Waking Up in the Nowhere Hour
Mornings on tour aren’t really mornings—they’re… a fog. You wake up in a room that could be anywhere: Berlin, Denver, maybe Glasgow if the pillow smells faintly of cigarette smoke. The curtains are drawn tight, the air smells faintly of coffee from the hallway. The bed sways in your mind, not from dreams but from the leftover hum of wheels, engines, and amplifiers. Tour life is a moving thing—you live in the middle of its storm, like a coin spinning endlessly before it drops.
The Ritual of Packing and Black Coffee
The phone alarm starts shrieking. 7 a.m., allegedly. Could’ve sworn it was midnight. Or lunchtime. Doesn’t matter. The first task is the sacred art of packing, which is never glamorous—cramming shirts, guitar strings, cables, and that one lucky jacket into a suitcase that should have been replaced three countries ago. Somewhere in the pile, there’s always a mysterious cable you don’t remember owning.
Black coffee—always black—is the first sign of real consciousness. Then it’s off to the airport, which feels less like travel and more like purgatory with wi-fi. Security lines, plastic bins, removing your belt in front of strangers… nobody cares you were on stage last night; here, you’re just another tired face under flickering lights. Somewhere in the belly of the plane, your gear is being rattled around, and you just hope it survives.
Airborne Daydreams
Once the plane takes off, there’s that low drone in the cabin—strangely close to the feedback hum during soundcheck. You drift in and out of thoughts about tonight’s setlist, maybe an unfinished lyric. Maybe you watch clouds for a bit, trying to guess shapes before turbulence knocks the game over.
And yeah, somewhere between cities, there’s time to switch gears completely. I’ve got friends who swear by a few spins at National Casino, via https://nationalcasino.com/, to shake off the travel dust. Something about the mix of luck and strategy feels familiar—like playing a solo that could crash or soar.
Soundcheck Chaos Disguised as Routine
Landing means go-time. Straight to the venue. The soundcheck is always chaos disguised as routine: cables crossing like snakes, roadies zipping past, amps thumping to life. The first strum of your guitar is like checking your own pulse. For a few minutes, the stage belongs to just you and the crew.
Green Room Breathing Space
Then comes the green room. Usually too small. Often too quiet. Sometimes too loud if the drummer’s telling a story. This is the last deep breath before the dive. The band trades inside jokes and glances—no matter how many times you’ve done this, the nerves don’t go away, they just… change shape.
The Rush of Showtime
The lights blast open, the crowd roars, and suddenly you’re not you anymore—you’re part of something bigger. A current. A wave.
Time melts in the heat. The noise, the bodies, the music—it’s all one big rush until the final note fades and you’re standing there, chest heaving, sweat dripping.
Afterglow and Empty Streets
Then, almost without thinking, you start packing again. Back into cases, into bags, into the same van that’ll take you to the next nameless hotel. Sometimes you grab a drink with the crew. Sometimes it’s just a slow walk under street lamps, letting the night settle into your bones. You notice the smell of rain on concrete, the buzz of a neon sign that never quite works.
Rolling On
And then… the bus moves on. The city fades in the mirrors. You lean back, half-asleep, the road humming like a lullaby. Tomorrow will be another stage, another crowd, another fleeting chapter in this endless story. Same song, different verse. The melody never stops—it just keeps playing under your skin, lingering long after the applause fades, whispering you forward.
