Sun Valley, ID – “Touring with Dad, What it’s Like” – Sept 20, 2001

As I evaluate all I’ve accomplished over my five years on the road, I can’t help but feel disappointed.  Have I done what I set out to when I first sat down with Fausta? My therapist and I met weekly in the summer of 1997 and, sitting in her shack one day I asked her if it was nuts for me to consider a career in music.

I’d been in a plane accident recently in Peru, and the scare had prompted some deep reflection on my future.  Fausta didn’t think music was an altogether terrible idea to pursue music. But she wanted to know what my goals were.

“I want to archive the music I’ve written. When I went down on that plane, I thought of all those songs I’d written that I never gave birth to. I want to archive those songs, give them bodies.”

“OK, will you look for a record deal?” Fausta was contemplative.

” I want to try to do it on my own. I don’t want to sign a record contract. I want to learn what I can about the music industry and then maybe I’ll start my own label — One that develops artists and educates them about how to make it on their own.”

“Why?” asked Fausta thoughtfully, her moth-eaten sweater falling off one shoulder.

“I want to inspire young musicians. So many think they need to get signed to make it. I want them to know it’s possible to make it on their own. I’ve seen so many labels screw artists and I want musicians to know there’s another way. They don’t have to sign away their ownership or publishing or souls to be successful.”

“Ok, good. Those sound like really meaningful, solid goals. What are you worried about?”

“I’m worried I’ll be tempted to sign a deal—that it’ll be too hard, that I’ll get addicted to applause and lose sight of my values, that my ego will end up in the driver’s seat.”

“Ya, that would suck,” she said laughingly, “but I think we can put some measures in place to ensure your road to success stays in line with your values, and we can create an evacuation plan if the shit hits the fan.” The scaffolding we came up with was as follows:

1. I shouldn’t be tempted to take the same path my parents had. 
2. I should never take good reviews or applause as an indication of success. The thinking was that if I believed the good reviews, I’d also believe the bad reviews, and it would skew my vision of success.
3. If at any time your ego gets in the driver’s seat, don’t be afraid to “Jump Ship!”

Recalling these measures now, I wish I could return to Fausta’s shack through the woods, hug my former shelf, take her out to breakfast and suggest a career in theoretical physics. “It’ll only take an additional four years of school,” I’d say, “and just think of the marvelous insights you’ll have along the way to pondering the Grand Unifying Theory.”  But it’s too late, and from here, five years later, on dad’s bus, exhausted and worried about the state of the world, I can’t help but think I’ve failed my twenty-three-year-old self as I size up my miniscule accomplishments next to my ol’ man’s. 

His tour experience is nothing like mine. Well, almost nothing.

For one, his band travels in a bus with bunk beds and DVD players and a refrigerator with yummy snacks in it while their equipment rides in a separate truck. My band drives in a van (Moby) where there’s a cooler with warm sodas and one neck pillow to go around for the 5 of us, plus we fit all our equipment in one trunk.

We stay in the same type of hotels, my dad and I, only we get 2 rooms while dad gets 50.

My dad’s band sleeps in bunk beds with TVs and VCRs in them while a driver drives them through the night to their next gig. I sleep on a bench with 2 other guys, my ponytail pinned under my guitar player’s ass to a hotel, post-show. Then we wake up at 7 am and drive all day long to our next gig.

My dad’s got two people to run his sound. One to fix his stage speakers and another to run the front-of-house sound. We’ve got a road manager who’s also our primary driver, who’s also the monitor engineer and also runs the front of house sound.

Pop’s band’s got a room for “Hospitality.” We’re lucky if we’ve got a table with a couple of tea bags on it.

The JT bus has a toilet on board. Our closest bathroom is a Denny’s at the ‘next exit.’

The members of my dad’s band each have their own changing rooms. Our changing rooms are the ‘men’s’ and the ‘ladies’ restrooms.

The only writing on the walls backstage with my dad, are placards with the names of the different band members on them. The writing on our walls reads “I _____ your mother in the back of my van SUCKER!!!”

But my failures are less about my ability to make a name for myself and more about the the following:

1. I have not taken the path my parents took to stardom, and yet I’m comparing myself to them. 
2. Somewhere along the line, I let good reviews and applause be the measure of success instead of what I’d originally set out to accomplish and
3. I burnt myself out yet am unwilling or unable to look at how much my ego had taken control of the steering wheel.

What seems clear is this—I need to re-evaluate everything—need to sit down and inventory what I’ve gained and all I’ve lost to this musical adventure.  I need time off the road, to peel back the layers of soot and set lists and sections of highway and really take a look under the hood.  I need time to sleep and fall deeper in love with Dean and not think about the road….

But man I wish I had a fridge in the van…it wouldn’t suck to have the driver, either…and maybe a couple more neck pillows. Yeah, that’d be nice.