Living on the Road, My Friend

Family reunions, company parties, parties in general, and other social gatherings almost inevitably find you in conversation with a person to whom the idea of playing in a working band is utterly alien and endlessly fascinating. While it's always flattering to be given the opportunity to hold forth on a subject close to your heart, there are certain topics for which you just have neither the time nor the inclination to disavow these people of their preconceived notions of what the experience is like. My personal favorites are along the lines of, "Oh! It must be so exciting getting to travel all over playing music!" or "How romantic and interesting it must be seeing so much of the country doing something you love!" It's clear that these people's idea of a band on tour resembles what they've seen on television documenting The Rolling Stones or U2. I usually just reply, "Yeah, it's a lot of fun".
There's just too much there to provide a meaningful reply.
I feel safe in saying that most bands in the country tour in vehicles that are pieces of shit prone to breaking down at such convenient locations as freeway entrance ramps. This adventure is made all the more exciting by the fact that you're generally on a shoestring budget and getting the damn thing fixed means you're unlikely to enjoy luxuries like eating for a couple of days.
Speaking of sustenance, you're generally lucky to eat once a day, even notwithstanding the aforementioned catastrophe. These meals typically are chosen from the value menus at Taco Bell or Wendy's.
After driving for seven or eight hours (in one case for us with the heater running in August so the van wouldn't overheat) you arrive in a strange city and immediately get lost. When you finally find the club, probably eight times out of ten you are met with reactions ranging from indifference to hostility from the bar staff. The person who booked the show is nowhere to be found and the venue "manager" has never heard of you. You're told to play in a slot which is not the one agreed upon with the jackass who booked you, and when you ask to speak with him/her, he's "not around. Probably won't be by tonight". You notice the flyers you made and mailed to the club are nowhere to be found. You finally set up and play to an audience of about twenty barfly regulars, roughly four of whom even bother to applaud at the end of songs. Halfway through your set the next band shows up and tells you to get off the stage - they're supposed to play at 11 and it's already 10:30.
So you finish up and have to wait around this dive for three hours in the hopes of getting paid. Sometimes you get some free beer, but it's nothing to count on. The money you are handed is NEVER the amount you agreed upon with the booking agent - remember him? The guy who's not around and won't be by that night? If you're lucky you get enough to afford a fleabag motel, a tank of gas, and the chance to treat yourself to one of the above mentioned value menus. If you're not, well, you improvise. You sleep in the van, or drive all night to the next town (advisable when it's August and you have to run the heater to keep the van from overheating), or shell out from your paltry money stash to crash in a pay-by-the-hour- motel. (A bar manager in St. Louis once told us we weren't getting paid. I told him that was fine but we were sleeping on the club's stage. He threatened to call the cops, which I encouraged him to do. Once we started rolling out our sleeping bags he paid us our full guarantee). The next day you get up and do it again. After three weeks of this you hate clubs, rock 'n' roll, your bandmates, and all humanity.
Don't get me wrong. If it was always like this nobody would do it. Ever. Interspersed with these nightmare scenarios are the clubs where the staff is awesome, the soundman rocks, the free beer flows like water, they buy you dinner, the crowd is big and loves you, and you get paid at least your guarantee, if not a little more. These are the shows that keep you going and make the rest (the unfortunate majority) seem worth it all.
One good show is worth five crappy ones, and in my experience that's about how things work out. Here's looking toward the day when we wield enough clout to get it to two out of five.

Yours,
MiseryCreek

Jim Strahm's Life Worth Livin'

