Over the Rhine Tour Diary
Dave Nixon (the Merch Guy)
Day One: November 29, 2000
It's Wednesday, and this $600,000 tour bus is about 100 miles northwest of Madison, Wisconsin, hemmed in on this mostly empty highway by trees, fields, dells blanketed lightly in snow. The sky is overcast and it's way colder than it was about twelve hours ago when we left beautiful, downtown West Norwood for the first show in Minneapolis. There are nine of us in this temporary family. Linford and Karin; Jack Henderson; Terri Templeton; Dale Baker, the drummer from Sixpence None the Richer; Chris Donohue, a bassist from Nashville; Mike Sponarski (Spinner) and John Farnsworth (Farns), crew met through the Cowboy Junkies; and then myself, the Merch Guy. The bus driver, nicknamed Big, makes ten. When Karin first introduced me to him, she pointed out that our lives were in his hands.
People have been pulling themselves out of bed over the course of the last hour. I was the first one awake, then came Chris. He's reading a book I've wanted to read for a while now: From Dawn to Decadence, by Jaques Barzun. It looks heavy enough to keep you planted in a windstorm. Jack is sitting across from him drinking coffee from a thin plastic cold cup and eating cookies. This is quintessential Jack. Linford, the third one up, typing across from me on his sleek Apple PowerBook. He looks earnest. Spinner, who owns a PowerBook, walks in, sees Linford's computer and my iBook, then nods approvingly at the Apple hegemony. He and Farns are just trying to get their bearings on life, but they warm up quickly. And now Terri has emerged from the catacombs, looking as elegant and friendly as ever, on the prowl for coffee. From the cockpit, the busdriver is playing "Don't Stop Believing" by Journey. Terri rolls her eyes, smiles, and says, "We're having a bus moment." Jack chimes in, "America's produced some great stuff, but they've also produced this." And now Farns has pulled out his own laptop, non-Apple. Spinner lights into him, letting out a stream of mock insults for having such a primitive, ghastly machine. Farns returns a verbal jab and the duel takes off. They seem to feed off each other and the repartee is seamless, their voices veering off into a great Bob and Doug impression that leaves everyone laughing. I have a feeling that this Mac-Windows debate is a long-standing one between the two. A few minutes later and Farns is showing Spinner a wide variety of photos downloaded to his computer, scenes from a tour with Jewel.
Still no sign of either Karin or Dale.
It's getting whiter and woollier outside. The overcast sky, the thickening woods, and the deepening snow lend a womb-like quality to the world. Snow is falling. It's peaceful beyond the windows and relaxed inside.
The tour bus. Long. So very long. There are four distinct regions to it. First comes the driver's compartment, which is separated from the rest by two black plastic curtains joined at the middle with velcro. His compartment looks like the cockpit of an airplane. There's even GPS device mounted on the dashboard. I made him coffee this morning and when I asked him how he liked it, he said apologetically: "I like whuss coffee. Three or four packs of sugar and lots of milk." He also likes country music, which isn't so surprising since he grew up in West Virginia and now lives in Nashville. Last night I asked him to name some people he's driven around: Loretta Lynn, 98s, Gypsy Kings, Pam Tilis, 112, Statler Brothers, The Wilkinsons, Placebo, MXPX, Greenday, Taj Mahal. His next gig was supposed to be Snoop Doggy Dog, but he asked to do the OtR Pittsburgh / New York.
The second zone of the bus is the front lounge. It has a long couch on the driver side which could seat five people. On the passenger side is a love seat followed by a small breakfast-type nook made up of a table and two booth seats. There's enough room in this section to fit nine people fairly tightly, six with lots of elbow room. The rest of the lounge contains a bathroom, a small kitchen equipped with a fridge, microwave, coffee pot, and lots of other little amenities. The windows in the lounge are big, and there are mirrors on the ceiling, surrounded by little BB-size lights that give it a Las Vegas vibe. If they only flashed and circled the mirror I might have an unconscious urge to bet the farm on something. Why anyone would want to look up at themselves in these mirrors is beyond me. My guess is that they create the illusion of more space and reflect the light of the windows better.
And then there are the TVs. A big 24-inch screen in the lounge area, another one of equal size all the way in the back, and then another ten TVs in the bunk area (more on that in a second). And every TV has its own VCR. Twelve TVs, twelve VCRs in all. Everyone can be in her or his own private world of viewing. I've heard that more people are bowling than ever these days, but league bowling has declined. People prefer to bowl alone. All these TVs would, I think, corroborate that desire to be alone. Maybe this bus is a microcosm of the way life feels beyond it: crowded.
