No-Snitch Tour Diaries Part 1

As I build toward the release of Live At Royal Albert Hall (Preorder here) I’ll be sharing my tour journals from my 2025 tour with Father John Misty that concluded with the soon to be immortalized concert at Royal Albert Hall.

No one will be snitched on in these writings. These are about what it was like for me, a largely unknown, entirely independent artist to take on a massive EU/UK tour as the support act for a beloved artist.

I’m publishing these here for a few reasons. 1) It might be interesting to like 3-5% of my readers. 2) It should be interesting and helpful to anyone wondering what it takes to pull off a tour like this all by your lonesome. 3) Apparently artists are supposed to provide “content” and I don’t have it in me to get into Tik-Tok.

Please enjoy Part 1 of the No-Snitch Tour Diaries. LAX thru Oslo.

LAX - MARCH 31

Since being tapped for this tour I’ve enjoyed waking each day with countless things to figure out and take care of. I have cherished these months of purpose driven anxiety. When the tour ends I’m going to have to brace for a hard fall. I’ve been at this long enough to know not to get too high. But when I step on to the curb at LAX, my excitement is mixed with a tinge of sadness. The countdown back to normal has begun.

Taking on a major tour as an entirely independent entity came with a steep learning curve. I’ve taken it step by step, so making it to the airport with time to spare feels like a big win. I’ve found my gate. I’m batting 1000. What to do with these residual nerves? IG stories shows some of the Misty band hanging at the bar at the PF Changs above me. If I can put eyes on those dudes, I’ll know for sure I’m in the right place.

Dan (drums) and Tony (sax) are having a beer and an app at PF Chang’s. The Chang Dynasty fell off. It used to loom large in every outdoor mall. Terracotta horses flanking the entryway. Now I only see them in airports. Always in balcony spaces. Anyway.

Some of the Misty band has come to the gate, gone back outside to smoke, and will go through security again. To be that comfortable at the airport is beyond me. Going through security even once is almost more stress than I can handle. Despite my new found squeaky clean lifestyle, years of trying to get through with prohibited items triggers my nerves every time I see my bag go through the lead curtains and into the x-ray.

An overhead bin fits my guitar and I have a row to myself. I’ve won. I’ll be comfortable at least until we get to Hamburg where we connect with everyone else and head to Oslo. Maybe I’ll read Don DeLillo. I sleep like a baby the entire way instead.

In Hamburg we connect with Josh (Misty), Jon (keys), Eli (bass), and Dave (guitar). Josh has been there for a few hours walking up and down the terminal, staring out at the tarmac. As a lone wolf and outsider I’ll often battle insecurities that worm their way into my psyche. All of this is unexceptional for the rest of the band and crew. They do this all the time and have been for over 12 years. Even watching a fuel truck driving along a Hamburg airport runway feels like a delicacy to me. I expect everyone else to match my level of excitement. YOU’RE HERE! YOU’RE REALLY DOING IT! Nope. They’re glad to see me, happy to have me along. Otherwise, just another couple of weeks at the office.

On this four hour flight to Oslo they strap my guitar into a seat next to me. I can’t imagine a concession like that being made in the states. A free international seat for my instrument. It can be like this. I try to read Don DeLillo but my mind is racing too much to focus. I don’t read a page the whole tour.

OSLO - APRIL 1

When we get to Oslo I square off with a moment I’ve been building up for months: My first tangle with customs. Are they going to charge me for bringing my instrument with intentions to perform? The customs agent I communicated with says they will. I considered flying records and shirts over but opted to have them shipped instead so as to not hold up the group with trouble at the border. Turns out it couldn’t be smoother. A complete non-issue. I walk right through the green gate. A stress factor that had been snowballing for several months vanishes in an instant.

We load into a sprinter van driven by a guy named Bjorn. Really? The first dude I meet in Norway is named Bjorn? A little on the nose. Some of us talk basketball on the way to the hotel. Others stare out the window.

Greeting us at the hotel is our tour manager, Paul. He was brought on just a few days ago. The scheduled TM had to get emergency brain surgery. It’s everyone’s first time meeting Paul. He’s standing by a table with our room keys, each in an envelope labeled with our names. This type of shit is still exciting to me. A little bit of VIP treatment. My name written on an envelope. A hotel room that I didn’t pay for in a place I’ve never been.

I’ve come to embrace hotel rooms as a highlight of travel. Enjoy them. Spend time in them. But I’ve never been here before. I’ll lay down for a sec then hop to it.

There are a few different touring styles amongst the gang. There are the cave dwellers; the ones who go straight to their bunks. You never see them after the show. Some are mission oriented - they hunt for the famous coffee, the well regarded crepe, the celebrated speakeasy. I am partly mission oriented, but I mostly find myself in the third category: the wanderers.

Tony is a wanderer, and when I bump into him on the street in Oslo it won’t be the last time on this tour that we wander into one another. Wandering isn’t really a team sport. You’re a leaf in the wind. Agendas aren’t meant to be aligned. As a courtesy we entertain the idea of joining forces for a minute before we find a reason to break apart. I eat. I find a travel-sized hair dryer. I walk to the opera house. I link up with Kyle (keys) and Dan (mission oriented) who are having a drink at a speakeasy. I wonder if we’re all gonna stay out a while and drink. Nope. This is adult-level longevity-oriented touring. Straight to the rooms after one specialty cocktail named for a Norwegian hip-hop group.

