Bros on the road

Ryan weatherbee

I.

lead-in 

IT’S BEEN FIVE DAYS SINCE I’VE SHOWERED. It’s been 10 days since I’ve showered in a bathtub. It’s been 14 days since I’ve showered in a bathtub with running water. And, by the end of this three-week tour that I’ve embarked on with my two bands, it’ll have been 20 days since I’ve showered and didn’t feel like I immediately needed another one. 

It begins in my hometown of Buffalo, New York, serving as the departure point for my first-ever tour, traveling to a dozen states, including Florida, Kentucky, and Michigan. Our departure point is the home of our friend who’ll be coming with us to handle our merchandise. We have a show scheduled today—the first of 19 in total—and we’re running 45 minutes late. The RV (nicknamed “the Wagon”) is nowhere to be seen. Everyone panics and paces their steps in the driveway. The clouds tease a rough rain. Eventually, under those smokestack skies, our secondhand chariot comes into view: the Wagon has arrived. 

We load on our gear and get comfortable. Each side hatch of the Wagon holds specific parts of our equipment. Drums, amplifiers, guitars, and bass are strategically packed together, albeit one forgetful tug away from spilling onto a highway. Inside, the Wagon is hot and cramped. One couch, patterned with red-and purple-petaled flowers, features a black hole between the cushion and armrest, ready to swallow all loose cell phones and books. Across the couch is a booth, the window seat already occupied with someone’s belongings. The back features a giant tilted bed, packs of brandless water, and boxes of candy and chips, each snack pack with more ingredients than servings. 

There are seven of us, split between two bands: me as the bassist, guitarist/vocalist Billie, and drummer Taylor comprise a hard rock band in the style of Aerosmith, while vocalist/guitarist Cody, guitarist Owen, drummer Peter, and I are the other band, a pop-punk group like Taking Back Sunday. Ken, our collective friend, joins as the “merch guy” for our shows, handling money and shirt sales. Owen and Taylor have beanstalk bodies sprouting through their clothes. Billie is the shortest one on tour but also the most muscular, and has curtains of hair hiding his ears. Peter has a man bun atop his head, and the ends of his golden beard fray and split like chewed electrical wires. Cody is lean, with a big, broad body, while heavy-set Ken always sports a metalcore shirt. Then there’s me, with a mute tongue and chapped lips. 

Leading up to the journey, I’ve been wide-eyed, my excitement stemming from music videos I’ve seen as a kid highlighting DIY-tour life, like Fall Out Boy’s “Dead on Arrival” and Touché Amoré’s “Home Away from Here.” Clips of energetic crowds crashing into the band members as they play, audience mosh pits, and highway signs of foreign lands like New Jersey won me over in middle school—I’m expecting a similar experience on this tour. Before my first bass lesson at 13, I imagined playing Warped Tour, idolizing bands like My Chemical Romance, blink-182, and Green Day, all of whom started their careers playing small DIY tours before becoming big, household names. Even though I’m older and have grown (mostly) out of mid-2000s pop-punk, I still want to follow the path of my favorite childhood bands and embrace my teenage dream. I view this tour as the first step on the stairway to musical success, and there’s no escalator in sight.

Everyone’s collective age averages 25. As the second youngest at 20, I’m youthfully ignorant of the challenges and successes that this tour will bring. All I can do is look ahead through the front windshield. I take in the final sights of familiar territory as we leave our neighborhood. Our entrance to the thruway is near a cemetery. When I look at all those graves, I don’t realize that, unlike me, they’re the only ones who will rest in peace. 

II. 

setting the stage 

Our first official show, a house show in a small collegiate town in Philadelphia, is at The Pentajawn. The basement where we’ll play has a white tiled wall, with lines of black separating each square into equal shapes. Strands of red lights dangle near the ceiling, skinny as tree branches in winter. It’s small, barely fitting us and our equipment. The drums go into a corner while the rest of our gear fills the remaining space. Philly teenagers congregate on the stairs, fidgeting and talking. Audience conversations at murmur-level volume are amplified louder than the static buzz of our gear in the enclosed space.

Our set time arrives. It’s hot and sweaty and my hand perspires as the coarse texture of the strings digs into my fingers like wire. My grip glides along the smooth neck of the bass until I wipe my left hand on my jeans during an open note to dry it off. I can feel the rough wood driving into my palm when I bring it back. My pick slowly slips out of my right hand, and I wait for a whole note to regain control, switching to my index finger to pluck along.

