I will not vomit at the radio promo event in Birmingham. Oh, the parade of double whiskies last night sure seemed like a good idea and that 4am burrito tasted suspect, but I’m a professional goddammit, a veteran of gastro-intestinal discomfort brought on by imbecilic food choices and I WILL NOT VOMIT AT THE RADIO PROMO EVENT IN BIRMINGHAM.
I didn’t vomit, but sure felt like death. At least I’m not being interviewed- our singer, who's beyond hung chowder, is barely holding on, eyes as shiny glazed as a recently zambonied hockey rink. In between songs, I duck out into the hallway just in case All Things Must Go and catch my reflection in a framed Maroon 5 poster. I’m wearing a cardigan. I shouldn't be around people.
We play “Sleep.” I’m tasked with one half of the call-and-response in the bridge, which Allen Stone fans know well. Count sheep! Drink whiskaaaaaay! I sound less thespian and more brain-craving zombie. The station folks are professional to a fault, heaping upon us unwarranted praise while we’re hoping our breath doesn’t smell too horrifically like a frat party.
There’s a time in every touring musician’s life when we have The Moment, a hopefully not rock-bottom instance where the candle comes to life and says ok, no more of this burning at both ends nonsense. I’m not in Motely Crue, thank god. My heart hasn’t stopped, I haven’t shot up in my parent's living room. None the less, in that moment, sitting down with my head in my hands, I’m aware this can’t happen again.
We musicians often define ourselves by our otherness, and I’ll happily defy convention by extending a middle finger to rock and roll cliche. I’m going to be the guy who sticks around.