11 a.m.: I wake up on a living room floor, a cot in a motel room (for the fourth week running) or a clean motel bed if I'm lucky. My bandmates are all nearly 10 years older than me, so I always take the cot. I wear it as a badge of sacrificial merit.

Despite my habits, I am the first one up. I relieve myself stealthily and stare at the mirror to gauge physical and mental anguish. I drink some coffee, get some motel breakfast, maybe a little hair of the dog if the previous night was a slobberknocker.

I attempt to rustle up the rest of the band, fail at that, and take a shower thinking about the bartender from last night.

Noon: For the first half of the van ride, we crack a lot of jokes, jive about the previous night's show or antics, argue about where to get lunch (Furr's? Perkin's?). I ask for my per diem in advance in order to pay for lunch. I like to drive, so I drive. Most people don't. Another honor point.

For the second half of the van ride, we sit silently, try to read or sleep, stare at a phone or laptop, or wonder what a woman is doing.

I think about the bartender from last night. I wonder how well I am dealing with being the only drinking member of a five-piece band. I wonder how these quiet hours, when the musicians silently turn inward and dark, drive the extremely neurotic aspects of the performance.

6 p.m.: We arrive at the venue. Considering the show and post-show will last until 2 or 3 in the morning, time is ample. I get out of the van in the God-chosen seasonal elements, open the trailer and help unload all of the heavy equipment while sweating like a fat kid in a North Korean labor camp. Going from the glaring sunset to the dank and cavernous atmosphere of a club is a disorienting feeling. The first thing I see is the liquor. Just seeing the bottle is enough to set the synapses ablaze.

One nice thing about alcohol is that it creates familiarity. No matter if you're in a ballroom in New York, a converted bunker in Moscow or a shithole in Toledo, a shot of whiskey can conjure that warm, fuzzy, familiar feeling. For a brief moment, I'm back in Dixie. Anxiety dips. Endorphins shoot up. But it's just medicine.

Let me digress: Depending on your level of alcohol tolerance, you may be able to drink up until the show and play normally or even excel. Good on you. For the rest of the population (myself included), spending all day getting fucked up before you play only serves to make us think we are playing better. In reality, we're just sweating more, playing more sloppily, and probably disappointing our bandmates. No matter what, be aware. People will know. Unless your liver is made of the same leather as your boots, you will stick out like a sore thumb.

Is there a happy middle ground? Can someone have just a few beers before the show? Probably.

Can I, an alcohol-dependent musician mind-fucked by two weeks of sleeping on a cot, constant travel, late nights, and psychosocial stressors? Um, no.

8 p.m.: It's our second night playing support for a headlining band. A friendly bartender is pouring me free shots of Maker's Mark. Any person with half a brain would take one or two graciously. I decide it's a better idea to continue drinking until performance time, as if the Maker's Mark distillery had gone ablaze and I am drinking the last batch.

At one point before the show, I'm flicking some costume diamond rings at the headliner while yelling, "Diamonds, bitch!" Some people laugh. Most do not. I alienate about half of the headlining band.

I steadily stumble on-stage, put on my best professional wrestler face, and play half-decently. I return to the bar to watch the headliner's set. They completely annihilate the crowd with their precision, performance and creativity. None of them are drunk.

Midnight: Show's over. I scan the crowd for any sense of familiarity, friend or foe. Nothing. Applause stops. I go backstage, head for the Jack, and begin to drink myself into oblivion. I end the night in a heap on the sidewalk outside, refusing to help load out the gear. Some kind of baby fit or emotional breakdown, brought to you by the sweet fires of ethanol.

3 a.m.: I wake up in the sleeping quarters of the van, a hollowed out section lined in memory foam behind the back seat. My head is throbbing. Someone else decided to drive the remaining four hours of the overnight trip. I immediately spout some foul jargon and slothfully attempt to roll into the back seat. Another member of the band physically picks me up and throws me back into the sleeping area. I curse my poor decision-making skills and impulse control.

11 a.m.: I wake up, relieve myself not so stealthily. I avoid staring in the mirror. Take a quick shower. Drink some coffee. Get a stern talking-to from the singer, explaining these unacceptable behaviors. Promise it won't happen again.

« Previous Page
 |
 
1
 
2
 
3
 
All
 
Next Page »
 
My Voice Nation Help
2 comments
DFWTexasMusic.com
DFWTexasMusic.com

I was in a moderately successful cover band. We were pretty good about limiting our drinking until the last hour of our show, but sometimes we did get trashed on  stage simply because patrons kept buying shots for the band. How do you say no? It would seem rude.

DFWTexasMusic.com
DFWTexasMusic.com

I was in a moderately successful cover band. We were pretty good about limiting our drinking until the last hour of our show, but sometimes we did get trashed on  stage simply because patrons kept buying shots for the band. How do you say no? It would seem rude.

 
Dallas Concert Tickets

Concert Calendar

  • July
  • Wed
    23
  • Thu
    24
  • Fri
    25
  • Sat
    26
  • Sun
    27
  • Mon
    28
  • Tue
    29
Loading...