I've been awake since 7:30am and been in Warped mode since 8.. it's currently 10:30pm and I've decided I need a break from talking, thinking, and speaking about Warped Tour. So here goes ...
For those of you who don't know (which is most of you) my friend Heather and I started a website 7 and a half years ago called Hot Vibes (hotvibes.com). Although Hot Vibes has currently taken the backseat to our careers in the touring business we both are still passionate about writing and sharing our experiences with others. For years we've toyed with the idea about publishing a book which documents the music/touring business from a females perspective. The reasoning behind the book wouldn't be to make money, or to gain notoriety, but to share stories with others who want to be involved in touring as well. As we continue to grow and learn with each tour we are taking notes that could end up lining the pages of "You Can't Put Groupie On Your Resume".
Although most of my notes do not make complete stories I will leave you with something I wrote a year and a half ago called, Taking It All Back:
It happens every tour. There will always be that one person that you connect with. Somebody who is always there to listen and can make you smile when you're ready to give up. No matter how many times I've told myself not to connect it undoubtedly continues to happen. I've taught these lessons but can never seem to heed my own advice.
Enter Ken, my source for entertainment and companionship for two months, and the reason behind my tour drinking sprees. He was taller and skinnier than past flings, with far less eyeliner to mask his pretty blue eyes. His fluffy brown hair and occasional scruffy face was the key to making or breaking my day. But this time was different I told myself; this time I'm not naïve. It was simply a tour crush, and should never be taken any further than that. The Don'ts constantly ran through my head, "don't trust him, don't fall for him, and don't kiss him" – fuck, I'm in trouble.
At this point in the game I realized that I had gotten myself into something that is always emotionally hard to climb out of. I had let myself get attached to a guy, and all of the stress that comes with it. Sure, I could claim that it's something to help me forget about my past train wreck of on again off again's and expiration dating mishaps, that it doesn't matter, but wouldn't that be lying?
…. BAKERSFIELD, CA
It was 4 o'clock in the afternoon and I had finished setting up my merchandise with two hours to waste before doors. All of the venue staff were unusually friendly and after some gentle coaxing began taking shots of vodka and tequila with us at the bar. It was a relatively warm February afternoon in Bakersfield, California something I wasn't use to experiencing in the winter months. Having grown up in New Hampshire, I was more than happy to spend the day relaxing in the sunshine.
Two drinks, and a lot of laughs later, the doors had opened and I took my place at the merch booth. This began my nightly routine of trying to convince kids to buy my shit … or at least not to steal it. Because all of the shows were all ages I was careful when consuming any adult beverages. However, this venue was a bit different than others. All of the merchandise was in a separate room equipped with a bar, and a DJ booth. It felt more like a party than a show. I guess that's why I felt so at ease with polishing off the bottle of Zhenka that kept my feet company under the table.
This type of behavior was common among tour mates. It was accepted, no matter what day of the week, or time of day it was. After all, touring was our social life, and we all played well together. There's a chance that when you live with me you'll get to see all of my personalities while drunk, angry Andria, sad Andria, or wild Andria – and in Bakersfield it was the latter that shined through.
Carrying out my merch bins with another show complete tears rolled down my face as I scrambled to load out before my new friends got sight of this. A reminder of my ex boyfriend Joe was the situation that ruined a perfectly good night of dancing and drinking. The only solution I deemed fit was adding more alcohol to the problem, and lots of it.
See, Joe is my only true heartbreak to date. He set the standard for what a healthy relationship should be, and I can't seem to get over him. Even though I was only twenty-one at the time he changed my thoughts of never wanting to get married, to when can we grow old together. Everything was great until one morning I awoke to an abnormal message Joe had left on my voicemail while I was away on tour. He was a Jehovah's Witness and his parents were disapproving of my "worldly" behavior.
"I can't be with you anymore, our worlds are too different. Things will never work out", his voiced stressed as he continued, "I'm changing my phone number, I'm sorry".
It's the same "I'm sorry" that echoes through my mind every time I begin to get close to somebody. A constant fear that the past will repeat itself and leave me alone in an emotionless world. All of this was unraveling in Bakersfield and there wasn't any alcohol, or pain killer that could heal it, believe me – I’ve tried.
After wasting the night away at a local bar I returned to the tour bus, with a heightened sense of numbness, a little less cash, and a failed attempt at elevating my mood. Our home away from home was a red Prevost that held a fleet of ten passengers comfortably for the two-month stit. From time to time we would have a guest spend the night, reminding us what sleepovers in elementary school were like. Continuously surrounding myself with people kept my mind off my lacking social life, and what better occupation to do that than the present.
There was nothing to be sad about I told myself, as I ran to the back of the bus. My mascara ran down my face as I collapsed into a pile of clothes that sat on the couch. I was finally working on another tour, new friends surrounded me everyday, and I was happy, yet all I could think about were the words "I'm Sorry". Tears dropped slowly over my trembling body for five minutes before my pity party was interrupted, it was Ken. Another downfall of being on tour is that you're never completely alone. I quickly hid my face in a sweatshirt half embarrassed that someone saw my weakness, and half shocked that someone cared.
"What's wrong?" he asked in a quiet and caring tone.
"Nothing" I managed to mumble between stuttered breaths.
Ken got closer to me and put his hand on my shoulder. I felt a genuine sincerity as he asked me again, "Andria, what's wrong?"
Ken seemed trustworthy and his warmth encouraged me to blurt out all of the "what ifs" from the Joe relationship that spent a year lingering in my brain. What If I converted? What if I was prettier or thinner? What if I obeyed everything Joe had said? Would we still be together? These were questions Ken couldn't answer and insisted it wouldn't make a difference.
"I would gladly take it all back to be with him living happily ever after," I uttered.
Having skipped the emotional part of our break up I often find myself with sudden regret and sadness. It's the regret that makes me jump to silly conclusions about how great life would be if we were still together. When in fact it would be the opposite, and I'm aware of that. I've never been the type of person to conform to anyone idealistic beliefs especially when it's concerning religion. Opening my heart to him left me vulnerable and unsure of myself as a person. It only took traveling the country three times for me to begin trusting my intuition and Bakersfield was a good place to start.
All Ken could do was open his arms and hold me. He spent hours listening to all of the sob stories that I never got to vent, and even shared some of his own. It had finally come out, and felt great to open up. For the first time in a while I felt secure with myself, and comfortable with another male. What happened next could easily be blamed on my blood alcohol level, or the fact that I could have swam home in a sea of my own tears. But when I looked deep into Ken's concerned eyes all I wanted to do was kiss him, and I did. It was the kind of slow and meaningful kiss you'd expect to see in a movie. Perhaps in a high school prom scene, or the final goodbye kiss of the flick. Despite the feeling that came after I knew the kiss was filled with thoughts of others, mixed emotions, and booze from both parties. I had just set myself up for another "I'm Sorry," and this time there was no hiding from the mistake.