OSLO - APRIL 2

I slept through the hotel breakfast. It will become a running joke that I missed out on the ultimate hotel breakfast. I’m glad I got the sleep.

We board the bus for the first time. I know my place so I’m not hot to trot to claim a bunk. Growing up I watched enough episodes of the Real World to be sensitive to the politics of bed claiming. Would be nice to get a bunk with a little window so I don’t oversleep but I’ll take whatever is left. These euro buses are double-decker. A lounge and bathroom on the first floor, another lounge, twelve bunks and one bedroom up top. The band and I take one bus. Crew takes another. I settle into a bottom bunk right below Darley (guitar), right across from Jon.

It’s a five minute drive to the venue. Paul comes on board and gives me a laminate. Instructions into the venue are always on the text thread but it’s confusing every time. This venue is particularly labyrinthine. Reminiscent of that scene in Spinal Tap.

I pop into catering and fix myself a plate. I meet Tyler, the monitor mixer from Omaha. The hotel breakfast was great, he tells me. We bond. This connection comes in handy on the final day of tour.

I do my best to get tax documents together. A shipment of shirts has arrived for me.

The venue sells all merch as policy which means I won’t sell much. Being present at your own merch table makes all the difference. I don’t know what my Tax ID is (it’s your social security number). I don’t know how to provide the info to the merch lady that she requires.

I wander. There is a place across the street called Bastard Burger. Oslo is beautiful, sunny and cold. All these euro cities are walkable. Designed before cars. I’m charmed. I grab an espresso at Tim Windleboe which I am told is a pioneer in third wave coffee. Tastes like a Nespresso to me but I’ll happily buy into the lore.

Two women stop me and ask if I’m Butch Bastard. Hey, how about that? Yes, I am. We take a picture together. All three of us are wearing purple jackets.

For this tour I am on house sound which means that at some point before every show I need to search the venue looking for whoever will be doing sound for me. Pretty sure this dude’s name was Bjorn. I tell him my needs. One DI for my guitar, one vocal mic with a little reverb. They’re always pleased at the simplicity.

Pro tip: if you have to blow up a bathroom on tour, head to the freshly cleaned one in the lobby of the venue before anyone has arrived. It’s like getting away with murder.

Soundcheck is crucial. Not because my act requires a lot of fine tuning but because I have an hour to get comfortable on stage. I run my whole set. By the time I’m done I’m confident.

Being a solo opener is a trip. You are in a building with two to four-thousand paying customers waiting to be entertained. You and you alone stand between the crowd and the act they paid to see. You better be good.

I’m backstage - a network of staircases, hallways and storage areas away from the house when it dawns on me that there is a sold out crowd somewhere far away in this building staring at an empty stage. I don’t have a manager or bandmates to check in with. No one is keeping tabs on me. I have a start time written on a piece of paper taped to the wall and that’s it.

Fifteen minutes until I go on. I’m still in disbelief. I keep waiting for someone to tell me that this was all a misunderstanding. You aren’t actually performing! YOU??? Ha! What are you even doing here!? We meant the OTHER Butch Bastard.

Is this really about to happen? Am I going to perform to two-thousand Norwegians alone? I’m in charge of the whole building for forty-five minutes? By the time I’m side stage there are five minutes to go. I peek through the curtain. Sure enough, a huge room and balcony packed shoulder to shoulder. Staring at a stage with nothing on it but the guitar I got for Christmas when I was sixteen resting on a stand.

Three minutes left. Is someone going to come tell me what to do? With one minute to go stage manager Kris shows up popping the last bite of a sandwich into his mouth. His demeanor calms me. “Ok, you ready?” He steps out from the curtain and flashes a light at the front of house. The lights dim. The crowd reacts. “Ok, go ahead.”

It’s nice when the crowd responds when you walk out. A little burst of confidence to build on. A few people yell my name. God bless them.

My memory of this show is a blur. Too surreal to process. I remember a few pockets of chattiness in the crowd. I develop a technique at this show where I stare directly at the general area of the chatter until the perpetrators get self-conscious and shut up. It’s like putting out little fires in the crowd. But I’m comfortable up there. The bigger the stage the better. It’s humiliation that I fear. There’s nothing embarrassing about playing a room like this. It’s the sparsely attended shows in less than impressive rooms that give me nightmares.

Show goes great. I’m a little disoriented. Jet lagged? Shell shocked? Relieved for sure. I do the long walk back to the green room where the band is. The post show meal has arrived. Bastard Burgers.

I go out to the balcony with Noah (Misty manager) to watch FJM. Fantastic. What a band.

After the show I head to the lobby to stand near the merch table. Normally I work my own table which helps me sell more, interact with the fans and get a read on how it went over. I only have shirts to sell because records won’t arrive until tomorrow in Stockholm.

I see a few people buy my shirt. It’s awkward though, standing around waiting for someone to talk to me. A few people do. Some drunk close-talkers. Some women who seem interested but only want to know if Josh is going to come out. They all get ushered out the door quickly. I worry this is what all the shows will be like and wonder what I’m going to do with all the unsold merch at the end of tour.

But I’m happy to be here. What an honor and a privilege. I check my email and according to FedEx tracking, my records are held up at customs and still haven’t arrived in Stockholm…

(To be continued…)