Tales from the Trails of a Rock ’n’ Roll Bus Driver

by Jerry Fitzpatrick

  We worked our way up the coast hitting all the hot spots – I-95 through North Carolina and Virginia and Maryland – doing shows the whole way. It was a good bus. It was a good crew. It was a good group. Everyone was a pro. Everyone was doing his job. Everyone was getting along. No stress. Not yet.

  With the tour were two girls from England. They worked for a catering company, one of the best around working with touring groups. They, of course, served Lou and the band. The crew ate from local caterers. They were fun girls, Denise and Michelle — and they loved working their way around with different entertainers. I moved from band to band with a bus, and they went from band to band with their cooking skills. As the tour headed to Canada, it was made apparent they had working visas for the United States but not over the border. We were going to be in Canada for six days, three for work, so the girls didn’t bother with any paperwork. They decided they would fly in as tourists and jump on the bus in Ottawa. We were traveling from the Merriweather Post Pavilion in Maryland to Ottawa — about 550 miles or nine hours of driving. I traveled up I-83 to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, then on north on I-81 to Syracuse, New York. I dropped the girls off at the Syracuse airport early morning, and we teased each other about who would make it to Ottawa first. Sometimes the border is a wave-through, “Glad you’re here kind of thing.” Sometimes it is a hassle.

  When we reached the border, I collected everyone’s passports and showed them to the immigration officials. On this trip they wanted more detail. They wanted to see everyone off the bus. I showed them my ID as the driver, and they cleared me through. Not much to worry about, it seemed. Before 9/11, I never had a problem getting to and from Canada.

  Everyone else had been sent to the immigration office. As I lit a cigarette, a customs officer approached me and asked if I drove the bus. I acknowledged and she requested a quick search. I had stopped a few miles before the border and made sure nothing was lagging around. I had gotten assurances from the bus “mom” that no one had anything on them. I didn’t have anything on me either. You don’t have to take drugs to Canada. They’re already there just like in America.

  The customs officer started in the bay, pulling out bags, then dug into the bus. She asked me to turn on the lights, and she proceeded to open cabinets and the bathroom door. Then it was back to the bunk section. We had 12 bunks so all 11 people in the bus had one, and we had a “junk bunk” where people threw their bags. Looking into the junk bunk, the agent pulled out a bag. It was Denise’s. Or Michelle’s. I couldn’t remember. She unzipped it reached in and pulled out a 35mm film canister and shook it. There was a small tinkling noise so she opened it. The second that lid pried open, I could smell it. Hashish. Fuck! Most British men prefer hash to weed. I guess British women do, too.

  The customs lady was having a fit. She came toward me, yelling and screaming at me to “GET OFF THE BUS!” and “KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF EVERYTHING!” She acted as if she had found the mother load and was telling her partner. My assurance that she hadn’t really only made her angrier.

  “SHUT UP!” she barked back.

  The bus was under a canopy, and more agents got word of the find. They started pulling the luggage off the bus and placed the crew and me in a secured area. I tried to explain what was going on, but this feisty one wasn’t having it.

  “We’re bringing a dog on this bus,” she crowed. “It’s going to sniff every last inch.” We were going to have to wait for five hours for the dog to show up. “So get comfortable,” she smarted, as we sat in the not-so-comfortable secured area.

  The agents took everything out of the cabinet and threw it on the floor of the bus. Everyone’s bags were emptied and thrown into piles. The bus was a disaster. Then while we waited on the dog, it was our turn. Strip search. Bend over. Spread ’em. Ewww.

  The dog arrived. He sniffed every single thing and found nothing. I knew he wouldn’t. The bus was clean, as we all knew it was, except for one of the girl’s canisters. We wanted to get to Ottawa by noon, and we were leaving the border at 6 p.m., which left us arriving at our hotel after nine. What a miserable way to spend a day off. The girls got an earful when we arrived. It was a bad scene for them. I love Ottawa, the capital of Canada. So beautiful and historic. I’ve tried to get out and see some of the city every time I’ve been. This trip was not one of them.

  The show was at the Capital Congress Center, a large convention hall with a theater and large banquet rooms. A river runs through town, and, across the street, large luxury boats tie up when they come off the lake. It’s quite a picturesque sight. The drive out of Ottawa that night was only 130 miles to Montreal. I planned on napping, watching the show, driving to Montreal, and getting ready for the longer run to Toronto. I ate dinner with some of the crew guys and got ready for the show. It wasn’t sold out, but it was pretty full. As the lights came down for the start of Lou’s performance, I was out at the front of the house where I could hear and see everything.

