I don’t identify as a musician, music writer, or show-booker—not because I don’t care about those roles or haven’t occasionally tried them on, but mainly because I don’t consider them the primary markers of my reality; and besides which, still understand ‘occupations’ to be the language of pollsters and parents. But it can still sting a little to be asked whether or not I play music—because even as I generally say “no,” “not really,” or ‘not seriously,” I also think about ten years of piano lessons, five of music theory, and several sad iterations of ska-punk cover bands that I both regret and bear shamelessly as my teenaged history. “Do you play music?” It’s an innocent question that betrays some not-so-innocent assumptions about what it means to be a musician—because while I technically ‘play music,’ and mostly know how, I don’t do it sincerely, ambitiously, or with any intent. This question wouldn’t play out with any personal consequence except that answering it evasively or figuratively results in some people writing you off, walking away, or worse yet, pretending that you’re not literally right next to them, breathing the same dumb air. I play this awful game a lot living in some of the smarmier pockets of Williamsburg: avoid telling people what I do, where I hang out, or who I know, in hopes of demonstrating how little social capital I offer them, and, more importantly, how few fucks I truly give about proving my relevance. It can be a humbling thing, then, to tour with performers, and to be dismissed frequently and completely; and to be asked by a well-meaning norm if you are a ‘roadie or a groupie’; and then, subsequently, to take stock of your decisions in full—why and how your life has led you to trap yourself in a car, carry gear, and sell other people’s things for no compensation and little recognition (though, sometimes you might get a drink ticket, which is actually kind of nice). None of this was a mystery to me before deciding to go on tour, and despite my foreknowledge, I knew it would be worthwhile in my own narrow scope, which meant seeing a bunch of places with friends that I liked and for reasons that I hadn’t yet figured out. The rest would come together. “So, what’s your band’s name?” When I decided to go on tour, I also started thinking about an anti-tour diary, documenting all of the things that happen just outside the highly guarded and prized domain of performing— because even on a month-long tour with over thirty dates, the vast majority of your time isn’t occupied with doing anything vaguely show-related. Most of your time is spent just being together, tolerating each other, fighting a little, and feeling a lot. All of us seemed to accept this immediately, and despite my vested interest in visiting DIY venues, and despite many, many shows with radical, talented, and considerate people, the highlights of our trip still seemed to show through in all of the spaces between music, in small towns and state parks, friends’ homes and shared meals. “Are you playing tonight?” A tour itinerary laid out in its barest structure can never hope to capture the full weirdness of driving across North America —from the Pacific Northwest, to the Southwest, up through the Midwest, into Canada, and back into the Northeast. And a list of dates and places certainly
23