In this space, the noise is deafening. The loud, clattering crash of the cymbals and the booming bass drum, along with the low growl of my amp and the high-toned leads of the guitar, leave my entire body numb. All of this works in harmony with the staring souls of the onlooking crowd, the energy, and the emotion we’re creating with unabashed honesty for visceral enjoyment, the head nods of performer and audience, the closed eyes. It’s all there, the beauty of live music, of being there in the presence of audiovisual art. During our last song before we’re back on the Wagon, I realize that the feeling of playing live out-of-state is electrifying. It’s our first real show on the road, and even though I’m becoming partially deaf, it sets the tone (which rings in my ears for the rest of the night). 

Surprisingly, a minor theft takes less than three days to occur on the Wagon. After a gig in Delaware, we mingle with a small group of college kids from the show. All of us crowd in the RV, passing the bowl filled with weed from Peter’s secret stash, which he guards with an Alcatraz level of security. Cody becomes increasingly paranoid that something will go wrong but is reassured by Peter that nothing will. When the Delaware locals vacate the Wagon, it’s determined that a few things were stolen, including a few dollars. Peter and Cody argue on the ride to Walmart, their words fueled by sleep exhaustion, weed, and a few cans of Twisted Tea. As the dispute ends and we park the Wagon, it’s discovered that a casino is nearby, but it’s 21 and over only. Some stay, and some leave. Later at night, the gamblers stumble home, recounting how much money they lost. Suddenly, the few dollars stolen from the Wagon stings a lot less than the dozens of dollars gone from a slot machine. 

iii 

dynamics and the unequal experience 

Shortly into the journey, I struggle to adapt to touring life. Outward frustrations include everyone’s insistence on blasting death metal over the speaker, the ever-increasing temperatures, and the lack of a shower. On top of that are the inward frustrations: I feel like a kid even though I’m not the youngest on this tour. Even though I play bass for both bands, I constantly realize I’m never taken seriously, an echoing sentiment that reverberates as the days pile up. Conversations directed at me typically include a parental-style smile, laugh, and almost invisible tongue-in-cheek, like a father chuckling at their child when they attempt a serious attitude. I’m the only one receiving this treatment.

The unpredictability of the tour becomes another obstacle. I constantly wonder what will happen before the show, what the atmosphere of each show will be, how many people will be there, and if we’re sleeping in a Walmart parking lot or a house that night. Engaging with people at each gig is challenging, further fueled by my introverted personality and extreme anxiety. Every so often, we’ll arrive at a venue late, forcing Cody and Owen to play acoustic, leaving me to watch on the sidelines, disappointed that the whole day led to me being an audience member, playing the bass parts in my mind while hearing the songs unfold in front of me. 

When the road gets tough, the dates on our tour lanyard look like weather advisory forecasts: possible hurricane in South Carolina? Tornado in Kansas? I’d rather be home. But, when something goes well, like playing a show as planned or staying at someone’s house, it recharges my mindset of the whole tour, making me want to bolt out of the Wagon and rush toward the next day, feeling invincible enough to weather any storm, my body supercharged with a fresh current of electricity, arms open, wanting lightning to strike me twice.

On the road, one learns that the dynamics of a small local band touring the country are complex. For every successful, well-known band that headlines arenas armed with squadrons of seven-figure vehicles with eight-inch rims, there are hundreds of other obscure groups rationing gas and money in small vans with half-deflated tires, hoping that they break even at the next show, of which there’s no guarantee—both of the show itself happening or the money being paid out. You familiarize yourself with the interiors of convenience stores and gas stations, buying all your cigarettes in Arkansas over Pennsylvania because of the state tax rate, and with the extra large coffee that always tastes bitter no matter how much Splenda or generic-brand “hazelnut” creamer you mix into your Styrofoam cup. 

When the show does happen, it isn’t without effort. Lugging bulky amps and gear up flights of stairs, arms straining and sweat dripping, discussing with the other bands as to what time everyone will be playing, trying to convince some local to let you crash at their place for the night and hoping you have an audience, even if it’s small, to watch or just listen to you play. When you mingle with the other bands before a set, you’ll always recognize a touring group by the aggressive yet comforting smells of Axe body spray and magazine-sampled Drakkar Noir. But, if it’s a local act, you’ll feel jealousy after whiffing their scents of coconut, pinewood, and cedar. 

During a show, the biggest compliment one band can give to another, besides occasional head-nodding, is sticking around for the set, which means refraining from going outside to smoke or to the bar for another drink. It’s a bonus if they approach you after your performance and tell you “good job,” like a handshake line after a kindergarten soccer game. Buying a shirt goes a long way, but for one musician to stand there and pay attention is the richest thing they can do. 

iv 

southern sound 

After a gig in Virginia and a cancellation in North Carolina, we go to Myrtle Beach for our next show. We arrive during Bike Week, an annual gathering of post-prime Gen X and semi-retired Boomers mixed in with young guns aiming to impress anybody despite the lack of muscular firepower on their arms. Rather than Schwinn, these bikes are Harley, hogs with obnoxiously loud squeals, their sounds driving directly into our ears.

