I often drive alone from home or the bus shops to the pick-up destinations and back when an assignment is finished. Occasionally, a family member or friend rides along and we see the sites together when there are no passengers on board. Driving across the U.S. in a half-a-million-dollar-plus coach on my own schedule can make for comfortable travels. Stopping in obscure places to relax, regroup and recharge is fun. The middle of nowhere is the center of somewhere and it can be a peaceful place.
If you open the Rand McNally Map of the entire U.S., you will see the major highways of America. They are designated on the map with numbers and letters from the alphabet and have blue roads and red roads and a few green ones. I’ve driven every mile of the blue and green roads and many, many, miles of the red ones. I’ve been to and through every town in America with populations of 5,000 people or more and lots of small towns with populations much less.
I meet so many people I hardly ever remember a name unless I use it daily. If we talked for more than a minute, I can usually remember a face and match it with a where and when. On average, I see more than a million faces a year in my business. I see them as I travel the highways, and I see them at the events that most of the people who ride with me work. Each year, I see about 1.5 million people at various entertainment events. And I see thousands more doing the things you do between the events. Hotels, restaurants, laundry mats, parking lot attendants, people flipping me off on the highway.
As most tours roll over, the passengers in my coach will be in my life for less than 90 days, sometimes more or less, and by the time we finish our trip, we will have lived together, smelled each other and seen each other just about every day. And before it’s over, we will have shared the many emotions of happiness, fun, laughter, sadness, anxiety, concern, anger and who knows what else together. For me, when it’s all over, I will be able to review the trip and take what was good from it and use what I learned somewhere else.
It doesn’t matter which direction I travel, along the way, I meet so many people in my daily activities. Wherever I’m traveling, inevitably when people see the bus stopped or parked they approach. Curiosity gets the best of folks. Many just walk up and start talking like we’re old friends. A few even knock on the door. Some seem timid and nervous. That need-to-know look in their eyes is easily recognizable and noticeable from any direction I’m approached.
I can spot someone coming toward me with that typical first question every time. “Whose bus is that?” or “Who rides on that bus?” A common question that’s been asked of me a jillion times. After a little banter many are concerned with how to drive such a behemoth. “Is it hard to drive?” Another very common question asked a gazillion times. I do it every day, and like to do it every day so it’s easy for me. Gas mileage is usually the next question. I average it on paper to five miles a gallon. There are two motors, one pushes the bus, and one provides electricity inside just like at your home. Therefore, accurate mileage varies.
Just about anytime I stop, I can expect a conversation with someone. Sometimes I’m in the mood to yap it up. Sometimes I humor people and myself. Have fun with them and the moment, baffle them with bullshit. Sometimes the riggers of the job make me feel like just hiding somewhere and not talking to anyone.
“FUCK YOU, leave me alone.”
People seem to persist. Human nature, I guess. The daily giggles of dealing with curious souls, sometimes is priceless. On one occasion, I pulled into a convenient store and when a curious person approached, I gave him all the wrong answers.
“Yeah, I’m just a rich guy living it up on vacation.”
He asked, “What do you do for a living?”
“Brain surgeon,” I tell him as I walk away. Harmless fun.
Another common example comes from a time when, after dropping off a band at a hotel, I went to a grocery store to grab some supplies for the bus. After shopping and loading my things in the bus, I looked out the window and caught a curious soul as he was headed my way. I immediately realized it was about to be question-and-answer time. Sometimes folks have such a determined look about them. I was in a good mood, so I decided to tease him a bit.
“YO, WHAT’S THE PROBLEM?” I said as he reached the door of the bus, darting eyes up and down, side to side, surveying the unit I’m driving.
And sure enough, he asked, “Who’s on the bus?”
“Just some rich people,” or any other goofy idea I might come up with, I say as he gave me a curious look.
“Are they famous?”
“They might be,” I responded, as I positioned myself between him and the door. “Can I see inside there?” the most asked question curious people can usually never resist.
