...or relate to it. Aaron, the singer of the Rochester, NY band Marathon, wrote this for their website.
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Whenever I am about to leave for tour, I inevitably have a conversation with someone in my life (usually a co-worker) who knows nothing about the band I am in. It generally goes something like this:
PERSON1: Oh, you’re going on tour? WOW. (Makes a face like I have suddenly revealed that I am an obscure and unimportant super-hero, yet someone with a secret life nonetheless.)
ME: Yeah, I’m really excited.
PERSON1: Where are you going?
ME: (in the case of the most recent tour) All over the northeast. DC, Louisville, Cleveland. Some other towns more nearby.
PERSON1: Wow, I never knew your band was that big. Do you make a lot of money doing that?
ME: No.
PERSON1: Oh. (Begins to look slightly deflated.) Well, do you play in front of a lot of people?
ME: Sometimes. Depends what you mean by a lot. Usually between 5 and 100.
PERSON1: Oh. (Now PERSON1 looks thoroughly depressed, and I start wishing I had never allowed this conversation to start.)
At this point, the conversation goes one of two ways. PERSON1 either half-heartedly says, “well, have fun,” or kicks into the “you-know-what-you-should-do?” speech, which usually involves some very thin connection the person has to someone who knows someone whose dad works at MTV as a cameraman, and how I should get in touch because “ya never know.” Right.
It’s not that I don’t understand PERSON1's point of view. Six years ago, I had no idea that 11 friends could write some songs, get a couple vans, send out some e-mails (okay, hundreds of e-mails), and travel around the country playing those jams to total strangers. And I think I probably had the same narrow impression of the venues for playing music: either people play music as a local hobby to their friends, or people play music to sold-out arenas. Anything in the middle is...well, delusional or a failure.
What makes me sad is that none of these pre-tour conversations ever find someone asking me the question: “Why do you do it?” or “Is it fun?” or even “What am I missing here? Explain it to me.” It seems people are satisfied with being disappointed that I could not validate their preconceptions. This makes me sad because I would love to show them a glimpse of the world where people coalesce in basements for their mutual love of loud music set to heartfelt ideas, where the temperatures are so high and the performances so intense and the people packed in so tight that the musicians are brought to within an inch of passing out. Anyone who has been to a great basement show knows this is no exaggeration nor is it overly romanticized, yet I am not naïve enough to think that even given an hour to explain it, I could make anyone understand.
So, when I start my new summer job tomorrow, I plan on taking a new approach.
PERSON2: So, what have you been doing the past week and a half?
ME: I went on a road trip with ten of my best friends.
PERSON2: Where did you go?
ME: DC, Louisville, Cleveland. Some other towns more nearby.
PERSON2: Cool. What did you do?
ME: Tons of fun stuff. We went to the Jersey Shore, saw the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, had some picnics, ate out a lot, saw a bunch of old friends, stayed with some strangers, played lots of Frisbee and football, met some interesting locals who shouted at us and gave us the finger for no reason, got called “fuckin’ queer” in a Walmart in Indiana, had a pool party, got free beers in an industrial wasteland in Cleveland, and swam at the base of a waterfall.
PERSON2: Holy cow! All in 10 days?
ME: Yeah. Oh, and I saw about 20 bands play that I had never heard before.
PERSON2: Whoa. Was that all in one day?
ME: No, about 2 each night. My band played shows with those bands.
And if the conversation keeps going, then maybe I can start getting into the details. But if it stops there, at least people will start to understand why we sleep in scorching hot vans, why we’ll play for only 5 people 1,000 miles away from home, and why the best shows happen in the smallest corners of the strangest towns.
---
Whenever I am about to leave for tour, I inevitably have a conversation with someone in my life (usually a co-worker) who knows nothing about the band I am in. It generally goes something like this:
PERSON1: Oh, you’re going on tour? WOW. (Makes a face like I have suddenly revealed that I am an obscure and unimportant super-hero, yet someone with a secret life nonetheless.)
ME: Yeah, I’m really excited.
PERSON1: Where are you going?
ME: (in the case of the most recent tour) All over the northeast. DC, Louisville, Cleveland. Some other towns more nearby.
PERSON1: Wow, I never knew your band was that big. Do you make a lot of money doing that?
ME: No.
PERSON1: Oh. (Begins to look slightly deflated.) Well, do you play in front of a lot of people?
ME: Sometimes. Depends what you mean by a lot. Usually between 5 and 100.
PERSON1: Oh. (Now PERSON1 looks thoroughly depressed, and I start wishing I had never allowed this conversation to start.)
At this point, the conversation goes one of two ways. PERSON1 either half-heartedly says, “well, have fun,” or kicks into the “you-know-what-you-should-do?” speech, which usually involves some very thin connection the person has to someone who knows someone whose dad works at MTV as a cameraman, and how I should get in touch because “ya never know.” Right.
It’s not that I don’t understand PERSON1's point of view. Six years ago, I had no idea that 11 friends could write some songs, get a couple vans, send out some e-mails (okay, hundreds of e-mails), and travel around the country playing those jams to total strangers. And I think I probably had the same narrow impression of the venues for playing music: either people play music as a local hobby to their friends, or people play music to sold-out arenas. Anything in the middle is...well, delusional or a failure.
What makes me sad is that none of these pre-tour conversations ever find someone asking me the question: “Why do you do it?” or “Is it fun?” or even “What am I missing here? Explain it to me.” It seems people are satisfied with being disappointed that I could not validate their preconceptions. This makes me sad because I would love to show them a glimpse of the world where people coalesce in basements for their mutual love of loud music set to heartfelt ideas, where the temperatures are so high and the performances so intense and the people packed in so tight that the musicians are brought to within an inch of passing out. Anyone who has been to a great basement show knows this is no exaggeration nor is it overly romanticized, yet I am not naïve enough to think that even given an hour to explain it, I could make anyone understand.
So, when I start my new summer job tomorrow, I plan on taking a new approach.
PERSON2: So, what have you been doing the past week and a half?
ME: I went on a road trip with ten of my best friends.
PERSON2: Where did you go?
ME: DC, Louisville, Cleveland. Some other towns more nearby.
PERSON2: Cool. What did you do?
ME: Tons of fun stuff. We went to the Jersey Shore, saw the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, had some picnics, ate out a lot, saw a bunch of old friends, stayed with some strangers, played lots of Frisbee and football, met some interesting locals who shouted at us and gave us the finger for no reason, got called “fuckin’ queer” in a Walmart in Indiana, had a pool party, got free beers in an industrial wasteland in Cleveland, and swam at the base of a waterfall.
PERSON2: Holy cow! All in 10 days?
ME: Yeah. Oh, and I saw about 20 bands play that I had never heard before.
PERSON2: Whoa. Was that all in one day?
ME: No, about 2 each night. My band played shows with those bands.
And if the conversation keeps going, then maybe I can start getting into the details. But if it stops there, at least people will start to understand why we sleep in scorching hot vans, why we’ll play for only 5 people 1,000 miles away from home, and why the best shows happen in the smallest corners of the strangest towns.