The day itself is sunny and beautiful. Bart Simpson greets us on a dozen shirts, a blunt dangling from his lips, and cloudy eyes filled with little red rivers. Novelty clothes, sand, tribal tattoos, and copyright infringement are aplenty. We venture shirtless and shoeless through the beach waters, taking in the sights of a Ferris wheel atop the boardwalk, the smell of excessively applied sunscreen, and the sound of skin sizzling with tanning oil. I keep my body covered with a black Joy Division shirt, looking like a fish out of Myrtle Beach water baking in the sun.

Continuing our descent south, the most memorable show of the entire tour comes at Shanghai Nobby’s, a dive bar near the water in St. Augustine, Florida, the town (and state, really) a melting pot of Margaritaville castaways and wrinkle-ravaged retirees. Taylor places his drum set on the small elevated “NOBBYS” platform while Billie and I plant ourselves in front. Our stage is in a back corner of the bar, the wall behind us aglow with “Miller Lite” and “Budweiser” in corporate cursive. 

After our set, a man in a business suit approaches us with a proposition: $100 for three more songs. As I exchange looks with my bandmates, he pulls out the money, proving it’s real. We look at Cody, wanting to avoid cutting into his set time, but he motions us to play. We fulfill the request, and the man returns with the money and another proposition: $100 for two more songs. It’s another no-brainer for us. In the distance, the headlining band looks at us with flames in their eyes, clearly frustrated about our infringement on their playing time. But when you’re on the road, and someone points money at you like a cowboy with a pistol telling you to play on, you play on.

The owner of Nobby’s gives us another twist. He allows us to sleep in the bar. He also permits us to take whatever alcohol we want “within reason.” Some of us snooze in the Wagon while Owen sleeps atop the pool table, his long legs extending over the edge, resembling a body on a gurney. Taylor sleeps on the “NOBBY’S” platform, his wooden plank mattress and thin-sheeted blanket offering little comfort, the Miller Lite neon sign serving as his nightlight. Even though we’re both fully wired and plugged in, my phone sleeps better than I do. The $200 gets the best sleep out of all of us, cozy in a ripped leather wallet. 

v 

sleep, food, and drink accommodations 

A show’s “before” and “after” are equally important. If locals don’t offer us shelter for a night, we typically begin and end our days in a Walmart lot, with the Wagon sitting inside capital-H yellow parking lines. If possible, we plug into an outdoor power outlet to have air conditioning. Showers are best taken at night, preferably in the bathroom in the farthest back of the store, so the sink isn’t crowded with stray hands, and you don’t get dirty (or, in this case, clean) looks from others. Other options include a Poland Spring shower or rubbing your skin with baby wipes. It all depends on how you feel (and smell). 

The current location determines what we eat for breakfast and dinner. Lunch, and a regular healthy diet, is given up in sacrifice to the tour gods in exchange for a sampler platter of the country’s best cuisine. In a Florida dive, we rejuvenate our energy with breakfast tacos and hot sauce. We experience the joy (and horror) of early AM Waffle House for the first, second, and fifth time in southern Georgia, Arkansas, and Kentucky. We marvel at the endless menu of Cookout and embrace our inner Harold and Kumar by sliding into White Castle. We eat a decadent feast at Sticky Pete’s Barbecue in Kansas City, Missouri, where $60 secures us their all-meat sandwich. Nicknamed “The Stack,” it features the usual smokehouse delicacies of pork, chicken, and brisket, all piled high on a submarine roll, the bread serving as a flimsy sponge absorbing all the sauce, grease, and flavor. 

After finding food, the other element needed for everyone’s survival on the road is alcohol. The visual cue to restock is discovering a carcass of a 30-pack on the Wagon floor. The drink of choice is Sailor Jerry, a rum contained in a small cannonball, complete with a wooden plug. The tour mantra for everybody became, “We can’t set sail unless we have the Sailor!”

The main problem, which increases in prevalence as the tour continues, is alcohol. I am 20 years old, one (literal) number away from being served, emphasized by the big “UNDER 21” text above my license picture like a REDRUM-style warning, scaring bartenders from serving me. However, the presence of alcohol flows all around me. This is exacerbated by the fact that everyone drinks at shows, even more so at a house show, with an “open bar” of PBR and Bud Light stashed in someone’s cooler. Even at our pre-show stops, no matter where, if there’s a bar, there’s the band with their license and credit card combo, while I keep my wallet shut because water doesn’t require anything but a cup.

