“If I could have chosen, I would have been born a woman. My mother once told me she would have named me Laura. I would grow up to be strong and beautiful like her. One day I’d find an honest man to make my husband.”
May 22, 2006—Berlin, Germany
A&R is fucking clueless. We sent them a CD of demos we’ve recorded for the album. The CD included a cover of the Replacements song “Bastards Of Young.”
“The songs are all great. I think ‘Bastards Of Young’ may be the best song you’ve ever written.”
It’s bad enough that they don’t recognize that it’s a cover. What’s worse is that their label released the Replacements album the song is from. How am I supposed to take any of their opinions seriously? Why would I hand over any control to people who are so obviously clueless?
We leave the Warner offices and head to the venue, Tommy Weisbecker Haus, the squat show space named after a 23-year-old anarchist who was shot and killed by the police in front of the building in the 1970s. The cops claimed he was going for a gun. He was unarmed.
Ingo, the DIY promoter who has booked all our European tours so far, pulls me aside after sound check and tells me that he can no longer book the band.
“If your manager thinks he can find someone else to do the job better, then maybe you all should do this. If I do the tours then I do it my way and that’s the way it is. I cannot work with the people you are working with now.”
It’s pointless arguing about it. All the things that Ingo hates in the music business are just becoming more and more a part of the way we do things. He doesn’t make any money doing what he does, that is not his motivation. Call it “punk,” call it “DIY,” whatever you want to label it, in all of Ingo’s stubborn glory he is a hero of mine. Thank you for everything.
Showtime finally. The muscles in my body relax, everything feels fluid and natural, like it’s supposed to feel. The stage sounds good. The room feels right. The crowd is alive and breathing. Maybe getting a good night’s sleep and not drinking the night before had something to do with it. Maybe it’s the fact that the punks in the room are actually paying attention, actually fucking getting it. Whatever it was, this was exactly the kind of show I needed. The kind of show where you feel a sense of fulfillment, there was a reason you came here and this was it.
Against Me! spent a month and a half in Europe, and I didn’t contact Heather while we were there. I made a point not to. I needed to focus on writing, and thought she was a distraction. We returned to America with two weeks to spare before spending the summer on the Warped Tour, the long-running traveling punk-rooted festival. The lineup was stacked with established acts like Less Than Jake, the Bouncing Souls, and Joan Jett.
Everyone knew who Joan was. Even the bigger bands on the tour had grown up listening to her. We expected her to be far removed and isolated from the rest of us rock wannabes, going straight from tour bus to stage to tour bus, but instead, she acted completely on our level and would always be down to hang out. She had a BMX bike just like the rest of us that she would zip around on through the festival grounds. She got stoned with us, and was just generally the walking embodiment of cool in her sunglasses and black tank top. On stage, she was full-on rock and roll Joan Jett with her black leather pants and jacket. But backstage, she hung around in camo shorts and sneakers.
NOFX was on the tour, too, and, since they were one of the first bands to ever play the festival back in 1995, Fat Mike was essentially the mayor of Warped Tour. We spent the next two months under his wing, reaping all the benefits that came with it.
Bus parking on Warped Tour is tricky. You’re dealing with a traveling circus with about a hundred buses rolling down the highway. There was a person on Warped Tour whose specific job was to coordinate where these buses parked each day. Conveniently, that person was NOFX’s bus driver, Johnny. NOFX always got the parking spot they wanted, and Johnny made sure we got a spot next to them so that we could all party together. Set times on Warped Tour are chosen by lottery each morning to make it fair for all the bands, so that no one gets stuck always opening or always closing. But not for NOFX. They played at whatever time of day they wanted, based on how hungover Mike was. There were also lunch and dinner lines, where you’d have to queue up to get your meal. Members of NOFX were never at the end of the longest line and always cut straight to the front, if they even ate the cafeteria food at all. Something about it felt like juvenile high school behavior, but still, it was nice to sit with the cool kids for once.
I saw Heather on the first day of the tour.
June 15, 2006—Columbia, MD
We rolled in late for Warped Tour’s “orientation day.” I hate being late.
Walking around the festival grounds I spotted Heather unloading boxes of merch from the back of a truck, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was sweaty and beautiful.
I knew she got a job on the tour working for the Bouncing Souls, selling merch. She told me in advance but somehow still it was surprising to see her.
We spent the day together, exploring the woods surrounding the festival grounds. We walked to a shopping mall and bought squirt guns, remote control cars, a puzzle, and a Frisbee.
We went to the after-show party together. I felt awkward holding her hand while walking up to the scene of people at the welcoming party BBQ. That’s what boyfriend and girlfriend do. Is she my girlfriend? Are we dating? We slept next to each other in the back bus lounge. We still haven’t had sex.
I can’t decide how I feel to be back in her company.
Anxiety, anxiety.
June 16, 2006—Columbus, OH
A 2001 Prevost, our first bus. Twelve bunks, two lounges, a kitchen, a bathroom, black leather upholstery, flat screen TVs, surround sound stereo system, hydraulic doors that open and close between each area at the push of a button. It’s legit.
