Touring is a world of contrast. Yesterday I left the stage and headed straight down the street to play another set at a nearby coffee shop. I felt strong and alive. I honestly could have played all night. Radiohead covers. Dylan covers. Old tunes. I felt invincible.
A few hours ago, I stepped off stage and vomited all over the floor. And the sidewalk. And the street. And the bus. I feel frail and dead. After a few songs of attempted normalcy I spent most of our set balled up on the floor. This type of thing has never happened to me before in a live music environment. There are few things that I will not press through…
To be honest, I felt relieved when I began to throw up both because the action eased the awful feeling inside and because it explained my weakness on stage. The sickness explained why I collapsed in the middle of a tune called “This Is Your Life” and couldn’t seem to open my eyes or get up. I suppose that it took this sort of finish to make me realize that I wasn’t just being a baby about things. Nobody wants to be a baby.
Whatever hit me had already hit two of the other guys on the bus. That is the problem with the yellow submarine model of touring: everyone share the same living space for the journey across the country, everyone shares the same highs and lows. But the bus sure beats the fifteen passenger alternative.
I feel better now. But I can’t seem to get to sleep. My fever broke and I hope to be fine when I wake up tomorrow for an off day. I normally get bored on off days; I’ve never been this excited about a day off!
