Hit the Road Jack
“They don’t call it the toilet circuit for no reason,” said a friend to me recently, having just come off a nation-wide tour promoting their debut album by visiting the arse-end of every ‘cosmopolitan’ metropolis our nation offers. As he chain-smoked all afternoon, I remarked that he looked as if he’d fought in both world wars and hadn’t slept during the interval. “Sounds ’bout right,” he croaked, whereby he fell asleep where he sat, cigarette in hand. This is what touring does to you. As I looked at my slumbering friend, physically and mentally beaten to an incoherent pulp of a man, I asked is it worth it? He hesitated. Hours passed. Seasons changed.
Rock n Roll has long been the adjective to describe the care-free, fuck-you attitude which embodies our tight-jean clad heroes, who write songs to emblazon on backpacks, gargantuan riffs to melt your face off and lyrical slogans to rally even the most disinterested crowd at Fibbers. But these days, for most hard working bands, it’s a vision as elusive as the Blue Peter badge.
At the best of times, touring is tough, taxing, thankless, dispiriting work. My sleepy friend enlightened me on a typical day on the road. Wake up around lunchtime, hung-over and in the clothes you’ve been wearing all week - “Otherwise you lose them” he deadpanned. Then, drive three hundred miles with seven equally tired, hungry, hungover men. Finally, after an hour of wrong turns, arrive at the venue too late to soundcheck.
Drinking becomes an antidote to boredom while you wait and wait some more backstage, which is as about glamorous as the toilets in Reflex. Drunk but capable, go on stage to five frowning teenagers. Plough through the set which by now is so familiar you’re on auto-pilot. Muted applause. The promoter didn’t show so no one gets paid (not that bands new to the circuit get much anyways. Opening acts usually get paid measly £7-10 pounds a night each) Drink, smoke and eat more takeaways to relax and console each other to get through the next day.
Touring conflicts with any notion of healthy living. You’re too poor, bereft of time and hung over to care most of the time. Even the hedonism that drugs offer become a convoluted necessity on the road; to stay awake for a few more hours or to sleep on a wooden floor next to semi-naked shivering men. I’ve heard horror stories about guitarists catching scabies off dirty mattresses, electric shocks from rat-bitten cables, throat ulcers, vomiting blood, punch-ups, lacerated hands, punctured lungs and up to the eyeballs in debt.
So, after hearing more horror stories from fellow circuit trawlers, I ask my friend again, is it really worth it? He wakes. Lights a cigarette and looks at my intently. “Hell yeah, I’m in a fucking rock band!” And there it is. With an expletive and a cigarette in hand, I understand the irresistible lure rock n roll provides. The joy of playing music you’re passionate about. That’s it. Overwhelmed at the physical abuse my friends stoically numb with drink, just to pursue their passion, I’m imploring people to support any hard working band and enthusing about your mates as much as I do.