  The intro music started and the other players in the band took the stage first. As Lou approached the stage, he tripped. He wound up breaking his foot. No one knew what was going on just yet. After a minute, the sound and lighting guys started to rustle. I could tell something was up. I waited another minute and then headed backstage. Lou had been taken back to the dressing room and a doctor had been called. Rumors were already swirling about the show being canceled and then we quickly found out that the entire tour was canceling.

  There was still three weeks worth of tour left — and there was the possibility of a tip — so I was not happy to hear this. After about 30 minutes someone announced to the crowd what had happened. Details on a new show or refunds would be forthcoming and so on. I got with the production manager, and we made a plan to return to New York City. Most of the crew was from that area. We got out of the venue by 10 p.m. and headed south for about 450 miles. I had phoned the bus owner and the bus broker as soon as I heard we were dropping out. It was middle August, the prime season of touring. I knew I would be redirected soon.

  The next day after dropping all the crew in New York City, I found a pay phone on Staten Island on my way out of town and got my next gig. This actor — Dennis Quaid — was doing a short run of bars through Oklahoma and Texas, which wasn’t far from home and meant I could spend a couple of days with family before the assignment started. I would be far from the Canadian border. Lucky me.

  Chapter 16 Brotherly Love

  Oasis was one of the United Kingdom’s biggest bands. They had broken all ticket sales records in the U.K. and other European countries. They flew to New York City in October of 1995 for a series of shows, I assume, to break ground in America.

  Sonny, another driver, had been assigned to do the run but had pulled out at the last minute due to some scheduling conflict with the band he was already working with. Sometimes that happens when a band extends its tour or adds some extra shows or duties at the end of their scheduled tour. I got the call at the last minute and had to hustle to be on time. I almost always enjoy working with English and European groups, so I readily grabbed the gig to cover for Sonny.

  When I met Oasis in Manhattan to take them to a show in Baltimore at Hammer Jack’s Club, they seemed like just another bunch of wankers to me. Another English invasion, they come one after another, you know. On our first ride we headed south out of New York City to get the first show in. Rumor had it that the two brothers in the band, Liam and Noel, didn’t like each other and couldn’t seem to get along. Those rumors I found to be true as we started our run through the states. Those two would argue about anything.

  Hammer Jack’s is a neat club I have been to many times over the years. A lot of bands in the ’80s made the bar a required stop on their way to fame. The club could handle over 1,500 people on a good night. When we arrived on a Monday for a sound check and a show, only several hundred people came to see them. The drive down to Baltimore was pleasant enough, getting to know the tour manager and the guys in the band. The ride back to NYC wasn’t quite
as smooth as Noel and Liam were arguing the entire time. Several more trips had the brothers arguing every minute.

  The show at The Orpheum in Boston rocked the place pretty hard. The Orpheum seems to be a great venue for English rock bands to perform. Lousy load-in for the crew, but once the gear is in place, the old building is a gritty place for Rock ’n’ Roll. After the Boston show we headed to Pittsburgh for a day off and a show in the Strip District at a bar called The Metropol. Heading over to the gig, the brothers once again were griping at each other and of course about all the things wrong in America. Typical Englishmen.

  It’s pretty amazing to me that someone can visit the United States and within a few days know all the problems with our great country and have all the answers on how to solve them. The show in Pittsburgh didn’t do that well with ticket sales. It was a Monday, perhaps one of the slowest days of the week for people wanting to get out and party. The group seemed to be annoyed with the small venue and lack of fans so the ride out of Pittsburgh to Buffalo had them all in the front lounge whining and griping about the situation, among other things.

  As I headed north toward Buffalo on I-79, the brothers and the band got into a heated argument about something. I’m thinking, “Great! Don’t these guys ever stop bitching and moaning?” To this point everyone had been pretty nice to me. Their tour manager, Margaret, seemed to have a way with the guys, getting them to do the things required to help move their career forward. I hadn’t been in the middle of their arguments, choosing instead to just listen to them. Sometime after an hour or more of listening to these guys piss and moan about every little thing they could think of, I yelled at them to give it a break. Trying to be funny with my tone I added a little British accent to my voice and yelled at them, encouraging them to share some love with each other. Liam made a comment, and I smarted off at him in response. He pulled the curtain that separates the driving area from the living section and stepped down on the step. With his harm held out, he yelled pretty loudly that he wanted to arm wrestle me.

  I asked if he was fucking crazy as I was driving him at highway speeds. I told him to take a seat before I slammed the brakes and tossed him out of the front windshield and ran over him for bothering me. He was holding his arm out wanting me to take his hand and when I let off the gas a little, he returned to the back making smart-ass comments. We all laughed with Noel telling him not to “fuck with the bus driver.” The guys continued with their heated argument as we rode through the night.