This is a question that has always gotten me. Let’s imagine for a moment if I was driving or walking down the street and went to the door of a random house and rang the doorbell. The homeowner comes to the door, we greet one another, and I compliment his nice home.
“Man! What a neat looking house you have. Can I look inside?”
What would you say? This vehicle may be mobile, but it is still a home. And just about anyone who questions me about it asks to take a peek inside.
Everyone who has an interest in the bus talks about a ride in it. On any given day, if I think they might be serious when they approach me, I’ll give them numbers to some custom coach brokers, wish them well and go on with my gig or whatever I’m doing that day. If I’m in the bus, I’m usually on a schedule of some sort so I don’t have time to yap it up all day. You never know who will be your next customer, so it’s good to practice kindness, at least for a minute. After that, if they keep poking me for information, I use the “I’ve got things to do and a schedule to keep” excuse. That’s my escape route.
Then there are moments that seem to be fleeting when they’re happening, but they end up leaving those priceless lasting impressions. Like the time I stopped in the small retro Western town of Tucumcari, New Mexico, back in the mid-’80s. I was transporting the crew of an English punk band. We landed in Tucumcari to take a break from the excessively long drive the booking agent had arranged. The crew members, tired of being in the bus on a 1,400-mile ride, headed to a local bar as soon as we stopped at the highway hotel where I could get a few hours of rest before driving on. These guys never worried what the regulars might think of their punk star dress complete with earrings and tattoos in a small Western town. When it was time to travel on, the locals didn’t want them to leave. Normal circumstance, extraordinary character. That’s the Rock ’n’ Roll touring business.
Chapter 1 A First Time For Everything
The first time I saw the bus I would be assigned to drive, it was sitting on wooden blocks in a dingy garage that wasn’t really a garage at all. Originally, it was a fenced acre for a couple of horses. It had a lean-to roof and an old horse stall that had been converted into a tool shed. In Pensacola, Florida, the sandy lot made for a cheap place for the bus owner to rig and repair. The Model 5 Eagle had been refurbished with a Model 10 Cap on the front and rear and was being leased as a Model 10. It was named Beachcomber after who knows what. All buses are named like yachts are named – land yachts that they are.
It was obviously a used line coach that someone like Greyhound had used and put a million-plus miles on. It had been refurbished a bit and sold to someone who had taken the windows out, paneled it and put an interior in it. Painted blue on top, the bus had a few bumps and scratches on it and a small ding in each of the corner bumpers. Corner bumpers on the old Eagle coaches were very expensive to replace, so many bus owners left them alone unless they were too damaged. Chances are that a driver would ding them up again.
It had all the wheels off of it and the guy working in the shop – another driver – was trying to install new brakes. I was instructed to help get it in shape and went to work as soon as I arrived after flying in from Little Rock. I worked all day helping to put the brakes back on and doing a hundred other things to get the bus ready to roll. It was filthy from
years of use and had a stale, lived-in smell inside. The interior had been refreshed some with new upholstery but not the carpet. Who knows what germs lurked in its tightly woven trenches? When we got the brakes and wheels put back on the bus at the end of the day, I headed toward Atlanta to pick up my first group. North out of Pensacola, I took Highway 29 to Interstate 85 toward Georgia’s metropolitan city.
In their day, late 1970s and early ’80s, Eagle buses were just about the only bus that entertainers and their crews would ride on. The Eagle had what was called a torsilastic suspension system, which made it a very smooth ride compared to anything riding on air bags, which is the norm on today’s buses. Air bags give a bus a side-to-side kind of motion when the coach is moving down the road. If you’re in a bunk trying to sleep it can give you a motion of falling out of your bunk. Walking around while the coach is in motion is a different style also. Torsilastic suspension rocks you from front to back making the nose and the rear of the bus float up and down, head to toe with no feeling of sway.
