No-Snitch Tour Diaries Part VII

To celebrate the release of Live At Royal Albert Hall on vinyl and bandcamp (both available NOW) I present my journals from the 2025 tour with Father John Misty. These writings provide the narrative leading up to the now 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 an established, beloved act.

UTRECHT - APRIL 10

It starts by waking up in the bus which is parked next to a loading dock in an underground parking garage. I feel like I’m in the guts of an IKEA, arrows on the floor and everything. Despite the arrows, I’m lost. It’s a big government run building with five different venues in it. I can’t find a single one of them. Eventually I figure it out.

The green room area is nice. I have my own room with a sign that says “Butch Basterd” and a shower. I feel guilty taking a whole room while seven guys cram into the other so I make sure to let everyone know that mine is open to them despite having my clothes and gear flung all over the place. Chris and Dave are figuring out how to work the coffee machine. They have these individually packaged waffle cookies that Dave loves.

I take a walk through Utrecht. It’s a beautiful sunny and cold day. This place is stunning. All should be wonderful except that I’m buzzing with anxiety. The last show has me a little bit rattled. I know that tours take dips like this and there is bound to be a glorious bounce back, but I don’t feel confident that tonight is the night. Despite all the sleeping in and sitting around I’m exhausted. The result of being just a little bit nervous ALL of the time.

I walk through a church then grab a cortado at an impossibly quaint little shop. I sit by the canal that runs through the town. An anxious mess. I get my phone out to take a pic for the gram. I think about how exhausting my incessant tour posting must be for some but I have to do it. I’ve been on the other side of the phone plenty of times.

I have a lunch ticket at the venue but I feel compelled to stay out of the IKEA dungeon for as long as possible on this beautiful day. I sit down, order a lox bagel and call Kat hoping for someone to talk me off the ledge. She of course is at a completely different part of her day and can only offer so much, but hearing her voice calms me.

I could pull off a whole tour with one outfit but underwear only gets one shot. That’s my policy. I am down to the last couple of pairs and I didn’t get my laundry done in Brussels. I see that there is a mall right by the venue.

It’s an American style shopping mall which is to say it’s miserable and I can’t find my way around. A current artist who shall not be named has been the butt of more than a few jokes this tour but I’ve never really heard the music. I listen to it as I look around for underwear. It’s slightly less depressing than the mall.

Eventually I find the Dutch equivalent of a Foot Locker. They’ve got a brand of boxer briefs called Snipes hanging on a rack by the counter. I guess at the size and buy a six pack. These should get me all the way to London and back home.

I get my dinner ticket from Paul and head down to the cafeteria. Again, IKEA. There’s a huge line as every employee in the building is there. I line up behind Kyle and Dave. It’s buffet style. When you get to the end you present your ticket to a cashier and order a drink. Dave spends about a minute trying to describe a juice drink that he noticed some kids ahead of him order. “It’s a little green bottle with a thing you pull at the top”. The counter lady eventually figures out what he’s talking about. A sparkling apple juice. I order one too because it feels hard earned.

I eat quickly then head up to shower and sound check. I haven’t asked anyone to record my set since Copenhagen. I figure that if I want to get the London show recorded I should start asking these FOH guys to get a sense of how they respond and what to expect. Like in Copenhagen, this guy is happy to do it. He’s an American who went to school with Jacob.

I find my way out to the merch table and get it set up. People are lining up on the staircase waiting to be let in. A lady yells my name “IAAAN!” I figure it’s my cousin who is supposed to be at this show but it’s a woman with green hair that I haven’t seen before. I’ll recognize her as I see her at the front at the next several shows. Right next to the Scottish Girlies. The diehards know me now. God love ‘em.

Another 7pm set time and I’m more nervous than usual. Hard to get there all the way mentally when the room is three quarters full. Was the first part of the run just a fluke? Kris is there and hands me a water and a towel. Always making me feel safe, that guy.

