Bright Lights and Broken Buses
The kaleidoscopic nature of touring
(Picture: sound check going real well)
I decided to rename this blog Bright Lights and Broken Buses (for now at least) because I enjoy alliteration and because that really is what life as a touring musician is all about.
One moment you’re standing on stage in front of 15,000 people pretending to be a rock star, and a few hours later you’re being turfed off the tour bus on the side of the highway in your pajamas and clutching your pillow to your chest because you forgot to grab a bra.
Stumbling along the ditch away from your broken-down bus and clambering onto the already completely full - but very welcoming - crew bus to continue on to the next venue.
I don’t think I can remember a tour where our bus didn’t break down at least once.
That’s just part of it.
But it’s also the part that most people outside of the music industry have never even thought about.
The purpose of this blog is mostly selfish. I just want a place to practice writing and to hold myself accountable for publishing a piece of written work at least twice a week.
My hope is that, though this is mostly a selfish endeavour, you will enjoy the stories I share and gain something from this glimpse behind the curtain of the music industry - even if it’s just a few moments of gaiety in your day.
So, with that in mind, in this next wee story, I’m going to make vaguely offensive statements about the American south, reference sexist lyrics about boobs, and talk about drugs.
If you’re a member of my family who has blindly stumbled into this literary purgatory, it might be time to look away…
I was on stage in West Virginia in a country music dive bar playing to a sea of white faces, red ball caps, INCELs, and a handful of lost-looking WAGS.
It was redneck heaven.
We had just launched into the first chorus of "Drop Em Out" and I was at the front of the stage singing backing vocals:
🗣 "Gonna take a long look at those tig 'ol bitties
Areolas lookin' nice, nipples lookin' real pretty"
This gig wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of my career hopes and dreams, but the band members were all great dudes and I needed the money.
Just as we hit the apex of this lyrical genius, my bass sound started to crackle and sputter.
My heart rate started to climb quickly as I went into troubleshooting mode. Twiddling the guitar cable at the bass end first, then the pedalboard.
No dice.
The cackling crackle prevailed.
I turned my back to the crowd to make sure the pretty blue light was still showing proof of life in the amp and the sound came back, clear and true.
I turned back to the front to sing the next line, 🗣 "Come on let me gander at your boobs" and the signal went dead again.
Turned back to the amp, signal back on.
If felt like my bass was protesting every time I turned back to the microphone to sing, perhaps exhibiting the lyric subject-matter standards I should’ve been upholding myself.
Having discovered the perfect 45-degree angle to the amp that my bass now apparently required to function, I left the lead singer to finish the 🍈 musical mammogram 🍈 and finished the set with my back to the crowd, eyes fixed in anguish on the drummer.
"You're going to need this," he said in the green room after the show, handing me a vape pen.
"And you're going to need to start traveling with a backup bass"
Friends, he was not wrong.
I love it Vanessa!