Stress has always been a contributing factor to my eating disorder, and when I started working on my second album it brought out my distorted thinking habits under new guises. Without noticing it I started treating sleep the same way I once treated food—obsessing over it, controlling it, depriving myself of it as an excuse to work harder. When I realized what was happening, I called my own bluff, and then I started doing it with money. My demon is one sneaky devil, but I’m even sneakier. I got a grip (in other words, I called my life coach) and then I went back to work.
When I finally got back into the studio, I was terrified. However, after a full day of work we had the beginnings of my first track. I was getting ready to leave when the producer I was working with set up a mic for my violin.
“Oh, I actually don’t write the violin parts in front of anyone,” I said politely.
He looked at me quizzically. “That’s usually how I do it. Just give it a shot.”
Before I knew what was happening, I was in the recording booth huffing and puffing. Who does he think he is? Pressuring me to play in front of him . . .
When I stepped out of the sound booth a few hours later I couldn’t even remember what I had played. We listened to it a couple times, but I’m always too attached to my music in the moment. I can’t tell if I love it or want to throw it across the room. I was still frustrated with the producer for “forcing” me into an uncomfortable situation, so I asked him to e-mail me a copy of the rough track and then I left the studio. I’m slightly embarrassed to admit it, but when I listened to the song a few days later, I started weeping. It was so beautiful! (And I was most likely running on less than four hours of sleep.) But aside from the sleep deprivation and stress, I cried because I knew the song was too beautiful for me to take sole credit for. I felt as if God was hitting me over the head with a rolled-up newspaper saying, “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not going to make you do this alone!” I sat there listening to the song, choking on my own spit, and I remember thinking, Why do you care so much about me? His response was drowned out by the booming chorus of the song. I guess the reasons aren’t what’s most important. I knew I still had a lot of work ahead of me, but I also knew He was going to help me do it.
BOSS LADY
We’ve all met that girl—the one who says she only hangs out with guys because other girls are “too dramatic.” There’s a 96.5 percent chance she is crazier and more dramatic than all the girls she’s not friends with.
I grew up with sisters, had girlfriends in high school, spent one and a half years with sister missionaries in New York, and lived in an apartment of six girls during college. Then, for my twenty-sixth birthday, I got a tour bus full of dudes. Don’t get me wrong, I love my guys, but I was nervous about all the changes in my life. I was starting a new career, with new coworkers, in a new “home,” around new friends, in a new city every day. I was a naïve, middle-class white female entering the unknown. And I was coming from Provo, Utah, no less: land of the cardigan-wearing girls named Kelly. Leaving Provo was both thrilling and terrifying. I needed something familiar, someone familiar. I was roommates with my close friend Whitney at the time, so when my tour was booked I asked her if she would come out on the road to help with merchandise. And then there were two naïve, middle-class white females entering the unknown. I don’t know what I would have done without her.
Having Whitney that first year of touring is one of the many ways I’ve been luckier than I can justify. How did I weasel my way into this rough-and-tumble rock ’n’ roll world without getting roughly tumbled? I attribute much of this good fortune to my big hair. While my body might say, “I’m small and vulnerable,” my hair warns, “DON’T MESS WITH ME.” On a more serious note, the standards I set for myself and my tour have protected me more than anything.
From the beginning, I knew I wanted a clean tour—no drinking during work hours, no alcohol in the green room or on the bus, no stray women in the green room or on the bus, no inappropriate language—you know, the basics. I did not, however, want to be the one to explain these rules to my band and crew. My manager had those conversations. I didn’t know how to be the boss—I didn’t want to be the boss. I wanted to be the boss’s cool younger sister, who has some respect but can still join in on a conversation about farts in the back lounge. I think I’ve finally evolved into that person, but in the transition I spent a period of time as a generic “younger sister,” who was neither bosslike nor cool.
My very first opening act was a rapper. Initially he seemed nice enough, but as the days went by he broke every ground rule I had established for the tour. He appeared to be drunk several times, brought random girls back to the bus, and I thought he was vulgar on and off the stage. This made me uncomfortable, but I was inexperienced. I figured his behavior was a by-product of the rock ’n’ roll lifestyle. This went on for a week, before I finally confided in my mom how frustrated I was with the situation.
My mom is incredibly respectful of my space and does not get involved in my professional life unless invited. But when I voiced my concerns about my opener she made an exception. As soon as we hung up the phone, she sent an e-mail to my manager that probably went something like this: Get that man off my daughter’s bus, NOW.
The following morning my manager called and asked me if I had concerns. I simply said, “I don’t really want him here anymore, but I can’t just ask him to leave.” That’s when my manager explained to me that actually I could. He was performing on my tour, sleeping on my bus, living on my dime, and breaking my rules. I think that’s when it finally sank in: Oh my gosh, I really am the boss. A few minutes later my manager called my opener and kicked him off the tour on my behalf. To my surprise, everyone else was relieved to have him gone. I learned an invaluable lesson about leadership, and I was angry with myself for not taking control of the situation sooner. It was up to me to establish the boundaries and to create the environment that I wanted for my work life and my home life—and in my case, the two are often one and the same.
