No-Snitch Tour Diaries Part V

As I build toward the release of Live At Royal Albert Hall (Preorder HERE) I’ll be sharing my journals from the 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.

PARIS (Day off) - APRIL 7

For months I have been excited about this. A full day to myself in Paris. It turns out we don’t actually arrive until about 4pm but that is still plenty of time to get after it in a city that stays up. The hotel is across the street from the venue La Cigale where we will play the following night. Just below Montmarte. This is my third time in Paris but I’m never here for more than a day at a time.

I’ve read about something called the Paris Syndrome. The idea of Paris is so romanticized that when people actually go there they feel let down. I’ve experienced a bit of this myself. This is mostly a result of never getting any real time there but I have found myself walking along the Seine at night wondering if I’m at the wrong river. I do know that Montmarte has magic to it so I head up the hill.

I love touring more than anything and I look back on each one as the best of times, but I forget that going back to 2012 at some point during every tour I’ve been on my mind turns on me and delivers a depressive episode.

Staring out a ferry window at a breathtaking landscape between Vancouver and Victoria in British Columbia.

Over-caffeinated, fighting off a panic attack on a sidewalk in Lexington, KY.

Crawling into a bunk bed fully clothed at a friend of a bandmate’s apartment in Chicago.

Waking up at 2pm in the attic at a tour manager’s house in the suburbs of London.

Walking through the flower garden on a dew-dropped morning at a bandmate’s family home in South Jersey.

These are all snapshots from tours past where the flash of misery was so concentrated that it’s almost like I can still taste it on my tongue.

It’s always temporary, but the highs of touring are so thrilling and extraordinary that the lows can be equally devastating. Performing in front of a crowd usually snaps me out of it but during the in-between times I get hit with waves of despair.

As I walk uphill through the winding cobblestone streets of Montmartre eating a fresh baguette, the sadness comes out of nowhere and mugs me.

Despite the warmest welcome from everyone in the band and crew I feel isolated. I’ve been isolated for months. No label, no manager, no agent, no team. I’m even alone on stage when I perform. I start to imagine that everyone in the party is off somewhere having an extravagant Parisian evening without me. Pathetic.

I call Kat to see if she can take one last crack at getting some records shipped over but understandably between work and taking care of the kids she’s about had it with the FedEx run around. The conversation doesn’t go well. My sympathies to any partner of a touring musician.

I get a text that a few guys are on the prowl looking for steak frites. I join up. I order the French onion soup and a steak with foie gras on it. It’s fine, but I’m spiraling. I just want to go to the hotel and lay down. I tell the guys I have to deal with something, leave money on the table, and head toward the hotel to drown in it.

I’m on the corner about to cross the street to the hotel when I get a tap on the shoulder. Kyle is sitting at a corner cafe drinking a beer. Kyle and I hang regularly back home in LA. He hits the bunk pretty early after shows so I haven’t seen much of him so far. He invites me to sit with him. I feel some warmth return to me.

Shortly after, Josh comes across the street and I go with them to get some food that Kyle has sussed out. I’ve got a belly full of steak and foie gras so I’m along to drink beer and espresso. I’m beginning to feel grounded as sanity returns to me. These are my two closest friends on the tour so it’s restorative to get some time with them. It’s a godsend, really. I’m pulled out of my misery for the time being.

They split a croque madam at one place and then a couple of crepes at a corner cafe up the street. We talk about what it’s like to be fathers, brothers, sons, and whatever else they’ll engrave on our tombstones.

We head back to the hotel. Josh’s plan is to stay up until 7am with his HBO Max password. He’ll sleep until 3pm and wake for soundcheck feeling fresh as a daisy. Not exactly the glamorous Parisian delusion that I was FOMO-Gooning™ on during my meltdown. We retreat to our respective rooms. I have a nice phone call with Kat back home. All is well.

I put Django Unchained on and doze off. When I wake up at 2:30am FOMO hits again. Here I am in Paris watching Netflix. There has to be something else out there for me. I poke around Yelp looking for late night steak frites. It turns out there is a bar that serves it about a ten minute walk from the hotel through the Red Light District. I leave my ring, watch and chain in the room and strike out.

