It starts with a bottle of Jack Daniels Green Label. Why the change of color? We haven't a clue.
But it's different. So is starting the night in the back of Mod Sun's tour bus with said bottle, Mike, Dan, and a member of one of the BIGGEST bands on tour.
"I have to tell you," he says to Mod. "There are two people I've met in this world that when they walk into a room, everyone around them is instantly happier. The first was Snoop. And now -- you."
We all chuckle at the sentiment, but it's true. Mod Sun, the self-described "hippy-hoppy" musician from Minnesota might as well be the Tony Robbins of the Warped Tour.
This guy starts pouring his heart out to Mod. "It's tough when you have to sacrifice so much. I don't get to see my kids grow up. I don't have a home. And I'm never really happy."
Mod contests: "Are you kidding me? I've known you for ten years and you're one of the happiest guys I know."
"It's a facade. So, please, can I just ask: how are you happy all the time?"
"All I know," starts Mod, "is that what you put out into the universe, the universe will return to you. If you come out to your car and there's a parking ticket, and you say, 'God! I hate parking tickets. If I ever get another parking ticket I'll...' But right there. You just said 'parking ticket' two times." He waves his fingers for emphasis. "Two times. And I guarantee you will get another parking ticket. But if you wake up thinking, 'today is the best day ever', it will be. Especially you. You wake up in a different city every day. Nobody really knows you. You can be whoever you want to be."
We toast to happiness. First shot.
Mike's turn.
"When I was 13, I had cancer. But I had a really good group of friends that didn't make me think about it. They just treated me like nothing was wrong. All the same jokes, all the same crap. So I never felt like there was anything wrong with me.
"When I was in the hospital, the doctors would always come in to tell me my 'progress' but every time I'd say, 'Nope. Don't want to know. You can tell my parents, but I'm doing better.'
"They gave me a small percentage of survival initially, but here I am, eleven years later. I was always telling myself, 'I'm doing better.' And even if you don't believe it at first, you just have to think it. And keep thinking it. Until you do believe it."
Second toast -- to Mike. "Fuck Cancer," the refrain.
There's a third and fourth and even fifth shot as everyone offers a bit of Buddhist-momentariness into the conversation. The last toast is bequeathed to me. I revert to my Russian:
"For friendship."
By ten o'clock the bottle's nearly finished. Bus call isn't until three. So we head down to the barbecue and hand the bottle off to random people we see along the way. We run into Sasha. Andrew. T-Mills's bouncer. A few blondes and fake-reds.
By the time we reach the barbecue -- the bottle's all the way finished.
Time for hamburgers, hot-dogs. But seeing how we're all "Happy as F*ck" (Mod Suns's aptly named hit single) this doesn't appease our appetite.
So after a quick phone call, we pile into four taxis. Destination: downtown Orlando.
A quick slice of pizza and a beer.
Toast: to downtown Orlando.
A few minutes later, Mike stops to play drums on the sidewalk alongside a guy using buckets as bongos. A small crowd gathers. Tips abound.
We then stumble across a bustling and bumping scene with four bars and an open courtyard connecting them. Price of admission: only $5.
Wristbands. Somehow Sasha gets in with my Russian ID. (In the spontaneous rush, he'd forgotten his wallet back on the bus.)
Then shoot shots to "Pour Some Sugar on Me." Dance and scream along with Bon Jovi's "Living on a Prayer." The rest of the bar watches dumbfounded. 'Who are these animals' they must be wondering, 'in the leopard-spotted shoes and cut-off shirts and fedora? And why are they all so fucking happy?'
From there the night fades from memory.
Tequila.
More tequila.
Dan throws up -- in Eric's bunk.
Something about a fire extinguisher.
Then three rolls around and our bus rolls out in line with a dozen others. Next stop: West Palm Beach.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Work-related injuries
When you're a musician, work-related injuries are a bit different. You'll chip a tooth on a microphone. (Or if you're our drummer -- a can of Monster Tour Water.) Get rock neck from rocking too hard. And as Joe, the keyboardist from Born of Osiris, explains about his broken wrist:
"Stage-diving."