Making bosslike decisions was one thing, but having employees was another. Along with Whitney, Drew, and Gavi, I only had two other crew members—my sound engineer, Rob, and my videographer, Mason. We played six-hundred-seat venues on the high end, and since my tour was small I didn’t have an official stage crew. Everyone did a little bit of everything to help out, and I was determined to do the same. A good general is in the trenches, right? For the first several weeks on tour I got up every day with the boys so I could help everyone load in the equipment and set up the stage. I thought they would appreciate the gesture, but I only succeeded in making them all very uncomfortable. On top of getting the stage set up every day, now they had to make sure their little boss didn’t get crushed by road cases. Sweating like a brute and getting in everyone’s way wasn’t helpful, and being a good boss didn’t mean I had to do everyone else’s job. I’ve since stopped forcing my help on the guys, but I still try to find little ways to show my appreciation without slowing them down.
My first stage setup. That screen/TV behind me is now in my parents’ basement.
My tour family is always growing. At the beginning of a recent tour, I felt really left out and couldn’t figure out why the new dancers and crew didn’t seem to want me around. They weren’t mean, but they sat at separate tables during meals, talked only among themselves, and never invited me when they went places. When I voiced my concerns to Erich he sighed and said, “Lindsey, you’re a weird little person.”
Not helping, Erich.
He went on. “You’re just a different kind of artist. A lot of performers don’t know their crew members’ names, let alone want to spend time with them. The new hires don’t really know where the line is with you.”
My tour people are family to me, and in a family there is no line. I don’t need my own lunch table, green room, or bus. What I really need are good people and friends to keep me grounded and help me feel as normal as possible.
It took so
me getting used to, but being the boss is the best. It means I get final say in everything, and when I’m in my office (bedroom), pants are optional. I think working for me just takes some getting used to, too.
LIVING WITH
BOYS
I met Gavi and Drew the day before my first show at Webster Hall. I was quiet and nervous. I barely spoke to either of them, and when the show was over none of us planned on crossing paths again. Several months later we were all boarding a tour bus, starting what was either going to become my career or just a really expensive road trip.
Touring was new to me, as was living in close quarters with several boys. At first, my elementary school instincts kicked in, and I was determined to fit right in with the guys. On one of our first nights together I started a game of “Would you rather” like so:
“Would you rather have wheels instead of legs that can only run on tracks, or a pickle in place of each arm?”
The guys were kind enough to indulge me for a while, until Gavi asked if he could take a turn. Without hesitation he began, “Would you rather drink a glass of diarrhea once a year for the rest of your life, or dunk your head in a warm porta-potty every month for ten years?”
Immediately the bus erupted in shouts of disgust and laughter. I sat there thinking, Why didn’t anyone laugh when I brought up the pickle arms? That’s when I knew I was living with boys. Oh, how rude of me, allow me to introduce you to my band.
JASON GAVIATI, ON THE KEYS!
Gavi is my work bestie. I know his coffee order, he can tell when I’m upset before I speak, and I’ve seen him in his underwear more than once (three times to be exact), but we’ll come back to that later. We get mistaken for a couple all the time, usually by people on the Interweb who think we look cute together in pictures. I can’t argue there, but the reason we have so many pictures together is because we’re best friends with a shared addiction to Instagram, not because we’re in love. I do love him, though. I love the way he can make anyone feel comfortable and the way he has both literally and figuratively had my back since day one. I love the way his mouth falls open when I share exciting news or break social norms. I love his collection of Brixton hats, his boisterous laugh, and his internal Urban Outfitters homing device.
A few weeks after our first show together I got invited to an event in Portland, Oregon, and was paid enough to hire the band again. Gavi and I were still strangers by all accounts, but we landed in the airport around the same time, so we met up to grab some food. As we ate, Gavi attempted small talk by asking about Devin.
“So, how’s your boyfriend? Devin, right?”
“Oh, we broke up.” It was still fresh, and I missed the sound of his name. I expected a polite condolence, but without hesitation Gavi lifted his hand for a high five.
“Yeah! Give it here,” he said enthusiastically, nearly spitting out his food.
I looked from his outstretched hand to the expression on his face. When I didn’t oblige, he lowered his arm.
“Well, I just didn’t think you guys were right for each other.”
I remember thinking, Based on what?
I was offended for all of three seconds, before I replied, “Neither did I, I guess.”
And that was the start of my friendship with Gavi—an unreciprocated high five and an unsolicited opinion on my ex-relationship. I met him only three years ago, but enough has happened in those three years to fill thirty; so as far as I’m concerned, I’ve known him my whole life.
I can only hope I never have to find another keyboard-playing best friend. Those are some big shoes to fill. I would know, since I once tried to wear Gavi’s shoes into a venue. It was snowing, and I couldn’t find my own. I ended up using one as a toboggan instead.
“I have only spent three years with her, but she already has more of me than most people I’ve known my whole life.”—Gavi
DREW STEEN, ON THE DRUMS!
