Bellows Tour Diary #1: Philly Through Nashville

The first leg of a full US Tour.

Readers of Bandcamp Daily or Twitter followers of minor label indie rock musicians will know what I say next to be true: tour diaries are back baby! But instead of hiring some other writer with a Substack to cover my band, I’m going to cut out the middle man and write my own. Losing all of those Fortnite subsidies is a shame, but that’s the price of taking matters into your own hands.

Day 0: Brooklyn

Tour begins with packing. Packing requires laundry. Space is at premium, so wardrobe options must be considering carefully. Packing in advance also requires foresight about your reading list. I planned on bringing Dune Messiah and Three-Body Problem. Something about hurtling across the country in a metal tube inspired a sci-fi mode, I guess. But after cracking open Dune Messiah five days ahead of liftoff I had to recalculate. The book simply went down too easily. Coming off of Frantz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth, reading Dune Messiah felt like going down a slip-and-slide. Fully aware that I would finish it before I got in the van I had to switch it out for One Hundred Years of Solitude. Sci-fi consistency sacrificed for greater edification, at the price of centimeters of backpack space

Tour is a routine of packing and unpacking. Our final practice is as much a rehearsal of how to load our equipment into the car as it is of the music we plan on playing. Invocations of Tetris. This is why my bandmates are much more enthusiastic about my new hardware bag than my new snare drum. Most of the real work on tour happens before and after we play. How to best get our gear into the venue, contending with stairs, busy employees, parking spaces, keeping an eye out for gear snatchers. Then performing the whole process in reverse, making sure not to leave any gear behind. Double and triple checking. Calling out to each other with progress updates. Every night we refine our process. Does this amp fit better on this side of the car or that one? Four complete lines makes a Tetris.

Day 1: Philadelphia

The first drive never feels like a real drive. Oliver (Vocals, guitar) jokes that Philly is easier to get to than Williamsburg by car. It is hot as hell. On our way we listen to Steve-O interview former Blink 182 singer Tom Delonge on his podcast. After some fun banter about skateboarding and smuggling weed through an airport Delonge quickly nosedives the conversation into a breathless rant about UFOs, telepathy, manifesting reality, multi-dimensional beings, yada yada. Near the end of the podcast Delonge lets it slip that he’s a CIA asset. Guess they told him what was right after all!

The show is at PhillaMOCA, a reworked mausoleum decked out with David Lynch themed artwork on every wall. The sound guy plays post-punk and goth dance tunes exclusively between bands. The show is our first of five with Addy, a band split between Philly and Richmond.

There is a hard curfew for noise pollution reasons, so we keep our set short. While goblin-scrounging for a meal before our set I see a mural of the words “It was all a dream” and feel a tinge of territorial possessiveness. Sorry, that’s our over-cited dad rap anthem. Get your own. That night we crash at a friend’s house, empty of its own touring musician occupants. Their cat immediately makes friends with all of us. A copy of The Wretched of the Earth sits on top of a copy of Gravity’s Rainbow. Hell yeah dude. The next morning we get coffee at a hip spot in West Philly. Anarchist slogans and symbols cover the walls. One piece of graffiti reads “No Flags, No Teams”. Someone with a thicker pen had scrawled “Go Birds!” next to it.

Day 2: Richmond

The first real drive, skirting along the edge of the hellish vortex of D.C. traffic. I experience my first case of tour deja vu when we pass a Mexican restaurant where we ate on our last drive down south. That last drive we blasted Jethro Tull’s Aqualung on Frank’s (keyboard, backing vocals, sampler) insistence. This time Oliver puts on Yes.

Our show is on the second floor of a three-floor complex built like a maze. Loading in is a Scooby-Doo worthy farce of amps bursting in and out of doors in every direction. The owner of the joint introduces himself and tells us that he’s seen bands go from this room to festival stages in a well meaning gesture of encouragement likely intended for a band ten years our junior. Well, at least we look young.

After soundcheck, Frank, Jack (bass, backing vocals, Ableton) and I wander the neighborhood and end up killing time at an arcade. Jack busts out his old DDR skills. I indulge my inner child and play a few lives of a light gun game. The three of us cap off the digression with a three player round of Centipede.

Back at the venue. While I’m warming up backstage I hear Frames, the band playing before us, abruptly stop a song short. Turns out someone fainted from what sounds like a seizure. Swift help from the crowd and the band gets the guy safely out of the venue and into fresh air. The show resumes. We learn the guy who fainted is doing ok. We win over the sound guy.