One of the highlights of touring up and down the I-35 corridor was the inevitable stop at Midwestern Music Co. in Kansas City. Stop, grab a 12 pack of Bud, and spend the afternoon hanging out with co-owner Jim Strahm - a wise-cracking, chain smoking, Rick Moranis-looking saint of the heartland. It was far too easy to hang out there until you were too drunk to make your gig.
In addition to his instrument repair duties at his shop, Jim also served as guitar tech for Alejandro Escoveda when he toured, fronted KC country rock band The Saddlemen, and helped out more local and touring bands in dire straits than it's reasonable to try and count. The first time we met I had dropped my Telecaster onto a floor swimming in spilt beer and the nut had exploded. Jim took the guitar and, some time between 3 AM and 11 the next morning, had repaired the nut and cleaned up the guitar. It played better than before. He didn't charge me a dime.
One of the bands I was playing in met up with KC's Cher UK in Wichita for a gig during a time when Jim was playing lead guitar with them. After the gig Jim wanted to keep drinking, as did we, while the rest of the Cher folks uncharacteristically wanted to crash. Since the two bands were playing together again in Austin the following night we took custody of Mr. Strahm. After a hard night of it, we stopped for breakfast on our way out of town. The restaraunt was a Mexican place, owned and operated by Asians. This resulted in a very, er, unique fusion of cuisines. On sitting down we all ordered waters and coffees - all except Strahm, who (much to the waiter's consternation) ordered a margarita. The waiter brought out waters and coffees and, as he was walking away, Jim looked at me and said, "Where's my fucking margarita?" which caused us all to laugh. Several minutes passed before the waiter seemingly sprung up from nowhere and slammed a margarita down in front of Jim. "There's your fucking margarita!" he snarled, which I think caused Jim to fall a little bit in love with him. When the food arrived, it was literally smothered in sour cream - I mean on the order of a half pint per plate. Jim looked at the waiter and deadpanned, "Could I get a little sour cream, please?". The waiter sighed. "More sour cream, sir?". "No, I'm kidding". This caused uproarious laughter. While all this certainly seems, and in fact was, no fun at all for the waiter, Jim left him a twenty dollar tip when it was all said and done.
When my current band toured for the first time the lead guitar player blew the speaker in his amp. Jim replaced it for free. We also stayed at his house for two alcohol soaked nights - I don't think he slept the whole time. I kept trying to pay him for the amp - he kept saying "Don't worry about it - it all comes around. You can get me back some other time."
I never did.
Jim smoked like a chimney - I rarely saw him conscious without a lit cigarette, and I don't think I ever saw him unconscious. He was diagnosed with cancer in November of 1999 and died on May 12th, 2000 at the age of 39. It's a testament to how well thought of he was that a benefit held to defray his medical costs was co-headlined by Alejandro Escoveda and Southern Culture on the Skids, with multiple high profile Kansas City bands contributing their time as well.
I've met a lot of fine people in the almost twenty years I've been doing this, and a lot of assholes. Jim is among the finest of the fine. His dedication to music and musicians was perfectly balanced with a cynical (and side-splitting) sense of humor that never turned off and never got old. I envy him that to this day. I also miss him to this day. He packed a lot of life into 39 years. We would have all benefitted immensely if he would have been granted a few more.

Yours,
MiseryCreek

Long Way Down

I started the band I currently play "seriously" with in 1997. I had been playing music more or less professionally since 1991 both as a side man and front man, but this band was going to be different. I had, for the first time, really worked on the songs I was writing with an ear to hooks and melodies and considered the batch I had come up with to be light years beyond anything I had written before. I had, for the first time, a really solid idea of what I wanted the band to sound like. Finally, I had, for the first time, a group of players who I liked, who were competent, and who professed dedication to making the band work. It was with a lot of excitement that we debuted in spring of 1998 - everything seemed to be heading in the right direction.
As I write this I am the only founding member left. The band has been through five lead guitarists, three bass players and four drummers. Every time the band has attained some forward momentum someone has developed a crippling drug addiction, alcohol problem, mental illness, or case of ennui. I spent three years catastrophically ill, in and out of hospitals and undergoing multiple surgeries. Short of somebody dying my band has had about the worst luck imaginable considering the amount of work put in over the last eight years.
At this point I'm keeping this band going through sheer obstinancy - shaking my fist at God, so to speak. Right now we are on an upswing - we have a record in the can produced by a well respected producer, we're getting offered good shows, getting a little airplay, and interest seems to be waxing again. Cue the inevitable personnel problem. By the time I post again we may be working in yet another new member.
I started this blog as an outlet to the frustrations I find inherent in this kind of life, and in the hopes that I'm not alone. Future posts will detail events from the mind-numbingly mundane to the unbelievably absurd from my band's past and present and will be much more entertaining than this one.
I find this life unshakeably addictive in spite of the unending stress and sorrow it presents, far in excess of the fun and satisfaction it provides. Here's hoping that, via documentation and the feedback of likeminded others, I can get to the reason why.

Yours -
MiseryCreek