Belligerency becomes the standard behavior on the Wagon, fueled by the constant consumption of Rolling Rock, Twisted Tea, and Sailor Jerry’s. Almost everyone uses their Myrtle Beach souvenir cup as a vehicle for transporting booze to mouth. Day drinking on the way to a show is the norm, with some getting well past buzzed when we arrive at a venue. While I have the choice to drink, it’s my age, my anxiety about potentially getting caught by some outside force, and my dislike for liquor and beer that push me to sobriety (aside from occasional cannabis consumption) for the tour. It’s a challenge to ignore the feelings of isolation that constantly creep into my mind from being the only sober soul, even though it’s (mostly) self-inflicted. I could drink, but if something were to happen, what then?

The alcohol has an almost deadly effect in Kansas. At a show at the Donut Hole, Taylor starts sweating, looking like death. We cancel our set and rush to the Wagon, placing him on the couch. We all think he’s dying but conclude he must be hungover from the half bottle of tequila he drank 24 hours ago. We debate calling his parents or locating a hospital, but our medical expertise leads us to leave him be and let him flush it out through sheer agony. 

The next day at Walmart, another cannonball is purchased. Taylor personally scans it at the self-checkout. 

vi 

forced detour (to stop) 

The Wagon wields battle scars, both visible and invisible to the human eye. One mile, an older man sideswipes us in Oklahoma (and Peter throws our bag of weed into a nearby bush to avoid potential cop questioning), and another mile, one by one, our tires explode. We learn to prepare for the worst. After three of our Wagon wheels kiss the dust, we constantly question the status of the fourth tire. We use the equation of excessive southern heat, heavy mileage, and general lack of safe driving to determine where it will happen: Michigan. Wrong! The answer is in the Norman Rockwell farmland of rural Alabama. 

Panicking, we steady the Wagon, riding on three tires, holding the steering wheel like the reins to a hobbling horse, until we’re in front of the only house for miles. An Alabama University flag on the front lawn waves wildly, serving like a lighthouse in these rough, rural lands. We’re silent as we knock on the front door, listening for footsteps. Our only hope for help lies within those four walls. Finally, the door opens, putting us face-to-face with an elderly couple, both retired grandparents. 

After being invited into their home, we all sit pretzel-style on the elderly couple’s living room carpet, telling them our tire dilemma. The grandmother gives us little Styrofoam cups of homemade vanilla ice cream, as the grandfather calls a friend, who happens to be a car technician. We watch the news on their bubble-screen TV to pass the time until the tech comes. The grandfather sits atop his orange-leather throne and tells us about the pictures of his grandkids on the wall, including a peewee football player and a law school student. 

The technician arrives with a wrench and begins work on the Wagon. Immediately, sweat stains spread under his arms, with the cloudless sky hanging high. As we wait, we look down the road at the remnants of our busted tire, curling in the humid heat like a cat’s tail. When we look back to the Wagon, the tech is done. We worry about the possible pricing and pray for a reversal of our Georgia fortunes when our third tire burst on Memorial Day weekend, leaving us to pay a “Holiday Tourist Special” from an auto shop (which was anything but peachy).

Another miracle arrives. Aided by kind words from the grandfather, the tech gives us a steep discount, replacing our tire for a low three-digit sum. The tech goes his way, and we go ours, thanking the grandparents for their generous display of hospitality. We wave at them, and they wave back, aided partly by Alabama University. 

vii 

the end of the tour 

The rest of the tour flies. We end with a string of shows in Indiana, Michigan, and then our last two gigs in Ohio before heading home. When the final date arrives, this one in a basement next to a sorority house, we all realize how close we are to pulling this tour off. After everything we’ve been through with the tires, the canceled shows, the rising tensions, and our lowered tolerance of each other, we’re almost done. With the finish line ahead, we pull out all the stops in our performances. 

Waking up the day after the last show feels like Christmas, except replace the snow mounds with broken beer bottles, and replace your parents in bed with Cody snoring away, even with propulsive shakes. Finally, once we’re all awake, we hit the thruway, stopping at a Chick-fil-A for a quick breakfast. With us hunched over a small table, devouring chicken sandwiches and coffee, someone jokes about a tire possibly blowing out before we cross into New York. Laughter erupts as if we didn’t want to kill each other a few days prior. Our food tastes better than it should, as if we appreciate it more, knowing our time together is ending.

