“No no no!”
“Put her down!”
“STOP!!!”
The man was absolutely harmless, but he put me down so fast I nearly lost consciousness. I did my best to console him that “Really, it’s okay,” and we laughed uncomfortably together, each of us equally red in the face. Take it down a notch, boys!
I often get asked if and when I’m going to get a bodyguard. The thing is, I already feel like I’ve got several—and as long as Drew and Gavi are around, I’ll always have at least two. Navigating the ins and outs of the entertainment industry without a clue was overwhelming, but these guys have been with me from the beginning. I can’t say that about anyone else. The fact that they are still setting sail on new adventures with me is almost too good to be true. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. When it does, I really hope it isn’t as gigantic as Gavi’s or as smelly as Drew’s.
THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN
DREW AND GAVI
On one of our days off, we found a karaoke bar near our hotel and made plans to go later that night. A few hours before we were supposed to meet up, I walked past Gavi’s hotel room and overheard him practicing Backstreet Boys songs.
“Quit playing games with my heart!”
That night, Gavi murdered his song onstage.
Drew, on the other hand, slept right up until it was time to go and purposely picked the worst song for his vocal range: “Take On Me,” which murdered him onstage.
YOU’LL THANK ME WHEN
YOU’RE OLDER
Writing about Erich has been impossible. Like watching a 3D movie from the front row—it all seems too up close and personal. The world could collapse into the ocean, and Erich would know what to do about it. There has never been a situation he couldn’t fix, and sometimes I worry he’s actually a robot created by the Russian Mafia to get the inside scoop on YouTube . . . or smiling. See what I mean?! I’m trying to write a simple intro, and it’s falling to pieces! If I had to describe our relationship in one sentence it would be this: “I’ve never been embarrassed of you, but I have been embarrassed for you, several times.”
Those were his words, not mine.
When Erich came on as my TM (tour manager), it was supposed to be temporary. The TM I originally hired had a family emergency right before the tour, and Erich was called in as a sub. It was a short gig, two weeks max. Those two weeks turned into two years, and I hope those two years are a preview for the next two decades.
For several years I was the only girl on my tour. As a result, I got a lot of extra attention. Even now, someone is always offering to carry my bag, open my door, or give up their window seat on planes. I like to think it’s because I’m such a classy lady, not because I’m their boss. As nice as all that is, being the only female on the road has a few disadvantages as well. Namely, I don’t have anyone to borrow tampons from in a pinch. I’ve had to ask Erich to send out a runner for feminine products more often than I would like to admit. I can multitask like nobody’s business, but ask me to remember when my period will come, and I draw a blank. When my “monthly diva” arrives, I find myself surrounded by a bunch of dudes who try to stay out of my way but end up aggravating me no matter what. Can everyone just admit that I’m right? About everything!
I remember going to a show in Park City, Utah, when my monthly diva was visiting. I hadn’t seen Erich in a few weeks, but when I got to the venue, I blew past his office and went straight to my dressing room. When I tried on my costumes a few minutes later, none of them fit correctly—bunching where there shouldn’t be bunches and pinching in places I didn’t appreciate.
I was moody.
I was bloated.
I complained about my costumes.
I didn’t say hi to Erich.
Later, I found out Erich was ready to stage an intervention, because, as he put it, I had finally “gone all Hollywood.”
Just a few days later I was sitting in my dressing room with Drew, Gavi, and Erich, feeling proud of myself.
“Guys, I have to say, I recently went through my ‘lady time,’ and I think I handled it very well. I bet none of you even noticed!”
Gavi scoffed, and Drew tried to nod convincingly.
“That explains a lot,” Erich said with a visible sigh of relief.
I couldn’t believe it! I thought I had been so coy. Since then, Erich has started using the My Monthly Cycles app, so he can keep track of my mood and “avoid unnecessary judgment,” as he says. However, if there ever comes a time when my entitled behavior doesn’t line up with Erich’s schedule, I made him promise to sit me down and bring me back to reality. I don’t belong in Hollywood.
As TM, Erich is also very protective of my time and energy. Sometimes I try to pack too much into one day, and Erich is frequently the voice of reason that says, “Slow down.” When I don’t listen and end up getting sick, Erich is also the one who makes sure I drink water, eat regularly, and go to bed at a decent hour. He’s like my dad, only he doesn’t wear a scarf or a hat; and he has more tattoos. In fact, he frequently tells me I remind him of his daughter. I never know if that’s a compliment or not: Does he love me like a daughter, or am I acting like a twelve-year-old?
I’ve come to realize it’s almost always the latter. For instance, one night after a show we had plans to meet a promoter for dinner. I got off the bus wearing cutoff sweats and a T-shirt.
Erich saw me and asked, “Are you really wearing that?”
I looked down at my clothes and replied, “Um, yes?”
“No, no you can’t. Go change.”
“But I just played a two-hour show. I want to be comfortable.”
“Be comfortable in something that doesn’t make you look homeless.”
Ugh, Dad!
