved the bass player getting so drunk when the tour van pulled over to the side of the road so he could relieve himself he tumbled down a small hill with his private parts hanging out, and the last one involved one of them being so intoxicated he got separated from the rest of the band, blacked out on a beach overnight, and then crashed in the tour promoter’s office, who promptly kicked the band off the tour.
In every case the band’s manager (a.k.a. babysitter) amended the situation, took care of the logistics, and cleaned up. Obviously if this was a band still paying their dues and coming up through the ranks they couldn’t afford a tour manager/babysitter to constantly save the day, keep them employed, and clean their underwear. My guess is if they had formerly been a DIY band the appreciation for what a tour manager DOES do (and the fact that they’re a human being) usually translates into them acting like a grown ups a bit more often. So, besides this band being lousy story-tellers, these guys didn’t exactly help build the case of the “hard working” musician.
I’d like to point out that although I enjoy a drink or two as much as the next person, and despite this band’s tour “story”, being an alcoholic and a musician are not actually the same thing! Nor does one entail the other. I’d rather not waste print perpetuating a stale stereotype from 30 years ago when certain talented people made enough money selling records they could afford a huge entourage of people who enabled them to stay high and stoned until they died prematurely or started eating rats on stage. (After all, if I wanted to write a column about drinking stories, I could easily interview Ralph Klein or Chad Kroeger.)
What I WILL tell you is while I was at the Junos this past weekend in Calgary I ran into veteran indie rock singer-songwriter Danny Michel, who, despite having less hits on Myspace than the band I interviewed this week, ably manages to get to and from gigs without falling down hills or getting fired by tour promoters, all by his adult self. AND is a very talented musician and hilarious performer. What a Renaissance Man! (See his road story in next week’s SEE).
In fact, pretty much every musician represented at the Junos this year has had to work their butts off to be where they are, many of whom we’ve seen slogging out in the clubs for over 10 years—Alberta’s own Corb Lund and Leslie Feist included. Congrats to all the winners and nominees.
If you’re the band who I interviewed, say hi to Amy Winehouse in rehab if you see her.