To the Beat of My Heart

Sanctuary

Hangovers. An early start. The ugly harmony of snores at six-thirty in the morning. Tommy starts the bus and our world moves, Boston an adventure, for sure, but so many more ahead of us.

A four-hour road trip awaits, and I wrap my arm around Clay, knowing when I open my eyes, I'll wake up in Brooklyn, and another relentless day of prep before the show tonight. No weekend between us this time. You get used to it.

So, let me catch you up to speed with the basics of tour life. It can be glamorous, exhilarating, rewarding... Yeah, I'm gonna cut the shit. Save us ALL time, sister.

It's a lot of freaking hours on the road. Like, a lot.

Weekdays, weekends? Those concepts don't exist, love. Just show days, and off days. We'll get breaks, and this weekend is a bit of a happy coincidence in that we do have a mini holiday till our Monday show. These are rare, my child. Treasure them.

It's no wonder we need to stretch our legs out and hit the city streets. I was never a clubbing guy before we adopted this new lifestyle, but honestly, hitting up the local scene is extremely preferable to being cramped up on a bus long enough for your mind to go fuzzy.

Tommy sleeps from four till twelve most days, so lots of late night/early morning driving. We have anywhere from thirty, to fifty gigs a year. Used to be way more, but that was the pre-bus era. Dark times.

What, dost though ask, keeps us merry and sane through all that time on the road?

Alcohol.

Lots and lots of booze. And sleeping. Ooh, shoutout to the fifty-inch 4K TV in the lounge, the forty-six inch in our bunk, and the eighty-inch in Kai's suite. Which means he's hogging that bad boy a lot.

Honestly, drinks are our bonding time. Say all you want about Kai—and I do, at least in my head—but he can be a pretty cool dude when he puts in the effort. He'll usually call up the local brewery and they'll hook us up with a beer tap on the bus. In exchange for show tickets. If they don't have a fancy for Clay, they'll usually give them to their nieces and nephews... young people. The core demographic. Sell it second-hand, probably.

Tour goes on. In the lounge, we've got ourselves a nifty little kitchenette and fridge crammed with beer. Mostly beer. You might find some eggs, measly offerings of butter, and week-old fried rice. Get through the library of beer cans and you might just snag yourself an unexpected treat.

Which hopefully doesn't send bile rising to your throat at first whiff.

Cut to toilet.

'Cause that's the natural progression, Fletcher. I'm such a class act...

Big rule. Big, important... you do this shit and you're out. And I mean, literally. You. Do. This. Shit.

You can piss in the toilet, but if your bowels are looser than that... the bus has to stop, and that delays us, and Tommy does not look favourably upon you. Tommy is the most important person on this bus, spring chicken. So, yeah, take a shit before we hit the road.

Lots of pissing. I swear we need two toilets; it's always in use.

God, we sound like alcoholics. You'll never find any decent food in the fridge, but the fridge will never contain fewer than six beers. It's a national emergency otherwise. I have mentioned the brain cell thing, haven't I? Wouldn't know, me dumb now. Beer is me milk bottle to suck from.

Clay is the star, and we have to keep an eye on him. He can't drink heavily during tour season. Gotta watch his voice. Breaks though, he lets loose. Otherwise, a couple of beers over a week, some wine maybe, and he mostly drinks water.