Following these disagreements, he always gives me a look that says, You’ll thank me when you’re older. Other dadlike things Erich says on the regular include:
• “Do you want to brush your hair a little before we leave?”
• “Where are your shoes?”
• “Please don’t go on stage wearing that.”
• “Leggings aren’t pants.”
• “Did you eat lunch?”
• “I see you have a crush on ____________________.”
On a more serious note, a few tours ago I found myself in a rut, struggling with some resurfacing eating disorder habits. Erich noticed I hadn’t been myself, so he reached out to Brooke and asked her for any advice on how to make things easier for me. She gave him a few suggestions, and shortly after, all the scales disappeared from my hotel rooms, replaced by a variety of my favorite snacks. Stealing my scales and arranging for special groceries is not part of Erich’s job description. His duties include—but are not limited to—advancing my tour, coordinating with venues, arranging transportation and accommodations, tour accounting, troubleshooting, and scheduling press. But Erich has always been so much more than a tour manager to me. He put it best in a letter when he wrote: “I don’t know whether to write this to a coworker, daughter, sister, boss, or friend.”
If I had to choose one, I’d say daughter. No . . . sister—no . . . friend. Oh, forget it.
HOW TO FIND
ME IN A CLUB
When I was younger I thought the best way to get a guy’s attention was to run faster or throw harder than anyone else. Most girls learn early on that this flirtation method doesn’t work and they try something else—like being dainty and delicate. I’ve tried being dainty and delicate, but I’m better at being me. If you want to find me in a club, look for the sexiest girl in the room. Then turn slightly to the left, and you will see me dancing much faster and harder than her.
TRAVEL PANTS
In college, I took a road trip with a guy friend of mine and his younger sister. Being the classy gentleman that he was, he came to my door to help carry my luggage. At the sight of me in my pajamas he asked, “Why aren’t you dressed yet?” For a moment I panicked and thought I had forgotten to put on pants again.
Glancing down, I heaved a sigh of relief and then looked back at him in confusion. “I am dressed. This is what I’m wearing.”
“That?” he asked, pointing at my T-shirt and baggy drawstring pants.
Now I was annoyed. “Yes, Jack, you will have to share the car with me and these apparently repulsive pajama pants for the next eight hours.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, surrendering with his hands. “I was just checking.”
I have good reason for traveling like a nine-year-old at a slumber party. First of all, I want to be comfortable enough to fall asleep in the car or on the plane. I don’t put on unnecessary makeup (because sleeping in makeup makes me feel gross) and if my hair isn’t done, I don’t have to worry about ruining it. See? All good reasons.
Once Jack and I got to the car I realized why he had been so apprehensive. In the front seat sat his sister, and from where I was standing I could see she had curled her hair. It was the first tip-off that something wasn’t right. When she turned to wave at me, I nearly dropped my bag in horror. Ah! Her makeup was flawless, she wore a dainty scarf, and she even had on earrings. Who was she trying to impress, anyway? The guy in the front seat was her brother. Then I realized it was me—she was trying to impress me. Why do girls do that? All she had to do was bring a pair of regular shoes and she would have one-upped my slip-on sneakers (which are so comfortable, by the way).
The more I travel, the more I’ve come to realize that the average female treats a travel day the same as any other—by getting dressed, putting on makeup, and doing her hair. The introduction of yoga pants into mainstream society has made my travel attire slightly more acceptable, but I still get ready for a long flight the same way I get ready for bed—by washing my face, pulling my hair back, and putting on my pajamas.
Once, I was at an event where another performer went off on a rant about how tacky it is when people show up to the airport in sweats, or worse, pajamas.
I remember feeling slightly defensive for myself and all the other people who were following my trendsetting example.
“Maybe they want to sleep on the plane because that’s the only sleep they’re going to get that day,” I said casually.
“But pajamas? Really? There are other ways.”
“I can’t sleep in jeans!” I blurted.
She looked confused, and I slowly backed out of the room.
Recently, I added leg weights to my travel look. There was a period of time when I had fly dates almost every other day. My tour was traveling through Asia and South America, and I felt like I was living in the airport. To keep myself from going insane, I wanted to find some good ways to multitask en route. Since I was trying to get in shape for my tour, I bought a set of leg weights—you know, the giant hacky sacks that strap to your calves. I walked around in them all day, and while we waited in long lines I did exercises that made my crew roll their eyes and turn their backs. Once, I grabbed Gavi’s arm for balance during my leg lifts, and he said, “Please don’t touch me right now, people will think we’re together.”
“But we are together. I’m your boss.”
“Don’t remind me.”
None of the guys were very fond of my public exercise routine, but no one hated my leg weights with more conviction than Erich. Every time I put them on, he knew there was a fifty-fifty chance he would have to argue with an airport security employee before boarding the plane. The weights have metal inserts in them, and for obvious reasons they aren’t very popular among the security staff. For months, we said they were doctor-prescribed for therapeutic reasons, and it worked. Until one day in Brazil, a security worker put his foot down.