"Nice," says Andrew.
"Yeah, it was a couple shows ago. You know -- just another work-related injury."
"Can I sign your cast?" asks Dan.
"Sure."
So while some look at life on the road as a vacation, never forget the crowd suffers. The Death Metal head thrashers. And those who become so absorbed in the performance that they literally lose their shit on stage. Because that's rock and roll.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Creativity is a Lost Consciousness
According to a Newsweek article we stumbled across while cleaning out one of the junk-bunks, the next generation has demonstrated an abysmal, statistical drop in creativity. And for the first time ever.
I'm not strictly talking about being able to finger paint. Or compose a symphony. I'm talking about being able to think 'outside the box'. Assess problems from vantages not a priori. Creativity builds leaders, boisterous speakers, and men and women who will change the world. Without it -- what are we left with?
So it's a nice change of pace to meet people on Warped Tour like Larry Gee, the titular lead singer of a Dallas soul/funk band.
"We say soul/funk, but really it doesn't matter what sort of music we play," says guitarist Beau Bedford. "It's about Larry. And his voice. He can carry anything. I've been around man, and I'm not kidding you when I say Larry is going to be the greatest American soul singer of our generation."
Our generation. And perhaps for generations to come. Because if it's true that our children are in a steady creative decline, there might not be another act like Larry g(EE)'s.
Because by the end of their set, there are twelve musicians on stage -- only half of whom are really in the band. Guys with tambourines and saxophones and trumpets and whatever'll make a sound. Pieces of other bands on tours. Musicians who just want to jam. And the end product is undeniably addictive.
All because Larry is the creative type. Forget the confines of the stage. The procedural approach to music. "Let's get talent up here and see what happens' is his approach.
And I love it.
Too often, and too easily, we settle for convention, fearful of what might happen if others disagree. If we disappoint that wrong person. So we bury our heads and our imaginations like ostriches on the lamb.
So today, take the time be creative. For one second or one hour. Take a chance and see what happens.
I'm not strictly talking about being able to finger paint. Or compose a symphony. I'm talking about being able to think 'outside the box'. Assess problems from vantages not a priori. Creativity builds leaders, boisterous speakers, and men and women who will change the world. Without it -- what are we left with?
So it's a nice change of pace to meet people on Warped Tour like Larry Gee, the titular lead singer of a Dallas soul/funk band.
"We say soul/funk, but really it doesn't matter what sort of music we play," says guitarist Beau Bedford. "It's about Larry. And his voice. He can carry anything. I've been around man, and I'm not kidding you when I say Larry is going to be the greatest American soul singer of our generation."
Our generation. And perhaps for generations to come. Because if it's true that our children are in a steady creative decline, there might not be another act like Larry g(EE)'s.
Because by the end of their set, there are twelve musicians on stage -- only half of whom are really in the band. Guys with tambourines and saxophones and trumpets and whatever'll make a sound. Pieces of other bands on tours. Musicians who just want to jam. And the end product is undeniably addictive.
All because Larry is the creative type. Forget the confines of the stage. The procedural approach to music. "Let's get talent up here and see what happens' is his approach.
And I love it.
Too often, and too easily, we settle for convention, fearful of what might happen if others disagree. If we disappoint that wrong person. So we bury our heads and our imaginations like ostriches on the lamb.
So today, take the time be creative. For one second or one hour. Take a chance and see what happens.
Monday, July 23, 2012
The Showmans
There are plenty of people who travel with Warped Tour who aren't musicians. Barbers. Physical trainers. Even tattoo artists all work for tips, providing the 'talent' with desperately needed services on the spot.
But there's another type who travels -- the showman. They're the ones selling merchandise. T-shirts. Hemp necklaces and book-bags and CD compilations. You name it -- you've bought it. And they probably sold it to you. They work the tents all day in hundred degree heat armed with nothing but bullhorns and spray bottles and their own style.
"Hey you -- Freckles," says Rob to a Ginger Girl walking past. "Buy something."