Drew knows everything, or at least one random fact about everything. For example: did you know, from all the hospitals around the world, twelve babies go home with the wrong parents every day? Now you do. Along with being my best source of extraneous information, Drew is also one of the most thoughtful members of my tour family. He is always offering to carry my violin or lend a listening ear—and when things go wrong (and they do on a regular basis), Drew is the first person to keep a positive attitude.
In preparation for the Music Box Tour, I had several routines planned around a few projection screens. On the day of our final dress rehearsal, the screens arrived in the wrong size, making the projections I had spent months designing totally useless. I didn’t have a backup plan, and with only a few hours of rehearsal left I needed to create one. I took a quick break and went outside to collect my thoughts. Think, Lindsey. What is Plan B? After I had been pacing for a few minutes, Drew joined me with a water bottle.
“I thought you might be thirsty,” he said, handing it to me. “Don’t worry, it’s going to be okay. We’ll figure something out, we always do.”
If I asked Drew to go onstage as one of my backup dancers, I know he would do it. (The boy can do splits without even stretching!) Lucky for him, he’s more valuable as a drummer. But it’s comforting to know I have so much positive energy behind me onstage every night, and in the venue, and on the bus.
Drew is my band brother and confidant. He does the BEST Valley girl impersonation, and when his hair was long, he used to let me style it from time to time. These are all things I love about Drew. More than anything else, though, I love the look of satisfaction he gets when he is making food for other people.
Drew is a chef in a drummer’s body. Given the choice between banging drumsticks and breading drumsticks, I’m not sure which he would prefer. He is the panini maker, the grill master, and the guacamole king. Once, he got sick and went to bed immediately after we finished our set. When the rest of us got back on the bus that night, there was a note on the table directing us to a bowl of fresh guacamole in the fridge. Drew lives to serve other people, and if he were my neighbor in the suburbs, he would be the person I’d call if my lawn mower broke, my cable went out, or I needed a grilled hot dog.
Drew also has some difficult shoes to fill. I once accidentally mistook his Vans for my own, and my feet smelled like a warm garbage disposal for a week.
At first I was worried I would hate touring because I like consistency. I’m actually kind of a homebody. What I didn’t know was, apart from the travel, touring is extremely consistent. It’s like the movie Groundhog Day. I work with the same people every day, eat the same food, and perform the same show. The only thing that makes a week a week is having Sundays off. Other than that, it’s just a bunch of days in a row, which are nearly identical in structure. I love it. What I should have been worried about is the limited personal space, which has resulted in the occasional underwear run-in.
The first time I walked in on Gavi dressing, I stared. Yeah, his tush is nice and all, but I was more surprised than anything. I was looking for my computer case and walked into the green room to find Gavi bent over, pulling on his pants. All the lights were off, and he was facing the opposite corner. As I opened the door, a beam of light landed right on his bum. It was a little magical, but mostly weird. He turned to look at his intruder, and I was so surprised that I just stood there for a good two seconds—one Mississippi, two Mississippi. That’s a long time when you’re staring at someone in their underwear! Finally, Gavi said, “Uhh, leave.”
“Oh, right.”
I looked down and closed the door. Later that night, Gavi announced to everyone that I stared at him in his underwear.
“She opened the door and just stood there!”
“I was surprised!”
“I had to tell her to leave!”
“Well, you need to lock the door.”
Another time I walked into the back lounge of the bus looking for my makeup and stumbled on a similar sight, except this time I closed the door more quickly. It happened a third time
one night before a show in Paris. I ran into the office to get my violin strings and there he was, in his bent-over underwear stance.
“Are you serious?!” he yelled.
“Stop changing where my stuff is. And lock the door for once!” I yelled back.
In his defense, sometimes there aren’t locks. To avoid being seen in my skivvies, I sing what I call “The Changing Song.” Which is really just me yelling, “I’m changing in the back lounge!” over and over again.
The tune changes according to my mood, and it warns off any males who might otherwise come wandering in. In the case that someone isn’t paying attention to my song and tries to open the door anyway, I resort to letting out a loud shriek, and that usually causes the door to slam shut very quickly. (In case you were wondering, Gavi is a tiger-print underwear kind of guy.)
• • •
Once, during a meet-and-greet in Germany, one of my fans reached behind me like he was going to give me a hug and then picked me up by my butt—a double-fisted cheek grab. I didn’t appreciate it much, and Erich was mortified that it happened on his watch. The next day at the meet-and-greet he was on high alert. Before the evening started, he called a special meeting with the venue security. I was not to be picked up under any circumstances. About halfway through the meet-and-greet, a lanky, middle-aged man ran toward me with uncontained excitement. I saw him coming in slow motion, arms outstretched, body bending slightly to pick me up. Before I could warn him against it I was cradled in his arms. I remember thinking, You really don’t want to do this, but it was too late. Erich, Gavi, Drew, my male dancers, and three German security guards all shouted in unison and ran toward us, as if I was a Ming vase that had been hurled across the room.
The Only Pirate at the Party Page 13