“You cannot wear those onto the plane, they are too heavy.”
“But even with the leg weights, I still weigh less than all these guys,” I said, pointing at my crew.
He folded his arms across his chest, and I knew it was game over. Reluctantly, I unstrapped my weights and said a bitter good-bye before leaving them behind. A few weeks later, Erich and his wife gifted me a new set under one condition: I was not allowed to wear them through airport security. I still love my weights, but they have been reserved for press days and tourist activities.
Airline companies are pretty unaccommodating in general, but hundreds of hours spent in airports across the world have given me some insight into the battles that are worth fighting, and which ones are better left alone. The leg weights had a good run, but getting two steel-plated contraptions through a metal detector might have been asking a little much. I’m actually surprised they lasted as long as they did. Understandably, airports have a strict set of rules to follow. Regardless, I feel like they overuse specific phrases for convenience’s sake. Some of their favorites include, “There’s nothing we can do,” or “It’s government regulation.”
I’ve heard it said before that once the plane door is closed, no one gets on—government regulation, there’s nothing they can do about it. Once, I watched a woman with a stroller run up to the gate moments after they had closed the plane door.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, the plane door has been closed. There’s nothing we can do.”
Not long after, I found myself in the same situation, sans the stroller.
“You closed it early!” I whimpered as I ran up to the gate. The airline worker shook her head.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
I held up my ID with a frown. “But it’s my birthday . . .”
She stared back at my desperate face and said, “Oh, okay,” and she opened the door! But what about government regulations? I half expected Air Force One to show up and reprimand both of us. I guess the phrase “nothing we can do” is relative when it comes to TSA policies. If there is one thing that really is out of their control, though, it’s the use of passports for international travel.
They say depression is the leading cause of anxiety, but I would beg to differ. Passports are the real culprits. They are so small and so important. Without one, you are literally no one, from nowhere! No matter how many times I’ve checked to make sure I have my passport, every time Erich asks for it my heart drops. I honestly feel like there is a ten percent chance it came to life and walked away. In 2014, we did a US tour that spilled into Canada a few times, and the day before we left for Vancouver, I realized I forgot my passport in California. Brooke was working for me at the time, and minutes after this realization she came into the room to admit she had forgotten her passport as well. Leave it to the Stirling girls. Erich made some phone calls before he confirmed that really, there was nothing he could do. We couldn’t return to the US without a passport, so leaving without one was out of the question. That night, my bus dropped Brooke and me off at a hotel. Everyone else continued on the road without us, so they could get all the equipment to Vancouver on time. Then, one of the assistants from my management office in California got on a plane with my passport, handed it to me in the Seattle airport, and flew right back to work. (Sorry, Casey!) There was no way around it, and I can respect that. But not every situation is so black-and-white.
When I was working on my second album, I found myself on the verge of an emotional breakdown. My manager insisted I take a break, so I threw a few things into a bag and booked a red-eye home to see my parents. Ten minutes before my flight was scheduled to board, it got canceled. I had already been crying, so with running mascara and puffy eyes, I walked to the counter and asked if I could get a hotel room.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, we’ve already used up our quota of hotel vouchers for the day. I wish I could help, but there’s nothing I can do.”
I don’t usually play this game, but in that moment I knew the difference between the “nothing” she was referring to and the “nothing” that really means nothing. The airport could take my leg weights, and they could hold me hostage without a passport, but in my current emotional state they were not going to deny me a hotel room. I looked at her with my tear-soaked eyes, and then with a forced calm in my voice, I said slowly, “I really need a hotel roo
m.” She stared at me for a moment. Then she held up an index finger, gesturing for me to wait, and picked up the phone.
“Yes, we have a four-two-two, I need a quota override,” she said into the receiver.
I’m pretty sure that’s code for, “We have a crazy person on our hands. Can I use one of the super-secret hotel vouchers?”
She hung up and said calmly, “All right, Miss Stirling, we will get you a room for the night.”
The way she spoke made me wonder if the room she had in mind was padded, but at that point, I didn’t even care. My approach was a little unhinged, but it was the best I could do in the moment, and I think she understood that. Bless her.
Don’t get me wrong, I think rules are important. Most of the time, they are there for our safety or public order, yada yada; but I also think sometimes it’s okay to ask for an exception. Unless we’re talking about travel attire, in which case it’s always okay to be the exception. Travel pants are better than no pants at all. At least that’s what I’ve always said.
FLIGHT
ETIQUETTE
Sometimes I feel like the airport is my second home. On our last tour through Australia, Asia, and South America, my team took fifty-five flights in two months. It’s the less glamorous side of the rock ’n’ roll lifestyle. Yes, I get to do what I love. But a few hours later we’re all sleeping on suitcases in front of an airport gate, waiting for our turn, like everyone else. If I had a quarter for every time I’ve tried to squeeze my body beneath the metal armrests by the gate I could buy my own jet.
The Only Pirate at the Party Page 14