Rob's holding a shirt that reads: Get Naked. The kind of shirt every guy would wear on a first date if he were really being honest.
But the Ginger Girl shakes her head, smiles and says, "No, thanks."
"Hey, you -- Black Guy. Buy my shirt. It's cheap and sexual."
But the Black Guy meanders on his way.
At that moment, a cocky 15 year-old with pimples and braces and wearing a shirt that reads: Fuck Everything, strolls up.
"You're a terrible salesman," the kid says.
Rob fans the wad of 20s, 10s, 5s and 1s in his hand -- a hearty stack. "Oh, yeah?" And in one foul swoop, SLAPS the kid across the face with it. "Buy a shirt."
"Um..." the kid stammers.
"Buy a shirt," Rob insists.
The kid looks over his shoulder at his two friends as if to say, "Help me." But the only backup they offer is --
"It is a pretty cool shirt, dude."
The kid looks at his feet. Looks back up at Rob.
"How much?"
And like the fish that's bitten into the worm, you can tell by the twisted expression on his face -- he knows he's fucked.
"$55."
"$55?"
"But for you I'll do $25. I'm feeling generous today."
The kid reaches for his wallet. Riffles through the 1s and 5s I'm sure his parents had given him for lunch at one point, and finds a twenty tucked way in back. "Here," he says, handing over the money.
Rob rummages through a set of bins beneath the table. "What size? Small, medium, or fat-ass?"
"Medium...?"
"Medium it is."
Rob returns with the shirt. The transaction is complete. And as the kid walks away, Rob calls, "I love you!" He turns to me and adds, "You can pretty much say anything to anybody as long as you end it 'I love you' just as another Gangly Teen with poor hygiene walks past.
"Hey -- you. This shirt will make you much less ugly."
A brief glance, but no sale. For now at least.
"OK -- I love you!"
But the Ginger Girl shakes her head, smiles and says, "No, thanks."
"Hey, you -- Black Guy. Buy my shirt. It's cheap and sexual."
But the Black Guy meanders on his way.
At that moment, a cocky 15 year-old with pimples and braces and wearing a shirt that reads: Fuck Everything, strolls up.
"You're a terrible salesman," the kid says.
Rob fans the wad of 20s, 10s, 5s and 1s in his hand -- a hearty stack. "Oh, yeah?" And in one foul swoop, SLAPS the kid across the face with it. "Buy a shirt."
"Um..." the kid stammers.
"Buy a shirt," Rob insists.
The kid looks over his shoulder at his two friends as if to say, "Help me." But the only backup they offer is --
"It is a pretty cool shirt, dude."
The kid looks at his feet. Looks back up at Rob.
"How much?"
And like the fish that's bitten into the worm, you can tell by the twisted expression on his face -- he knows he's fucked.
"$55."
"$55?"
"But for you I'll do $25. I'm feeling generous today."
The kid reaches for his wallet. Riffles through the 1s and 5s I'm sure his parents had given him for lunch at one point, and finds a twenty tucked way in back. "Here," he says, handing over the money.
Rob rummages through a set of bins beneath the table. "What size? Small, medium, or fat-ass?"
"Medium...?"
"Medium it is."
Rob returns with the shirt. The transaction is complete. And as the kid walks away, Rob calls, "I love you!" He turns to me and adds, "You can pretty much say anything to anybody as long as you end it 'I love you' just as another Gangly Teen with poor hygiene walks past.
"Hey -- you. This shirt will make you much less ugly."
A brief glance, but no sale. For now at least.
"OK -- I love you!"
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Unwarped, Unwound
Ah – time to unwind. Another long, humid day in Buffalo, NY and the team is tired from trudging the gear across four acres of sun-scorched Earth and gravel and hills en route to our stage.
So we head to the barbecue around ten where we discover an 80s theme dance party, the likes of which – I can guarantee – you’ve never seen.
There’s the hulked-out, tattooed bass player of the heaviest of all the Metal bands shaking his ass to Huey Lewis and the News.
A hip-hop, freestyle chick shrieks when “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” comes on.
