When it All Goes South: 24 Hours of Disasterous Drinking On Tour
This week's Dallas Observer is our Drinking Issue, featuring reviews, columns and 24 hours of drinking in Dallas. For the music section, we asked a few DFW musicians to share their drinking stories. Here's the first.
The strange life on the open road.
Many artists are afflicted/blessed with some form of mood/personality disorder.
What do people with mood/personality disorders need to stay level? Medication, and many people choose alcohol. That's a tricky answer, because it tends to enhance both happiness and stress.
Being a touring musician involves a lot of both, and moving from one to the other quickly. Things can devolve quickly for a self-medicating musician. Here's how:
By D Diamonds
11 a.m.: I wake up on a living room floor, a cot in a motel room (for the fourth week running) or a clean motel bed if I'm lucky. My bandmates are all nearly 10 years older than me, so I always take the cot. I wear it as a badge of sacrificial merit.
Despite my habits, I am the first one up. I relieve myself stealthily and stare at the mirror to gauge physical and mental anguish. I drink some coffee, get some motel breakfast, maybe a little hair of the dog if the previous night was a slobberknocker.
I attempt to rustle up the rest of the band, fail at that, and take a shower thinking about the bartender from last night.
Noon: For the first half of the van ride, we crack a lot of jokes, jive about the previous night's show or antics, argue about where to get lunch (Furr's? Perkin's?). I ask for my per diem in advance in order to pay for lunch. I like to drive, so I drive. Most people don't. Another honor point.
For the second half of the van ride, we sit silently, try to read or sleep, stare at a phone or laptop, or wonder what a woman is doing.
I think about the bartender from last night. I wonder how well I am dealing with being the only drinking member of a five-piece band. I wonder how these quiet hours, when the musicians silently turn inward and dark, drive the extremely neurotic aspects of the performance.
6 p.m.: We arrive at the venue. Considering the show and post-show will last until 2 or 3 in the morning, time is ample. I get out of the van in the God-chosen seasonal elements, open the trailer and help unload all of the heavy equipment while sweating like a fat kid in a North Korean labor camp. Going from the glaring sunset to the dank and cavernous atmosphere of a club is a disorienting feeling. The first thing I see is the liquor. Just seeing the bottle is enough to set the synapses ablaze.
One nice thing about alcohol is that it creates familiarity. No matter if you're in a ballroom in New York, a converted bunker in Moscow or a shithole in Toledo, a shot of whiskey can conjure that warm, fuzzy, familiar feeling. For a brief moment, I'm back in Dixie. Anxiety dips. Endorphins shoot up. But it's just medicine.
Let me digress: Depending on your level of alcohol tolerance, you may be able to drink up until the show and play normally or even excel. Good on you. For the rest of the population (myself included), spending all day getting fucked up before you play only serves to make us think we are playing better. In reality, we're just sweating more, playing more sloppily, and probably disappointing our bandmates. No matter what, be aware. People will know. Unless your liver is made of the same leather as your boots, you will stick out like a sore thumb.
Is there a happy middle ground? Can someone have just a few beers before the show? Probably.
Can I, an alcohol-dependent musician mind-fucked by two weeks of sleeping on a cot, constant travel, late nights, and psychosocial stressors? Um, no.