The Wagon shoots down the highway like a comet, leaving behind a trail of exhaust fumes. Buffalo greets us with its skyline, the buildings reaching the heavens, and the billboards of car crash and injury attorneys watching us obliterate the speed limit. “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” by The Proclaimers plays through the overhead speaker, and we all sing along, off-key. I recognize the highway exits, displaying distance in half-miles, lacking the “3 3/4” SAT-style information of New Jersey. Cody’s house gets closer and closer, every red light an obstacle, every traffic jam another delay until we get back home, back to our neighborhood, back to normal. 

Everyone’s parents meet us at Cody’s house like a mob of reporters wanting an inside scoop, clamoring at us about everything we’ve been through. We’re all hounded with questions by the parental paparazzi, which we answer in hurried, half-formed sentences as we unload our gear and clothes from the Wagon. I pack everything into my mom’s car, thinking of nothing but my home and bed. She (loudly) voices her disapproval at my orange and purple painted nails, an impulse decision in Kansas. Her comments are soundtracked to an 80s on 8 radio station she keeps on repeat. We turn down a street. Home is now within walking distance. “(500 Miles)” emits from the speakers. 

viii 

encore 

After the tour, my band with Billie and Taylor concludes unceremoniously. My friendship with the former stays strong, but the latter becomes a Pynchonesque hermit. I leave Cody’s band, while Owen leaves permanently, fed up with the constant teasing from Cody and Peter. They continue their tours in three-day sprints rather than week-long marathons, armed with a new guitarist, Luke, and a rotating selection of bassists. 

I form a new band and audition for another, but as the months go on, everything falls through. I lose interest in starting over with fresh faces and dedicating time that becomes tougher to come by as I work toward finishing my final year of college. Disillusionment opens my eyes as my teenage dream disappears. My band with Billie, which lasted almost 10 years, lost all momentum, missed its window of opportunity, and sputtered into oblivion from a perfect mix of frustration and futility. Out of disappointment, I grow into familiar passions, rekindling my interest in creative writing and reading literary fiction. I engage more with a pen and paper than a pick and bass. But, between the short stories and stacks of books is another love I can’t shake, a love that broke my heart, a love that I’ll never leave.

After one year, I rejoin Cody’s band and go on their short weekend journeys to Ohio and Pennsylvania. Now that I’m past the legal drinking age and have acquired a taste for cheap domestic beers, the tours with Cody’s band become less challenging, especially since I know they’re only for a weekend. I learn to become more adept at living on the road, acclimating to the challenges of each new day. Mentally, the switch from “making a living out of this” to “making a weekend out of this” helps the tours go down easy. 

However, my isolation still lingers even though I’m connected with everyone through the Brotherhood of the Traveling 30-Pack. The other members constantly discuss previous tours with the other bassists. Every sentence is like a hand reaching into a bottomless grab bag of stories, pulling out another new tale about a random state. The constant, close proximity to the other members and their conversations exacerbates my loneliness. Whether we’re at a restaurant, hanging before a show, or driving around, the stories never end, and I constantly feel like a kid looking up at them, listening to an adult conversation about things way over my head and about topics and places I can’t grasp. Frustration festers within me, but to settle it, I try to adopt an optimistic viewpoint: with every new show we play and every new song we create, an opportunity arises to make a new story, to give me something to anticipate and reminisce on. Two stories forward, one story back.

When the conversation does shift to our first tour, I keep the most impactful moment to myself, a private fountain of youth that I fully submerge myself within. After our Greensboro, North Carolina show was canceled, we parked the Wagon in the lot of an abandoned YMCA, with great glass windows offering a peek into its vacant interior. In the middle of the night, we camped atop a grassy hill near the lot, sat in a circle, and passed around a bowl that always seemed full. Yo La Tengo’s album “And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside-Out” plays in my single earbud, its low-key, nocturnal nature perfectly matching the night’s vibe. The album artwork of a man in the nighttime, staring up at a skyward beam of light, houses teasing toward the edge of wilderness, offers a visual reminder of what that moment in N.C. felt like. 

On that hill, I’m hit with overwhelming emotion. I don’t want the night to end. Sitting under the stars on the soft, slightly damp grass, hanging with some of my closest friends, sharing this moment like we share the bowl. We’re a bunch of guys in our early-and mid-20s, basking in the ignorance of how we’ll all be led in different directions in a handful of years. Even though I’m clueless about the future challenges of the rest of this tour, it’s this moment when we’re like the sky above us, free and open and spreading across the country, when I realize the value of this adventure. This tour will connect us, for better or worse, for the rest of our lives. And that’s something, no matter how many showers you take, that cannot be washed away.