The show is going well but again the vibes are just a little off. It could all be in my head. This crowd is generous, though. I hear another voice yell my name “IAAAN!”. This time it’s my cousin. People from my childhood always razz me a little bit when I’m on stage. The show goes well. If merch goes ok, I’ll be ok.

I head out to the table and my cousin is there. Haven’t seen her in years. She always opens by telling me that she used to change my diapers when I was a baby. Her grandmother and my grandmother were the last living members of the silent generation in our family. Those two and their sister, “Auntie Sister”, were the youngest of nine kids.

Auntie Sister put out an album in 1969 called Ljubimo (Let us love - in Croatian) with her band “Nun-Plus”. It’s an all time banger. It was kind of a family joke throughout my childhood until my brother and I came of age and realized how good it is. We spread it far and wide throughout the Seattle music scene.

Otherwise not a lot of action at merch but one Dutch fella in an American flag sweater shows me big love. That should give me a little bit of gas to help get me through the night.

I putz around backstage during the FJM set. I enjoy my room. There’s a day off tomorrow and I’m ready for it. I hear Mahashmashanah start downstairs which means the show is ending and the encore is next. That’s always my cue to start making my way back to the merch table.

Yet again everyone has to file past me to get to the Misty merch. This is not great for the soul. People aren’t buying. One guy buys a shirt but when I check the PayPal transaction later I see that he only entered 5 euros when they were listed at 30. I DM the guy later to say that I wish him nothing but the best in life, but to lose that shirt. Keep my name off your torso, homey.

A few people are talking to me but not buying anything which is fine of course but I’m not exactly in the mood. They eye the shirts but are unsure. After fifteen minutes or so they finally get around to the point, “Do you think Josh will come out?” That about does it for me.

As soon as they leave I say fuck it. I’m not gonna wait for the end of the line. X this night out and move on to Edinburgh. As I bend down to grab my box of shirts I smack the fuck out of my head on the sharp corner of the table. My vision reels like the tracking on an old television. Black flies swarm my head. I feel the pain cascade across every nerve in my skull. This could be bad. I might be playing the remaining shows with an egg sticking out of my forehead. I stumble over to recover behind a faux marquee that says REAL LOVE BABY.

Once upstairs I ask the promoter if there is any ice in the facility. He’s very helpful. He springs to action and brings me some wrapped in a rag. It’s Eli’s birthday so the guys are sitting in the other room having cake and watching a Guns ‘N Roses video.

Jacob asks if he can use my shower and I’m happy to oblige. Makes me feel useful. I decide to take another shower as well just to enjoy the luxury.

Josh has taken off to the airport with Paul. He’s going to fly ahead to Scotland because we’re looking at a long bus ride, a ferry ride at an astonishing hour, another seven hours on the bus, and then a hotel room in Nottingham that we get for six hours before we get on the bus again to drive all through the night to Edinburgh. Paul has provided a loaf of bread, peanut butter, and jelly in case hunger strikes. There’s a buzz amongst the band that this is going to be brutal but it sounds nice to me. Restful.

We all head outside to the balcony so the smokers can smoke. It’s freezing out there. As we walk back in the security guard, a beefed up fella yells after us. “Hey, your set was the shit.” We turn around and Jon starts to thank him before it becomes clear that the guy is talking to me. “The other band was alright, but you, that’s my shit.” I thank him. Sometimes people think that in order to compliment you they have to neg someone else. I understand what he meant by it though and I’ll take what I can get.

“Ian, I don’t think this is working out.” Jon says, jokingly.

Back down to the guts of the IKEA, into the parking garage, and onto the bus for the foreseeable future. Dave puts on Pulp Fiction.

The relief bus driver sees my head wound and rushes to get the first-aid kit. He soaks a cotton ball in rubbing alcohol, cleans the area, and puts a fresh bandage on it. I want to collapse in his arms and weep.