Our driver, Dale, arrived to pick us up in Florida wearing a shirt that reads “K-9 Sex Police—Doggystyle Unit” and while putting together a broom he bought at Walmart he informed us that the handle “would make a good nigger-beater.” We’re all terrified that we have to spend the next two months with him. I worry that Dale sees us all as kids and isn’t going to take us seriously even though we’re paying him.
It was an average first show of a tour, minus the fact that our set was right in between the Buzzcocks and Joan Jett. What a sweet spot to be in!
First shows are never that good. You’re still trying to find your rhythm. Playing in the sun drains you. Being constantly surrounded by people and bombarded by noise all day long drains you.
Butch Vig is coming to the show tomorrow. It will be our first time meeting in person.
The first mission of every day on Warped Tour is to find the nearest Porta-Potty while they’re still relatively more clean and fresh than they will be by the end of the day. Baking in the sun, the Porta-Potty is a sweat box, the toilet seat burns your ass when you sit on it. When you get up, your ass leaves an outline of sweat.
June 22, 2006—Driving to Jacksonville, FL
Heather and I had sex. She was checking into her hotel room when I came down to the lobby to meet everyone for breakfast. I skipped breakfast and went with her to her room instead.
It is indescribable how salty her skin tastes when kissed. It makes my sun-burned lips sting.
Protection was used. Nothing would destroy me more than harming Heather.
After lying in bed all morning we found an arcade and played air hockey, video games, and skee-ball. Then ate dinner at a shitty chain restaurant.
Her ex-boyfriend is on this tour. He introduced himself to me, said it would be stupid for us to avoid each other all tour. He introduced himself to everyone in the band and all significant others. Despite how cool it is of him, I find myself just feeling agitated and annoyed having to experience the situation in any way at all.
I can’t tell what Heather expects from me. I think I’m wasting my time. I’m just a rebound. What happens when the summer’s over?
I’m just the next guy, the guy before the next.
July 11, 2006—Ventura, CA
You are never alone on this tour. There is always someone outside of the band circle around that needs entertaining or hosting. There is always a tour of the bus to give or a cold drink in need of offering. It’s exhausting always being on.
The manager’s assistant has been riding with us the past couple days. She accompanied me to L.A. for press yesterday. Crashed the rental car drunk through the hotel security gate coming back. We laughed wildly as we settled into a parking space. No one saw it happen. Then she turns to me and we’re kissing hard.
“Wait, no, stop, I can’t do this with you anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think I may have a girlfriend now.”
She stormed away furious. This will not make working together easy. I don’t know what I’m doing.
When we arrived backstage before our set time today the stage manager told me that everyone had a gift for me.
“What is it?”
They pulled out the security gate arm I had crashed through with the car, wrapped in a bow. They had seen the whole thing and thought it was hilarious.
July 18, 2006—Vancouver, BC
I’m already three big rails deep and it’s not even 8 PM.
Immediately after I get high, James comes on the tour bus and tells me that Erin Burkett, Fat Mike’s wife and co-owner of Fat Wreck Chords, wants to talk to me outside. I had been warned to expect this.
Erin feels wronged by us leaving Fat Wreck Chords and she wanted to let me know. She also told me how much she dislikes the manager. She doesn’t think there is any good in his heart and that he doesn’t act with our best interests in mind. There’s nothing I can say in reply to her, both because I can’t unclench my jaw to speak and because I think she’s right on all counts.
Received word that Butch is definitely producing the next album. The label has approved all budgets and studio time is being booked in L.A. for October.
Heather takes a note out of her pocket, presses it into my hand and then presses my hand against my chest. “Tom” is written in rub-on letters on the outside of the small manila envelope. Inside of the envelope is a small print of a brown bird on a twig, a branch with a banner underneath it with “more please” written on it.
More please.
I’m surrendering.
July 22, 2006—Driving to SLC
Day off in the time capsule that is Butte, Montana.
At a bar called the Pleasure Palace, Bubba, the ex-con/Vietnam vet/Hell’s Angel, tells me, “This is a hard place to live. You gotta be careful. Don’t never back down. You hear what I’m saying? Don’t never back down. Once they see you back down, it’s all over.”
Heather and I do a shot of tequila with Bubba and he introduces us to his friends. I try to buy Bubba another shot as we are leaving but he refuses. I could see the wobble in his step and hear the slur in his speech. Bubba was at his limit and he knew it. I should be so lucky as to know my limits some day.
Heather and I check into a room at the Hotel Finlen, modeled after the Waldorf Astoria in NYC. Lying naked together in bed, I caress the length of her torso.
“Tell me how you want me to fuck you.”
“Will you fuck me without a condom?”
I break out in a cold sweat.