While loading out a drunk guy with a chinstrap beard tries to start a conversation with me about playing drums. He says he wishes he still played but these days he makes beats on his computer. I tell him that “still counts” and he seems to agree. He tries to extend the conversation a hair too long by asking who my biggest influence is. I tell him “Gavin Harrison” as I push a gear bag into the back of the car. He yells “Ok!” in a politely enthusiastic tone that tells me he has no idea who that is. We drive an extra three hours that night down to Durham to save time on the next day’s drive. We spend one of those three hours cry-laughing at Tough Language by The Derberts, a comedy band made up of some of Frank’s friends.

Day 3: Asheville

For breakfast, it’s Bo time.

Perceiving Asheville to be a baseball agnostic town, I bust out my Mets Jersey. At a gas station I accidentally put my Northwest Terror Fest branded mask upside down, un-inverting the cross and inverting the outline of the state of Washington, rendering me a Christian with a bone to pick with Cascadia. Frank points out that this might not be such a bad mistake to repeat in future southern gas stations. When we make it into Asheville it only takes a few blocks for someone to yell “Go Braves” at me from the safety of their truck. The universe balances out when I run into a woman in a Jets shirt who excitedly tells me how ahead the Mets are in the day’s game unprompted. After a few days of chicken sandwiches I make a point of eating a big vegan dinner. Our show is at Static Age, a record store with a makeshift stage and a powerful smoke machine. For our whole set the only audience member I can see is Neil from Terror Pigeon in the front row. I take it on faith that the rest of the crowd are enjoying themselves as well. After the show we stay up late with our host, drinking beers on the porch while country radio echoes into the night.

Day 4: Nashville

Our host is the first to have a set of free weights lying around, so I make a point to wake up early and work out. I listen to a baseball podcast. I am slowly allowing myself to believe in the Mets again, and that means learning about the rest of the league. This feels good and right.

At breakfast I order a cold brew that scrambles my brain for most of the drive from North Carolina to Tennessee. Once we cross over the state border we take a break at a rest stop with a life size Dolly Parton cut out. I embarrass myself at two consecutive vending machines, forcing a completely mute attendant to point out every mistake I make in order for me to enjoy my beef jerky and vitamin water with my tail between my legs. Tennessee is the first state where I can feel my yankee-ness grate against the fabric of reality. I hate being perceived as a tourist, which make opening my mouth to speak a harrowing prospect in these parts. Once we make it into Nashville proper we pass by the campus of Belmont College. Memories flood to the front of my mind. Belmont College was one of the art schools I toured when I was in high school. It did not make a good impression. That night back in 2007 my Mom and I ate BBQ on Nashville’s main drag where every bar featured its own country band. At the time I found the sight disturbing, like looking at an assembly line at a factory. Now I think back and see a whole lot of steady gigs.

For lunch we stop at Bolton’s Spicy Chicken and Fish. On a previous Bellows tour, before I joined, Oliver and Frank both tried the medium hot sandwich and have since described the experience in psychedelic terms. I go with mild and it still sends me into a sweat-spiral. Addy’s drummer Kurt signs his own death warrant and orders Extra Spicy. He makes it about two bites in before he taps out, claiming he can feel the heat all the way in his fingers and ears. Frank takes up the the rest of the plate. Addy films an impromptu hot ones style interview with Frank as the moisture escapes his body from every direction.

Our show is at DRKMTTR, a hole in the wall DIY spot with a cheerful staff and an incredible collection of VHS tapes that play behind the bar. It’s our last show with Addy and we all make promises to get breakfast in the morning before they head back up to Richmond and we drive south to Texas. After the show we sleep at our friend’s in Bleary’s house where their very fluffy tailless cat gives me a warning scratch when I attempt to pat his butt. Message received, big man.

Next week: Bellows tackles Texas.

8/8 - Denton, TX @ Rubber Gloves

8/9 - Austin, TX @ Hotel Vegas

8/11 - Tucson, AZ @ Groundworks Tucson

8/12 - Phoenix, AZ @ Trunk Space

8/13 - Los Angeles, CA @ Silverlake Lounge

8/16 - Oakland, CA @ Elbo Room

8/17 - Arcata, CA @ Outer Space

8/18 - Portland, OR @ Turn! Turn! Turn!

8/19 - Seattle, WA @ Vera Project

8/22 - Duluth, MN @ Prove

8/23 - Minneapolis @ Icehouse

8/24 - Iowa City, IA @ The Close House

8/25 - Chicago, IL @ The Hideout

8/26 - Cleveland, OH @ Cleveland Art Workers

8/27 - Washington D.C. @ Quarry House Tavern