Coming Home

the post tour blues

I jolt out of bed at the sound of the alarm I set the night before, that distinctly obnoxious sound permeates through one layer of drugstore earplugs, I quickly make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth, then, I proceed to my hands and knees and gather the small piles of clothing surrounding my suitcase, I don’t bother to fold them, instead I begin stuffing each soiled item into the corners of my extra large chartreuse suitcase, sitting on top, I zip the two sides of the suitcase back together."6 hours of sleep, better than the night before.” For the rest of the next 18 hours, I will be surrounded by people, on the sidewalk outside of the hotel, in the van, on the train, as I pee in petrol station bathrooms, as we lug heavy musical equipment in and out of basement venues, on stage with my guitar, as I fall asleep late at night in a twin bed adjacent to my drummer who we have affectionately nicknamed “Radish”. For about two weeks straight I was never bothered once with a thought outside of what was right in front of me, and it was wonderful.

Now, after a long flight back to LA, and six shows, I lay staring up at the popcorn ceiling of my 100 year old apartment, I spend the day floating from the coffee machine out to the back porch to chain smoke the American cigarettes I missed so much, and then, back inside to my mildly air conditioned bedroom. The truth is, for days, sometimes weeks after a tour, in the spirit of Dusty Springfield, I just don’t know what to do with myself. I surf the World Wide Web for clothes I don’t need, and binge watch reality television, I go from signing autographs in dark alleyways, to watching my dog take a piping hot shit on the piping hot sidewalk of my street, I go from my name being on the sign outside of the building, to being another faceless blonde woman in the center of Hollywood, just like any other. My return to anonymity is at once a small fracture to my ego, and a huge relief to my nervous system.

I always tell people about how much I despise touring, the exhaustion, the endless hard work, the over stimulation, but, this time something was different. After being dropped from my record label back in late October, I buried myself into a bottomless pit of depression and deep self loathing, I felt like all of my worth had been handed away at the loss of support from my label and managers, the truth is, when I signed a year or so earlier, I had told myself that if this one didn’t work out, I would quit music forever. So, then, unsurprisingly, it didn’t work out at all, and I was back at square one with no support for my career, aside from the moral support provided by my boyfriend and mother. I sat in my bed for six months, contemplating educing my own demise, unable to make myself a piece of toast, let alone muster up the energy to release another album, or go out on another tour. But several months later, like magic, there I was, thoroughly medicated, back on stage in front of large groups of people who actually gave a shit about the things that I write, and I had to pinch myself, things might not really be over for me after all. So, for the first time in my life I allowed myself to ride the high of garnering attention from strangers, not allowing the voices in my head to tell me I didn’t deserve this, because I’ve suffered enough at the hands of this god damned industry, the least I can do is enjoy this rare human to human interaction, allow myself to feel heard, because if I learned anything from that experience, nothing lasts forever.

But inevitably, with every high comes a crash, my newfound empty schedule had me mimicking the behavior of a chicken with its head cut off. My daily agenda now consists only of “take birth control at 9 pm” and “give dog flea medicine”, and I used the vastness of my empty calendar to attempt to write new music, I lay in bed with my head spinning, secretly craving the thrill of performance, the thrill of being seen. I wonder if it makes me a bad person? Enjoying the praise of strangers and the hot lights of the stage. I wonder what it says about me that I was being fed by the energy of a few hundred admirers, and most likely a handful of skeptics. Am I vane? Do I have a weak character? Am I a narcissist? Or worst of all, a woman who enjoys feeling powerful? So, back to the real world, a world of mystery novels, vacuuming, picking up dog shit and paying medical bills, throwing grocery items into plastic baskets and picking up my prescriptions from the pharmacy, and all the while wondering if I’ll ever matter to anyone else again. The monotony of everyday life is both a relief and a burden to my sense of self. I miss the days when I was important, does that make me a bad person?

-A