If anyone from the band or crew were to spot me walking solo through the Red Light district at 3am it would be natural for them to jump to conclusions. Paris is supposed to be rife with petty crime so I’ve got my guard up, but I see worse in LA. I make it to the bar, google translate some words, and wind up with the perfect steak frites. An NBA game is airing live back in the states so I watch for a bit. I’m even so indulgent as to order a Coke.

I shuffle back to the hotel. Nourished.

PARIS (Day 2) - APRIL 8

Shower, pack up, get your act together, head across the street to the venue. La Cigale has character but is much older and jankier than the previous venues. It’s like six flights of stairs up to the top. The shower is scummy but the green room is adorned with baguettes and cheese. Vibrant tile work everywhere. There’s a lot to love.

Looks like the merch table will be a free-for-all tonight. There’s no space. I’ll have to stand on a step next to the table and hope that people see my shirts.

I leave my bag in the lobby and head out to soak up some Parisian sun. I’m still feeling spiritually impaired so I hike up the hill to Sacré-Couer basilica. I light a candle for my grandmother and sit for an hour.

I am not in any way religious but I consider myself “culturally catholic.” I went to the schools, I received some of the sacraments, I’d hit up an Easter or Christmas Eve mass if grandma was in town, I finish all the food on my plate, I’ve got a couple of nuns in the family, my grandmother kept several mass-produced paperback biographies of Jackie O on her shelf, etc. When I enter an ornate Roman Catholic Church I feel a deep cut familiarity and calm. It’s exactly what I need on this day.

I buy an I Love Paris shirt on my way back down the hill. I schlepp my bag several stories up to the green room. I look for a phone charger. I rip into one of the baguettes. I hop in the dank shower. The water pools at my feet as it fights it’s way down the drain.

I was told a few months ago by the promoter that I need to have a certain tax form (TAJA1) to avoid getting double taxed in France and at home. For months I stressed about what this is and how to get it in my possession (it’s now called a certificate of coverage). I was told I need to bring a physical copy with me. I nervously hand over what I believe is a completed TAJA1 to the promoter. She says thanks. How simple it all was.

I have a few French friends and I know them to hold disdain for air-conditioning. This does not fare well for me. I feel beads of sweat forming on my brow and the crowd isn’t even in the building yet.

The smoke machine has been turned on. I start to cough and my eyes water as it funnels down the narrow back hallways with no escape.

This is the first show where the room isn’t completely packed by the time my set begins. It’s a downer. Feels like a lost opportunity. But they file in gradually and within a few songs the place is full.

The lighting guy dims the lights in between my songs which is disorienting. I need to adjust my capo, see my set list, check my collar, etc. But I acknowledge it as a style choice and make do.

The crowd gives it up for me. Great show.

The Misty band is in the hall afterward. Josh asks me if it’s hot out there. I say yeah. God dammit, he says. He asks Paul if they can request to have the air conditioning turned on. He’ll pay for it. Paul hops on his walkie to inquire. I don’t know if it gets done or not.

Merch is a shit show. There’s no line. It’s like a bar at a crowded night club. I get rid of a few tees but it’s not great. I miss out on a few sales when security herds everyone out of the building.

There is a visiting/catering area on one of the many floors in the building for visitors to hang in. I recognize the piano player from Fear Fun.

I dig into the post show meal. Don’t really remember what. Noodles, maybe. Rice bowls? There is a crowd forming out front waiting for Josh but there isn’t time to talk to fans tonight.

Paul has us all walk out to the main bus entrance while he sneaks Josh behind the crowd and on to the front of the bus where the drivers enter. Once on board, Josh opens the back door and waves to the fans. Thanks guys, but we have to get going. The crowd seems dazed. How did he get on the bus? It’s a magic trick.

Josh slides in next to me at the bus dinette and we yuk it up like old times. The bus fills with laughter. The youthful camaraderie of tour. What a beautiful way to grow old.