Beachcomber rode like a dream and powered down the road just fine. The four-speed transmission was very sloppy, and, when I had left the shop, I had been given a 4-foot long 1x2 board that was put in the bay. It was explained to me that the reverse solenoid acted up once in awhile, and since they were a pain and big expense to change out, I was instructed that if I had to back up and the reverse didn’t work to poke the solenoid a couple of times with the stick. This usually would get it back to normal. The best advice came from the owner when he suggested to park where you don’t have to back up. I was so excited about driving that old bus I didn’t give it a second thought.
I was sent to pick up Atlanta, the band, in Atlanta, the city. My first encounter with them was in a parking lot just north of town almost to Marietta outside the perimeter, as the interstate bypass around Atlanta is called. They were friendly and seemed like a great bunch of guys. Atlanta had been a hit band right out of the gate, so to speak, with several big country hits in 1982 to ’83. They had played the big arenas and fairs, did it all in a very short time span and were about to go on hiatus soon after I drove them.
After loading everything, we got out of town after rush hour and headed to Nashville to pick up another player or two. There was a small truck following with the gear. They played a couple of small bars on the five-day run and of all places, the American Mall in Lima, Ohio for its 20th anniversary. That seemed odd to me, but, hey, a gig is a gig.
We arrived in Lima early in the morning before six. The tour manager gave me a leave time, and I got some rest. That afternoon I left the hotel with the band around two o’clock and headed to the mall for their show. The crew guys had ridden over on the truck to get the gear set up. The guys in the band jived well and played and sang awesomely together.
On the ride over to the gig, they warmed up with some tunes getting their voices in shape as most singers do before a show. I’ve heard many warming up in the bus driving over to a gig from the hotel, some singing songs that they would be performing during the show, or just scaling through notes. Atlanta sang together with perfect harmony and when finished with a song segued right into the old song “Sweet Adeline.” They sounded like the best barbershop quartet I’d ever heard. No instruments, just their voices belting it out while I drove through Lima on the way to the mall. It was great.
When the short run was over I called the owner rep, Mario, and discussed some of the things that were wrong with the coach. By the time I got Atlanta back to Atlanta, I had a pretty substantial list of things that needed to be done to get this bus into better leasing shape.
That first run created a good memory for me and set the tone for my coming back for more such memories. There’s nothing but good feelings created when you witness people singing together. I’m lucky to be the only audience member sometimes. I’ve heard some beautiful things over the years as I drive buses, even broken ones.
Chapter 2 A Wet Dog and A Clean Carpet
As I’ve mentioned, it costs mega bucks to keep a bus in tip-top shape and clean. Humans can be messy enough. Try animals.
If I have been assigned to pick up you or your group, I have a routine that I will go through. I try to make contact with every customer several weeks before the pickup. The details are always the same, but it sometimes takes more time to explain to some people. Most of the information is the same from one group to the next: pick them up here, we’re going there and there and there, drop them off and go get another group.
I’m a bit of a pessimist. I always expect the worst-case scenarios of what passengers might be like after the first phone conversation. I’m curious as to what demands they will make of me outside of what I normally do. Sometimes after my first conversation with a client, I may end up trying to find out just who they are. It’s a normal procedure for me if I’m not used to hearing your name and what you’re famous for. Of course I recognize AC/DC, The Rolling Stones, Janet Jackson and other well-known acts, but when I was offered work on Depeche Mode’s 1986 first American tour, my first thought was, “Who?”
I’ve said, “Who’s that?” on more than one occasion, having never heard of your “mega” group. In the ’80s, record companies were putting hundreds of thousands of dollars into touring new bands, trying to see who would catch on and who would flop. I drove many small bands with one album to their name. The record company basically put them all on the road with small budgets trying to see if they could stir up some sales. Rent a bus and put band and crew in it, sometimes with a trailer, sometimes with a Ryder truck following and send them out to perform in the clubs throughout America. I’ve taken these bands to play in bars like Toads Place in Hartford, Connecticut, or The Metro in Chicago, the Whiskey in L.A., Leather Bottle in Lawrence, Kansas, Tipitina’s in New Orleans, or First Avenue in Minneapolis. These clubs and bars and many others seem to be a must for bands if they want a chance at making it big. I’ve been to them all.
