Because I’m talkin’ about the road
My dear friend Paul, lover of old man bars, has an understandable fondness for unearthing special taverns and local spots while on a trip of any kind. Naturally, that has to do with the very best stuff of traveling—the thrill of stumbling-upon, the joy and cachet of what is unexpected and, for you the traveler anyway, temporary. (I once remarked to him that opening the door to a new bar is like opening a present—and I think that may be his favourite thing I ever said.)
Opening the door to a faraway rock club, then, is a similar experience. You’ve driven several hours, hoping to catch a mere, say, ninety minutes of one of your favourite bands. You hope the club is great. The anticipation is both full of promise and dread. It could be awful, of course—you may have gambled an evening and a couple tanks of gas for a shitty PA and a short set—but for some reason it almost always ends up seeming worthwhile. You walk into the dive bar/abandoned swimming pool/converted church and catch your breath. OH YEAH, you look around and you think: It was definitely the right decision to come.
I’m not sure what the first long-distance rock trip I took was—I’m pretty sure I was planning to see the Buzzcocks in Minneapolis when I was sixteen, until the sound of that seven-hour haul was bad enough that my mom began to prefer my idea of just sneaking into the eighteen-and-over show in Chicago where I already lived. (In truth, my first away show was probably something in Wisconsin, though those of us in Chicago hardly considered that a roadtrip.)
And though roadtripping to see bands sounds like something I might’ve outgrown after college—after all those glorious “Hey, let’s leave after class and we can be in Columbus to see the Coctails by 8:00pm!” moments—in fact I have not. In fact, it remains one of the funnest things I get to do from time to time. There’s just something so much more vital and invigorating and decisive about going way out of your way to see a band you love than simply, you know, stumbling across town to see them and going to bed at a reasonable hour with your own cat. It requires a level of investment and dedication you’ve only achieved by already being a passionate fan; it requires you to hold yourself to a threshold of excitement and enjoyment that means you’re already appreciating music in a more visceral, life-changing way than maybe the next guy. And, sure. You’re a little nutty.
This past year, as I’ve re-embraced the freedom of doing whatever the fuck I want, I’ve taken even more delight in cross-checking tour schedules with baseball schedules, synchronizing out-of-town shows with the calendars of dear friends, and have generally tried to fully integrate the life of a vaguely responsible adult with the life of a 31-year-old music lover with a mostly functioning car and a flexible schedule. And you know, it has been so worth it. When a band you truly love is playing within reachable distance and you have the means to go—why wouldn’t you hop in the car? It’s not like they’re going to be around forever (or in some cases, ever play this year’s album again.) And there’s something magical, too, about giving your favourite bands more than one chance on a tour—it’s not just an opportunity to see different songs (like, dude, Sonic Youth totally opened with “Candle” in Pittsburgh) but it’s an opportunity to see how different rooms and crowds and nights affect the same material, the same artists. And if you’re seeing a band just once—they cruised past your town, you gotta see ‘em in Buffalo or something—it can feel like you’ve simply expanded the perimeter of your usable world. And that’s never a bad thing.
And I’ve had so many wonderful journeys to and from these concerts—talking with friends, reminiscing about music, trying to explain myself to customs officials—that I really hold a special category for the friends that have been passionate or game enough to join in on the fun. You know who you are, but you are especially Andy, Doug, Pete, Peter, Scott, Elena, Patrick—you dudes totally get it.
As to whether I’d have as much fun being actually on the road, that’s hard to say. I’ve driven cross-country tons of times, and I’ve driven bands to their out-of-town shows—but combining the two in a real sense is a step I’ve never taken. Now, friends of mine occasionally make the odd comment about bringing me along—but until I learn a skill with vaguely more utility than, say, official tour knitter and love-advice giver, my days on the road may still be confined to a fading Volvo. But that’s okay—so long as you all don’t mind me popping up at a show here and there and don’t secretly call me creepy for doing so—I can make do quite happily.
Ahem.
And now that you’re done reading my romanticization of a life of road construction, dirty gross rock clubs and a truly fuel-inefficient way to have a good time: please continue on to Chinese Broccoli’s first ever interview, with my good friend Andy—the only person I know who regularly makes driving eight hours roundtrip to see a good band seem about as effortless as walking to the corner for a pack of smokes.