Adjoining this lounge are the catacombs. A narrow, dark hallway with bunks on either side. Six bunks on the left and six on the right. Imagine yourself facing a very, very large dresser with two rows of drawers each going three deep. That's the layout. One large dresser on the left side of the hallway, one on the right. The lower bunks are ground level. You could roll from the bed right into the hallway. The upper bunks are the most challenging. To climb up, you have to place a foot on the edge of the middle bunk and use it as the rung of a ladder. When the bus is moving the maneuver can be tricky. I have visions of slipping and shoving my foot right into Linford's face, maybe crushing his beautiful hands. We've known each other for seven years, but a misstep like that could put a serious strain on the relationship. Before turning in last night, Linford reminded me to position my feet toward the front of the bus: "You don't want your head in that direction if the driver has to slam on the brakes." I don't want to think about that. The middle bunks are the easiest to get into. Just plant your butt on the edge and lie down. The cognoscenti snapped up the middle bunks early.
More on the bunks. Each on has a reading light, and ten of the twelve have TVs with VCRs at the foot of the bunk. There's enough room to lie down, but not much else. Yet they're comfortable, and you can turn from side to side without banging your head against the ceiling. For privacy you simply draw together two thick, opaque, shower-like curtains, and join them at the velcro tabs. Tucked away behind the curtain you live in darkness, never knowing whether it's night or day.
Jack just found an American football lying on the floor and is wondering who brought it along. He says that someone sat on it too long and flattened it out. He looks at the Canadians when he says this and the three of them share a joke that they understand more deeply. Enter Karin. It's 10:30 a.m. She goes into the bathroom. A minute later she comes out and says, "Somebody here doesn't know about the toilet paper rule. Just a reminder: no paper in the toilet." She looks around at us five guys, but no one owns up to the sin. (FYI: the bathroom is just for peeing in. Rest areas and truck stops are the dumping grounds, but there are enough stops along the way that it's never a problem.)
Karin knows about traveling on buses. She gave me some packing and traveling tips a day or so before leaving, noting, "The most important item is earplugs. Be sure to bring earplugs. And if you forget anything at all, see me." I'm comforted knowing that I have a surrogate mom and nurse a few feet away.
At a rest stop Karin is the only one to get off, certainly just for some "fresh air." Before exiting the bus, she tells Linford, "Remember that I'm not on the bus," translated, "Don't leave without me." Linford nods silently and keeps on typing. Karin hesitates, looks a little uncertain, and then turns to Farns: "I think I should tell a second person. Farns, please remember that I'm not on the bus." I observe and figure there are instances of bands showing up for gigs only to realize that one member is a hundred or more miles away and mad as hell. Farns confirms this and tells the story of a crew member who got left behind in a small Louisiana town and thrown in jail for two days as a vagrant. The band was in New York before they figured out what had happened. I'm sure, though, that he wasn't the lead vocalist.
We're on the road again and Karin is ransacking the kitchen for a toaster we're supposed to have, but her search is fruitless. Our driver says it should be here. Linford did his own search earlier in the morning and also struck out. So they decide they can buy a cheap one in the next day or two. They must really like toast.
It's after 12 noon and Dale is still asleep. I envy that kind of ability.
1:15 p.m. and Dale has crawled out of bed. He's excited to see snow and let's out a yelp of glee. He says the long night of sleep may be some subconscious way of prepping himself for the week's schedule. Karin strolls in and chastises everyone for not letting her now that she had a piece of food stuck in her teeth. No one admits they saw anything.
Intermittent alarms from Palms, the distinctive rings of cell phones, the muted voices of people conversing on cell phones with friends and business associates now hundreds of miles away, and the light tapping on laptop keyboards--this isn't the ambiance of an apple orchard. But I suppose the apples are plucked in the place where the music is played. Jack looks at all this technalia and shakes his head, saying he feels out of the loop.
There are now two distinct camps which have formed on the bus: those in the front lounge who are typing and reading and wanting some quiet, and those in the back who are wanting to watch TV. I won't tell who's where, but the truth is, we haven't seen much of either Karin or Terri. Rumour has it they're watching Cow and Chicken. I'm going back to get some pictures.
. . .