August 9, 2006—Driving to Virginia Beach, VA
Joan Jett watched our set. She came up to me backstage after we were done. I was trying to catch my breath and she offered me a bottle of ice-cold water. She asked if we would be down to come by her bus later on and record an interview for her radio show. I was leaning over and she knelt down to talk to me. She usually wears a lot of eye makeup but she wasn’t wearing any right then. She looked so beautiful. Beautiful Joan Jett, a true rock star.
James and I did the interview together on Joan’s bus in the evening after the last band had finished playing for the day. It was fun hanging out with her and Kenny, her manager. She’s usually so full of swagger but when it was just the four of us, I could tell that she’s still a kid at heart.
When the interview was over Joan gave us each a hug. I wanted to hug Joan Jett forever.
Taking Butch’s advice, I wrote as many songs as I could for the new record. In total, I entered our recording session with 30 songs, 10 of which would make the album. “The Ocean” made the cut, but barely. The label hated it, but I insisted we keep it. It would sneak onto the very end as the album’s last song. We spent the fall in Los Angeles, recording at Paramount Studios, which had no relation to the movie studio but was still right down the street from it.
The band stayed at an extended-stay furnished apartment complex called the Oakwoods, the same place Nirvana stayed while recording Nevermind, and the spot where just two years prior Rick James was found dead of cardiac failure. I’d always wanted to attend the Sunday pool parties there, but given that the complex seemed to consist of aspiring actors and porn stars, I figured I’d be better off avoiding them. We each had our own studio apartment and were spread out across the complex. It was comfortable and clean, the first time I found myself actually enjoying myself in Los Angeles.
There was a dry-erase board hanging on the wall of our rehearsal space with a list of bands occupying the other rooms written on it. We were in studio 3. The two studios below us were blocked off for a band: “Guns and Roses.” Ten-year-old me was doing somersaults.
October 9, 2006—Los Angeles, CA
I haven’t been able to get Heather out of my head. I have fallen in love and it’s horrible, the absolute worst thing that could happen to me right now. I want to be focused on the band, on the album we’re making. Heather is a distraction. She makes me think about marriage and having kids. It’s so completely out of control. I’m guessing that if I were to bring any of this stuff up it would scare her off.
We talked for over an hour tonight. I hate the way I speak. I hate the sound of my voice, my phrasing and my tone. It’s not me. I feel detached from it, like I’m playing a character. I don’t know how to say what I’m really feeling. I don’t think I should say what I’m really thinking, that I’ve never liked the name given to me, that I’ve never felt comfortable in this body. The only time I’m happy is when I am on stage. I don’t like the person that I have become. I don’t like the way that I treat other people.
I slept until 1:40 PM today. I don’t remember what time I went to sleep. I don’t remember how I got back to my apartment. My mental state is slipping. I have to do something.
I need coffee.
October 18, 2006—Los Angeles, CA
Third day of tracking and I’ve yet to record an actual note of music. The first day was spent dealing with some kind of signal phase issue, the second day was all drums. Warren must have tried out 20 different snares, one of them being “Big Red,” the snare drum used on the Guns N’ Roses songs “November Rain” and “Don’t Cry.” We are all in agreement that we love this studio, that we love all the people working on the album, that we love having this many resources available to us. It makes us laugh to think though that anyone has ever commented that any of our past albums have sounded too “overproduced.”
They take you out to dinner and tell you it’s going to be an amazing album. They’ve got “a five-star Rolling Stone review feeling.” They make a toast to the producer they’ve always dreamed of working with, to the band, and to the future. You want to believe, ’cause wouldn’t it be fun?
Remember, there’s no such thing as a free meal.
Heather flew in a couple nights ago. We’ve decided to move in together, get a place in Gainesville. We plan on starting to look for a place in December, when I’m done with the album. I’m nervous and scared, but it’s good. I feel like every day there’s amazing progression in our relationship. We’ve talked about exes, a subject I usually avoid. She asked me a couple things about my marriage. She said some things about her past relationships. Nothing I can’t handle.
October 26, 2006—Los Angeles, CA
The studio day is over before you know it. You’re buzzed inside in the morning, stepping out of the sunshine and then you’re buzzed out at night walking out into darkness.
I stopped after the first vocal take through “The Ocean” and asked Butch and everyone else in the control room if the lyric to the second verse was too weird. Should I change it?
“If I could have chosen, I would have been born a woman. My mother once told me she would have named me Laura.”
I made a joke about being really high when it was written and tried to explain that the lyrics were just stream of consciousness, that I don’t really mean anything by them.
Zero response. Nothing. No feedback, complimentary or critical. Butch finally says, “No it’s cool, go with it.”
We could hear Fiona Apple’s voice coming down the hallway through the cracked door of the room she was rehearsing in. I wish I had a voice like hers. I wish our room was more soundproof so no one walking by could hear me sing. I wish we weren’t listening to the new Killers album like a bunch of fucking dorks as we pulled up to park outside the space they are practicing in.
Lying in bed next to Heather, I find myself so very painfully self-aware. I shouldn’t be with her. I need to be alone right now.
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