No Snitch Tour Diaries Part XI

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.

BRIGHTON - APRIL 14

After two weeks of waking up in underground parking garages, vacant lots, and seedy alleyways, it’s a benediction to step off of the bus directly onto the coast of the English Channel. Brighton has provided a welcome vibe shift. We’re parked in front of the record shop where Josh will be doing another in-store performance. It’s right across from the beach and a number of coffee shops and restaurants. The air smells amazing. It is, of course, sunny and cold.

Chris is scheduled to play a couple of his songs to open this morning’s in-store. He and Dave are practicing in the upstairs lounge of the bus when I head out to grab a cortado. I envy their guitar playing. It’s my big insecurity as a musician, that I can’t pick up an instrument and cook without putting some forethought into it. I can’t jam.

I stop and talk for a minute with Josh who is on his way back from the coffee shop I am headed to. When I get there, I order a sausage roll to go with my espresso because I vaguely recall Gordon Ramsay raving about sausage rolls when I was in a depressive episode and bingeing seasons of Kitchen Nightmares. While I wait for my order, the shop owner from next door comes barging in.

“Father John Misty just walked by! Did you see him? Was he in here??”

I enjoy my food and beverage at a table outside with Kyle and Tony. I’m not one to go on about natural remedies, but that sea breeze… it works. The sausage roll is fine. A little too rich with the pastry and all.

Paul has taken on deputy guitar tech duties today so I can relax. I hang outside the bus with the rest of the band. The smokers smoke. A few gawkers hover on the periphery.

Again, the room is packed for this show that isn’t even a “show”. Chris and Dave sound nice together. Josh and I mill around out back as he waits to take the stage. “Sorry to keep doing this,” I say, “but I really can’t thank you enough.”

“I can’t thank you enough. To come out here and open these shows, it’s a tall order.”

Josh wouldn’t entrust me with his hard-won crowds just to be nice. He assures me that I have risen to the call. My imposter syndrome retreats to its hole, where it belongs.

I walk outside as Josh goes on stage and I immediately hear Paul scream. “DOES ANYONE HAVE A CAPO!!?? DOES ANYONE HAVE A CAPO!!?? As former deputy guitar tech, I can imagine the amplitude of his panic. I tell him I’ll find one. I run up to the top deck of the bus which always has a few loose guitars laying around. I pull a capo from one of the headstocks and run it back inside. When Josh finishes the first song I hand it over to him then walk across the street to skip rocks with some of the guys. Like it never happened.

In the van over to the venue we are clowning on a public music figure who shall not be named. Paul asks us if we think this artist is genuine. “Oh, he’s nothing if not genuine,” someone says. “But that doesn’t score you points in art.” I tend to agree. Although it doesn’t cost you points, either.

Joel tells me that Pink Floyd opened for Hendrix at Brighton Dome in 1967. Dark Side Of The Moon debuted here as well. In moments like this, I imagine how thrilled the ten year old version of myself would be if he knew what’s in store for him. It’s a healthy way to measure success, I think. How would your current situation seem were you not hardened by time, poisoned by comparison or mired in financial worry?

Jon and Kyle have agreed to join me for my last song at Royal Albert Hall tomorrow night, so Jon wants to play with me tonight in Brighton to prepare. The sound man is in completely over his head. When I tell him I’ll need one more input and one more wedge to accommodate Jon, he goes pale in the face. Commence thirty minutes of the guy trying to set up this rudimentary arrangement. His eye-linered, MGK looking assistant shrugs apologetically. Jon leans in, “I want to ask this guy… My man… How did you find yourself here?” In all fairness he sets it up correctly with enough time for me to get a healthy sound check.

Catering is good as always. Pork medallions. I hear a few anecdotes repeated from earlier meals. This tour is coming to its end.

As I’m walking from the merch table to the backstage area an older chap stops me. He points to my black and white G.H. Bass Weejuns. “I like your shoes. Jimmy Page wore those shoes. Look up any live picture from 1973 and Jimmy Page is wearing those shoes.” I take his word for it.

Sandwiched between a boisterous Manchester show and the finale at Royal Albert Hall, I’m comfortable here in Brighton. The crowd is pin drop silent and gracious with their applause. The final song with Jon, “Elegy For The Baby Boomer In D”, kills. An amazing show. But mixed in with the adrenaline is a wisp of sadness. Only one more stop.

I sell a few records during the changeover and head downstairs to find a beer. I sit by myself in the green room. I’m in the depths of the basement, but I can hear a feed of the show coming through a speaker in the hall. I notice how funky they get at the end of “I Guess Time Just Makes Fools Of Us All.” Stevie Wonder clavinet licks, James Jamerson bass lines, etc. It’s stunning to hear what these guys are capable of when given the chance to go off script.

I crack a tall can and then another and shoot the shit with Erica. We’re both disappointed that we didn’t have more time to hang. This tour just never let up. “Next time,” I offer, hopefully.

Merch sales are great. A lot of meaningful interactions. Even the Jimmy Page shoe guy comes back around to tip his cap. I sell 32 records.

It’s raining when we drag our bags back to the van. I’ve got way more shit with me than the others so I’m always on the verge of missing our ride. It takes us to the bus which is still parked by the water. I pocketed another tall can as I left the greenroom. It is my birthday at midnight, after all. Kyle sees what I’m drinking and asks how those non-alcoholic beers are. I look at the can and see the truth clearly marked. It’s my third one.

Pathetically, when it hits midnight, I tell Kyle that it’s my birthday. Just fishing for a little extra shine to burn the sadness out of me. He’s good for it.

I once read a Substack article by the singer of Eve 6 where he likens waking up and getting out of your bunk on a tour bus to trying to climb your way out from the bottom of a well. Back in the real world, when I have trouble falling asleep, I imagine that I’m in one of these bunks. It’s the coziness of the cubby, the hum of the air conditioning, the gentle rocking motion on the top deck as the bus bores through the black of night.

More than anything, it’s the tranquility that comes with being exactly where I’ve set out to be since I gave myself over to this life - traveling the world, playing music, making my plea in a new town every day. Being born every morning. Dying every night.

I sink to the bottom of my bunk for one last blissful sleep. When I come up for air, I’ll have made it to Royal Albert Hall.