The circle in the middle is unlike any of the ones during the day. No shouting. (Well – only to “Jessie’s Girl.”) No punches thrown. No bloody noses. This is the unwarped, unwound side of Warped Tour. Everybody’s just in tune with the grooves they loved as adolescents.
“The best music comes from the 80s,” say Mike, trying to convince Dan’s date – a stripper from the night before – who claims she hates 80s music. He rattles off a bunch of names: “INXS. Def Leppard. Toto. The Pixies. Sonic Youth.” And he could probably go on forever.
Still, she sticks to: “I just don’t like it.” Until they’re in line for burgers and hotdogs and “Seldgehammer,” by Peter Gabriel pricks up her ear and ripples through her shoulders and hips to her ass until she’s shaking it like the hulked-out bassist.
Dan catches her. “See – Mike was right.”
“OK – maybe,” she relents.
It’s only a theme-night, and on any other night, a live band would be entertaining the crowd. But a snapshot of the barbecue speaks to the adolescent still inside each and every one of us. Stirring up memories of prom. First illegal downloads. Ex-girlfriends and boyfriends. Everyone forgets the long day and lost sweat and their sunburns.
By the end of the night, I’m shaking my ass right along with them.
So we head to the barbecue around ten where we discover an 80s theme dance party, the likes of which – I can guarantee – you’ve never seen.
There’s the hulked-out, tattooed bass player of the heaviest of all the Metal bands shaking his ass to Huey Lewis and the News.
A hip-hop, freestyle chick shrieks when “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” comes on.
The circle in the middle is unlike any of the ones during the day. No shouting. (Well – only to “Jessie’s Girl.”) No punches thrown. No bloody noses. This is the unwarped, unwound side of Warped Tour. Everybody’s just in tune with the grooves they loved as adolescents.
“The best music comes from the 80s,” say Mike, trying to convince Dan’s date – a stripper from the night before – who claims she hates 80s music. He rattles off a bunch of names: “INXS. Def Leppard. Toto. The Pixies. Sonic Youth.” And he could probably go on forever.
Still, she sticks to: “I just don’t like it.” Until they’re in line for burgers and hotdogs and “Seldgehammer,” by Peter Gabriel pricks up her ear and ripples through her shoulders and hips to her ass until she’s shaking it like the hulked-out bassist.
Dan catches her. “See – Mike was right.”
“OK – maybe,” she relents.
It’s only a theme-night, and on any other night, a live band would be entertaining the crowd. But a snapshot of the barbecue speaks to the adolescent still inside each and every one of us. Stirring up memories of prom. First illegal downloads. Ex-girlfriends and boyfriends. Everyone forgets the long day and lost sweat and their sunburns.
By the end of the night, I’m shaking my ass right along with them.
Disorientation
My cell phone alarm sounds. Time to wake up. Jump out of my bunk. Say ‘good morning’ to John who’s already hard at work on his computer, fighting the on-going fight with our sub-par WiFi.
“I swear, if I find out who’s been streaming…” he says, shaking a mental fist.
Stepping out of the bus, it takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the burst of light. New city. New parking lot, more precisely. Some are gravel. Others grass. Few are paved completely. But every time there’s the same disorienting feeling – you have no idea where anything is. The bathrooms. The stage. Turn left out of the bus? Right? Why do people appear to be walking in six different directions?
You finally get a sense of what state you’re in after perusing the license plates in the parking lot. Still, this information helps little when it’s nine in the morning and all you want is a hot shower.
So I wander for a little while. Scope out the line of people forming by the main gate. It’s hundreds long with hours to go.
Sure, right now this place feels like an alien planet, but by bus-call, I’ll know exactly where to get free beef jerky. Where our friends’ buses are parked. How to get a cocktail. And as soon as I’m finally comfortable with the venue –
Robin, our bus driver, comes walking up the beaten path totting his suitcase. He shoots me a glare that says: “Time to go.” No alarm necessary.
“I swear, if I find out who’s been streaming…” he says, shaking a mental fist.
