Accidental Tour-ist: Tour Managing Elbow
Peter Finestone Friday, June 21, 2002
A couple of months ago, one week before the Coachella music festival, my mate Nick called and offered me a job driving the British band Elbow to their show in the desert. Strapped for cash and wanting to get into Coachella anyway, I agreed to arrange for transport to the gig and to act as their driver not bad, since it forced me to clean up those annual ticket violations and renew my license.
Elbow hails from the fertile music landscape of Manchester, England, home to the Doves, Badly Drawn Boy and other bands that have been coming across the Atlantic and winning over stateside audiences. In their live show, Guy, Pete, Rick, and brothers Mark and Craig deftly recreate the rich, dense sounds of their recent release Asleep in the Back. It's a grandiose, poetic soundscape that is bereft of bluster.
The band's unassuming nature belies an intense commitment to their musical vision -- and to each other. Elbow had been honing their sound and touring their asses off for eight years before Island Records signed them in 1998. The following year, Universal bought Island and Elbow was sent on their way. Refusing to drift into the sunset and give up their dreams, they continued to write and perform. They were rewarded for their tenacity when V2 stepped up to the plate and released Asleep in the Back.
Coachella went off without a hitch; I didn't get too sauced to make the one-mile drive back to the hotel, the band and I got along reasonably well, and I got to see memorable sets by both Belle and Sebastian and Mars Lavolta. Two months later I received an email from Elbow's tour manager asking if I wanted to manage the first week of their American tour with the Doves.
Tour manage? I consider myself first and foremost a musician who has trouble managing my own life, let alone a successful band that includes crewmembers and the demands of a major label. After leaving the band Bad Religion, I had some experience managing tours for the bands I played in, but that mostly consisted of leaving 20 messages on the answering machine of some kid in Oklahoma who booked shows at the local bingo hall. My reservations were multiple -- from wondering if I knew how to deal with professional promoters, to handling media requests, to making sure the band didn't take advantage of my inexperience to sucker me into padding their daily per diems and asking for money from the float. When the day arrived for me to fly up to Seattle to meet the band for the first show date, I was as nervous as fuck. I drove my dog nuts the night before by incessantly pacing and going over all the details for the hundredth time.
I quickly found out that being a tour manager for a band like Elbow means being a social interventionist, a surrogate daddy, a facilitator between the band and the infrastructure that supports them -- i.e. hotels, promoters, stage managers, label press reps -- and (least enjoyably) being the person who finesses and flatters the headliners manager in order to guarantee at least five minutes for your boys' sound check. Not to mention saying a few prayers that the headliners don't catch your crew nicking beer from their dressing room.
It is crucial that you have all your shit together. Your sole reason for being there is to keep the band and the crew from ever having to think about the above-mentioned details. If you do your job well, all the band will have to do is show up at the gig and perform their magic on stage. In the case of Elbow, the band was usually relaxed as shit, while I was hanging around sweating bullets five minutes before the show. It was only toward the end of each set that I could relax and really start to enjoy the depth of the bands performance.
So here I am on the road again, but with a job I never imagined I'd have. After the first show of the tour, the bus ride from Seattle to San Francisco takes on the feel of a manic dorm-room party. Almost everyone is drinking, smoking and grooving to Outkast, the Black Crowes, and 2Pac. I wonder if these Brits ever sleep. In San Francisco, I start to take on some roadie duties and help with the drums. At first it is a little disorienting -- my kit and hardware is streamlined and cavemanesque compared to Rick's. His Yamaha set looks standard in its four-piece setup, but has countless booms and unique Fx cymbals that shoot off at odd angles. I worry that I am fucking up and that I'll strip a stand or tangle up the chords for his click. That night I also start to assist the eccentric visuals master who uses a myriad of images and live shots of the band to create a tapestry of arresting eye candy. The show at the ornate Great American Music Hall is full of energy from both the crowd and the band. Their subtle intensity seems to hit new highs.
We reach my hometown, Los Angeles, the next morning. I'm tired and I'm not looking forward to the meet-and-greet label crap that will probably be set up before and after the show. I get numerous calls from label reps and product managers who need so-and-so on the list, with an extra pass and of course the much desired laminate. We hear that Robbie "Why am I Not Popular in the U.S.?" Williams will be at the show, along with myriad other celebrities. Yeah, I can hardly wait. Elbow's regular tour manager, Tom, is due to arrive tonight and there is part of me that hopes his plane gets delayed at Heathrow so I can continue my duties for at least a couple more nights.
Tom arrives, my cell phone is blowing up with requests from my mates, doors are opening up in 10 minutes, and my boys haven't even sound-checked. Now is the time to finesse the Dove's manager and the venue promoter. Realizing that I want Elbow to sound as good as possible for their fans and label, the moment distills exactly the necessity of a tour manager. I approach both men and before I can get out a syllable they tell me they will hold the doors for sound check. Beaming and cocky, I tell the band and their inscrutable sound person, Rose, that I got them to hold the doors. They nod their heads in approval and Tom is even there to experience the results of my diplomacy.
The doors open on time. Tom starts to usurp my role and my sense of purpose as I begin to really wish Customs had held this sweet man up for a couple days. On the big stage at the Mayan, Elbow performs a transcendent set. Sinuous, Floydesque meters change effortlessly, textures and colors dance on the screen and crescendos rise and collapse amid dynamic walls of guitar and tales of loss. They dedicate "Red" to me and their monitor man, and tonight I am stripped of any pretense of working for the band and I can enjoy simply being a fan.
I spend most of the night backstage catching up with my friends and hanging with the staff of V2, who turn out to be as big of fans of the band as I am. They seem sincere and hard working. My only noxious Hollywood moment occurs when Heather "Rollergirl" Graham smiles at me outside the club and asks me to get her and her friend into the show. Like a moron being smiled at by a pretty girl, I acquiesce. Once inside, they show no interest in checking out the band and ask me where the party is. I take back the laminates and remind myself that no night is perfect.
I wind up the tour with Elbow at the 91x festival in San Diego. I have been relegated to drum tech, but at this point I'm just glad to be able to see one more show. The bill is one of those confusing "lets put 15 bands with not much in common together to show how diverse we are" deals. Rain threatens to soak the show, but when Elbow opens up the fest, the clouds disappear and the contrast between the bright light of the sun and the melancholy musings of the band seems totally fitting. I hang out until the end, not wanting to say farewell to my new friends.
Back home in Los Angeles, I wake up the next morning with nowhere to go and nothing to do. Depression starts to creep in but I immediately get online and send email to everyone that I had met, spreading the word that I was available to tour manage again in the future. Eight days ago I was fairly clueless, with no real idea of how to be a road manager. I considered myself a musician only, but this experience galvanized me to look at other alternatives.
Tired of struggling and waiting for another break to plays drums in a successful band, I now discern that maybe Tom and Elbow had given me a new kind of break. For those of you who read this and struggle with reconciling your passion for playing music with the realities of life, there are alternatives that can be maximized. Get a gig doing tech work for a band that has a following and can pay you well. From there, try to generate more contacts for more work and also hopefully meet new people with whom you might want to play music. The work is not glamorous, but it is a means to an end. Learn all you can about your instrument, gear and other gear that doesn't resemble your own. Nothing beats preparation and being able to think fast on your feet.
If you don't think you're ready for a bigger band, start with a band where the pressure isn't as great. Pay your dues. And most importantly, play music for the love of playing, because that is what will sustain you during those insidious moments of insecurity when you just want to throw it all away and pawn your gear. If the party and fanfare ever packs up and moves to the next new thing, Elbow will still be writing great songs that give meaning to our lives -- and to theirs.
