Normally the manager will have brought in most of the crew (or at least the tour manager) and so in some way is nominally the boss. There again, everyone and everything is at the whim of the artist (and we all know what those artistic whims can be like!) and the artist manager is normally nowhere to be seen, stuck in some stuffy office somewhere thousands of miles away struggling with budgets or contracts. And when he or she does appear, invariably they will arrive as if by magic whisked in from the airport by car and staying in a fancy hotel while the rest of the party endure the joys of life on a tour bus. So in a valiant attempt at being post-modern and down with the street, some years ago I decided to fly in to an American tour and join the entourage on the bus for a few days. I could hang out, pretend to smoke the occasional spliff and make myself useful at set-up and soundcheck and be one of the gang.

The trip started well - my first show was in Seattle, so I arrived the day before the rest of the band and got over my jet lag at a nice hotel and even found time to do some sightseeing (Seattle was surprisingly not grungey at all). The next day the tour bus arrived from Portland and the bedraggled band and crew alighted.

The first alarm bells rang when I saw them all and realised they suffered from a lack of sleep and an excess of drink and drugs. That mixture is, of course, what makes a tour run successfully. But it wasn't my normal routine and I was already looking for a nice restaurant to have a bit of haute-cuisine washed down with a decent red. I never found it. But the show went well and I managed to make a decent attempt at looking useful. The gear got packed down, I hung out with the promoter and the local record company rep and finally it was time to leave.

So we boarded the bus and I was introduced to my bunk. The last one of course, because everyone else had chosen theirs at the start of the tour. At first I thought there must be some mistake - I didn't realise that they had special bunks for children. Then it dawned on me that they were all that size and this was, in fact, my home for the next 3 days. OK, I figured, I can see why spliff is so popular now. So having smoked myself into oblivion (2 puffs of the sound guys joint) it was time for bed. It was hard to know what kept me awake most - the noise of the rubbish films on the DVD player, the sound of the rest of the gang having fun, the uncomfortable mattress and pillow, or the bouncing of the bus as it rolled down some interstate highway.

3 weeks later (I cant believe it was only 7 hours!) I gave up the struggle and got up and faced the day. Everyone else was fast asleep of course, even though daylight had arrived. I attempted to ask the driver where we were and he just looked at me as though I was mad. So I stared out of the window at the flat boring landscape for the next 3 or 4 hours until other people started to emerge from their "bunks", looking similarly dishevelled. How do they live like this for weeks on end, I wondered to myself? Its what life must be like for a sailor or an astronaut I guess.

There was a moment of excitement as we rolled into San Francisco and caught sight of the golden gate bridge, but otherwise the boredom was unremitting. The San Francisco gig was remarkeably similar to the Seattle gig and within 2 days I had hit the routine. Boredom, followed by an hour or two of hard work (for the crew, not for me of course) followed by more boredom. After the show we boarded the bus again and repeated the previous nights formula, though this time I smoked nearly half a joint but still couldn't sleep. The Pacific Coast Highway may sound glamorous, but trust me - not on a tour bus!

Arriving at LA the next day was like the arctic explorers must have felt when they got home from 3 months in the arctic. The bright lights were almost too much - I went straight to the nearest hotel and checked in and turned on the telly. Bliss. That night the record company took me out to dinner at a posh restaurant (of course I was gutted that I missed the soundcheck as a result). After the show that night I was so sad to see the bus drive off whilst I returned to my nice hotel, on the pretext of having important record company meetings the next day. I had tasted life on the road and made my choice - give me proper beds that don't move any day. Strangely enough I have never repeated that experience, but do feel that it has given me such an insight into life on the road that I never need to put myself through it again.

Road crew excite in me a mixture of admiration and wonder at their stupidity. Why?

Heavyweight Management Brownswood Recordings

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