Stepping out of the bus, it takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the burst of light. New city. New parking lot, more precisely. Some are gravel. Others grass. Few are paved completely. But every time there’s the same disorienting feeling – you have no idea where anything is. The bathrooms. The stage. Turn left out of the bus? Right? Why do people appear to be walking in six different directions?
You finally get a sense of what state you’re in after perusing the license plates in the parking lot. Still, this information helps little when it’s nine in the morning and all you want is a hot shower.
So I wander for a little while. Scope out the line of people forming by the main gate. It’s hundreds long with hours to go.
Sure, right now this place feels like an alien planet, but by bus-call, I’ll know exactly where to get free beef jerky. Where our friends’ buses are parked. How to get a cocktail. And as soon as I’m finally comfortable with the venue –
Robin, our bus driver, comes walking up the beaten path totting his suitcase. He shoots me a glare that says: “Time to go.” No alarm necessary.
Monday, July 16, 2012
What would you do for Warped Tour tickets?
“l’ll show you anything,” she stresses in a French accent. “Except my vagina."
The bus breaks out in laughter.
"What else is there to show?" asks Dan, trying not to sound scummy -- but failing.
Meet Viki. She's with her friends Stephanie and Valerie. French Canadian girls with piercings all over the place and tattoos up to wazoo. Stephanie barely speaks English. We met only hours ago and now all three of them desperately want to see us at the next stop in Toronto – a measly 7-hour drive.
The funny thing is -- they actually make it. Through two hours of torrential downpour, too.
We meet up the next day at the box office. Their tickets are waiting, as promised. But it's five o'clock already and we go on at eight, and after that, it's a nine o'clock bus call -- much earlier than usual because when you've worked for 11 straight days, you'll pretty much do anything for an extra night in a hotel bed.
Still, the girls are ecstatic about the little time they get to spend with us, and per custom it seems, most of that time is spent teaching members of the band swear words in French.
Bitch.
Asshole.
As Mike explains it: "So I always know when someones talking shit about me."
After the show -- which is rushed because of the rain and rescheduling -- we take a few photos in front of the Toronto skyline. Gorgeous. Like Seattle, because of the needle, but less cluttered. And as we're walking back to the bus --
"Wait," calls Viki. She has this look stapled to her face like she's about to offer up something she might later regret.
"It's OK," says Mike. "You don't have to show us anything."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Like we've never seen a pair of tits before," says Dan, still trying not to sound scummy -- failing yet again.
So we board the bus without the girls and get ready for a much needed night in a real bed. As we pull away, Dan and I are lucky enough to be looking out the window when Viki lifts her shirt.
The bus breaks out in laughter.
"What else is there to show?" asks Dan, trying not to sound scummy -- but failing.
Meet Viki. She's with her friends Stephanie and Valerie. French Canadian girls with piercings all over the place and tattoos up to wazoo. Stephanie barely speaks English. We met only hours ago and now all three of them desperately want to see us at the next stop in Toronto – a measly 7-hour drive.
The funny thing is -- they actually make it. Through two hours of torrential downpour, too.
We meet up the next day at the box office. Their tickets are waiting, as promised. But it's five o'clock already and we go on at eight, and after that, it's a nine o'clock bus call -- much earlier than usual because when you've worked for 11 straight days, you'll pretty much do anything for an extra night in a hotel bed.
Still, the girls are ecstatic about the little time they get to spend with us, and per custom it seems, most of that time is spent teaching members of the band swear words in French.
Bitch.
Asshole.
As Mike explains it: "So I always know when someones talking shit about me."
After the show -- which is rushed because of the rain and rescheduling -- we take a few photos in front of the Toronto skyline. Gorgeous. Like Seattle, because of the needle, but less cluttered. And as we're walking back to the bus --
"Wait," calls Viki. She has this look stapled to her face like she's about to offer up something she might later regret.
"It's OK," says Mike. "You don't have to show us anything."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Like we've never seen a pair of tits before," says Dan, still trying not to sound scummy -- failing yet again.
So we board the bus without the girls and get ready for a much needed night in a real bed. As we pull away, Dan and I are lucky enough to be looking out the window when Viki lifts her shirt.
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