A band that got noticed received a few hundred thousand more dollars from the record company and usually got an opening slot on a bigger tour, one that would be playing old theaters and small-town arenas and armories. They also had to deal with small-town promoters trying to be the next Bill Graham. At some point, if all that money invested looks like it will pay off, the entire marketing department goes to work for your band, and if you play the game right, you’re a “rock star.” Most rock stars ride buses, which bodes well for guys like me.
I’ve started tours and picked up passengers all over America. Big cities like New York City and Los Angeles are always good starting points. Starting in big cities can be very expensive for entertainers, though. Many start in other places, hone their shows and then roll into the big markets.
Consider yourself lucky if you drive someone who has played the game for a while. I was very excited when a bus owner’s call came to take Emmylou Harris on a weeklong run. I had always admired her and had already driven several people who had run in the same circles with her during the ’60s and ’70s. I had been a Flying Burrito Brothers Band fan when I was younger and played a few of their songs when I was in a bar band. I had met and driven Chris Hillman when I was assigned to drive the Desert Rose Band, of which Chris was a member. Chris originally had played with The Byrds and also had partnered with Gram Parsons in the Flying Burrito Brothers. I also knew Emmylou would have some of the best Nashville musicians with her, so that was another reason to look forward to the run.
A few days before the pick-up date, I called her tour manager, Phil Kaufman, about the run. Phil is a legend. He was one of the Rolling Stones’ first wranglers, and he’s also the guy who in 1973, stole Gram Parsons’ body from a California funeral home and set it on fire in the Joshua Tree forest in California. It’s all written in his book, Road Mangler Deluxe.
Kaufman had a scruffy voice when we connected the first time. We went through the normal banter about how everything was going to be, where we were going, what the budget looked like, all the standard stuff. Then
he gave me some more information.
“Emmylou has a dog and wants to know if you mind it riding in the bus,” Kaufman said.
“I don’t care as long as you include carpet cleaning in the bill when I drop Emmylou and the gang off,” I said. I’m thinking something like that would run about $60. All of a sudden, he shoots through the roof.
“I’M NOT CLEANING THE FUCKING CARPET! WE’RE ONLY GOING TO BE IN THE BUS FOR EIGHT FUCKING DAYS!”
Now, we can discuss a problem all day long, but if you start yelling at me... well then, “FUCK YOU!” I almost got to the point where if they didn’t want to clean the carpet, then they needed to leave the dog at home. But I let it slide.
“Anything else we need to talk about? I’m about to start driving toward Nashville.” He was getting real prissy already for a Rock ’n’ Roll guy, so I started to wonder if this run was going to work out or if it was going to be a miserable few days.
I went to Emmylou’s house for the pickup around 9 p.m. Many of the Nashville acts leave Nashville on Wednesday and Thursday evenings. A person could get run over by a bus on those nights. There are so many headed out for the weekend gigs. When I arrived, it was pouring down – we’re talking monsoon kind of rain. I pulled up in front of the driveway, and after a few minutes someone hit the door with a few bags while juggling an umbrella. It took about 20 minutes or so for most everyone to get his or her bags and bodies on board. Emmylou came to the door with someone carrying an umbrella over her head. I stepped back in my seating area and held out my hand to welcome her aboard. She looked at me hard.
“YOU’RE THE ONE WHO WON’T LET MY DOG GO!”
With that greeting, she started walking to the back of the bus. I was so bummed and shocked. I tried to right the ship.
Tales from the Trails of a Rock ’n’ Roll Bus Driver Page 4