Touring w/ a Band: A Handy Guide with A. Sinclair (Part 6)

It’s that time folks! We get to update you on the road travels of our friend Brendan Bond, who filled us in on the latest exploits in his life on tour with A. Sinclair and What Made Milwaukee Famous.  They’ve been traveling all over the Midwest and the South, and they’re working their way home to us.  Brendan briefly filled us in on his life today.  Here’s Mr. Bond from the road.

Don’t be afraid to admit that you’re wrong!

Being on tour often feels like the human experience amplified. Just as the low points can be overwhelmingly low, the high points can feel like towering pinnacles of achievement. So it was in Atlanta last night – we arrived, road-weary and of low morale, and played what could have been the best show of the tour. People came out, they cheered, they bought merch, they wanted an encore (which admittedly was a little weird, but who we’re we to refuse?).

It can be easy to shit all over what it is we’re doing here, as it seems like I’ve been doing this past week or so, but it’s nice to occasionally be reminded of why it is we put ourselves through all of this in the first place. Thanks, Atlanta.

Believe in yourself!

Once, I fell in love on the road. I saw her in a crowded venue in Boston; she was radiant, and we danced until closing time. I borrowed cab fare to meet her in a city park, and we laid by a fountain under an autumnal night sky until a security guard found us and kicked us out. She sailed for Puerto Rico the next day (true story, it sounds insane I know) and I never heard from her again.

Aside from that experience and spare others, meeting girls on the road is, as at home, a pretty hopeless endeavor. I mean, ladies, come on. What woman wouldn’t want the company of a sweaty, unkempt man-child with little to no financial stability and zero long-term prospects?

I swear that whenever I meet a pretty girl there is a part of me that is subconsciously desperate for self sabotage.

Me: I think that girl just looked at me. I should go talk to her.

My brain: You moron, she’s looking at the poster behind you.

Me: But she’s coming this way, and she’s smiling.

My brain: You’re sitting at the bar, fuckface. She could be walking anywhere.

Me: She just said hi and offered to buy me a drink.

My brain: Quick, act like a detached jerk!

Maybe I’ll have better luck in New Orleans (I won’t).

Song in the Van: Cowabunga Babes – Hot Babez