  A stop for fuel in Erie, Pennsylvania at the Pilot Truck Stop had them out of the bus and into the store. Truckers recognize an entertainer coach whenever it pulls up to the fuel island, and several always approach and ask, “Who’s in the bus?” At 2 to 3 a.m. with a whiny, pissy British rock band, “Who fucking cares?” People ask all the time, nonetheless. While I was fueling, the guys went inside and were doing some shopping when I noticed them arguing in the store.

  Whine, bitch, whine, bitch, whine, for hours it seemed. The guys were still going at it when we arrived in Buffalo. While we were sitting in the bus waiting for Margaret to check us into the hotel and get our keys, one of the musicians in the band said, “Fuck this. I quit,” grabbed his bag from the luggage bay and left. Craziness ensued with trying to find him when the tour manager returned. By mid-day I was notified the tour was canceled since the musician had caught a flight back to England. I notified the bus owner and dropped the guys at the airport heading to the West Coast to pick up another entertainer.

  In 2001, I received a call from a bus owner wanting me to drive Oasis again. My schedules matched up so I took the gig looking forward to seeing the guys and the band. I do like their sloppy style of English rock ’n roll and have many of their records. The 2001 tour was aptly named “The Brotherly Love Tour” and featured three bands that all have a history of brothers not getting along. The Black Crowes were the headliners with Oasis co-headlining and another group, Spacehog, as opening act. Each group had brothers notorious for fighting with each other.

  It was a short 30-day tour that started on the West Coast and finished in the Northeast. It all worked out to be a great time with little bickering on my bus for that entire tour. I prefer it that way. Peaceful rides are the way to go.

  Chapter 17 Dealing With Divas

  If you sit behind one bus, you don’t exactly sit behind them all. Each one has its own age, its own style, and its own problems. So moving to a bus named the “Baby Bus” may not be the most rock star thing I could do, but it was in demand.

  In truth, the baby bus was built for Garth Brooks’ family. Garth had his own bus, as his schedules were pretty tough with tour promotion. Baby Bus with Garth’s family on board followed the tour at a slower pace. It was built while Brooks’ children were still very small. The bus itself was a 40-footer. Most coaches are 45 feet in length. The bunks were made small for the children, and it had extra safety features. The coach was painted baby blue with polished aluminum along the bottom.

  Baby Bus had gone through several drivers before I sat behind the wheel of it, but it was still in really good shape. There were no major dents and the miles were low. Because it was shorter than most coaches, it was lighter, and it had a good, strong motor. That meant it would travel through the mountains without major headaches. It was seen more as a family-style coach. I was able to use it with Ann and Nancy Wilson of Heart when they took an acoustic tour. I drove Courtney Love, of all people, on it. And I drove members of the band Smash Mouth.

  Smash Mouth was part of the indie-rock craze in the 1990s, coming out of the West Coast. The band was known as punk ska, using elements of early ’80s punk with a reggae feel. You could call it happy-punk. It wasn’t aggressive or mean spirited. It felt fun. Smash Mouth was beginning to be a recognizable name and that meant more buses on bigger tours.

  I needed to do a test run to see if we would be a good fit with the band so I took a quick shag across the nation with Steve Harwell, the lead singer, and tour manager Scotty the Hottie... well, that’s what he’s called. Scotty is a lover of all things baseball, especially the Chicago Cubs, and he’s an excellent wrangler of wayward musicians. He’s a solid tour manager. If we all liked each other, then I would be assigned to drive guitarist Greg Camp and his family on Baby Bus while Steve rode in another coach with another driver.

  Being able to handle a tour bus from the driver’s seat is only one detail of the job. It’s imperative that you can get along with your passengers. There are always politics that play out, drama that needs to be averted or egos that need to be soothed. A clash of personalities between musician and driver can result in some long tours, even if the time spent touring isn’t that long. A group may work their way through several drivers before everyone is comfortable. This had been the case with Smash Mouth.

  When I got the assignment, the bus owner told me they were great passengers. But the bus owner doesn’t make the trip, and I had found out there were more than a few drivers who were refusing the tour. So I did my own checking. Mickey Moe relayed the hours he had spent with the group on the side of the road in Kentucky after Steve was shooting fireworks out of the back window of the bus. He was so fed up with their childish behavior that he encouraged police officers to arrest them. Fireworks I could deal with, but things other drivers said bothered me, like their lack of cleanliness and their disregard for being on time.

  Being on time is essential during a long tour run. Getting to the hotel on time just to get enough rest instead of sitting behind the wheel is driver issue number one. So this test run was a chance to see how the punctuality issue would affect me. My first pickup was in San Jose at the management office where I met Steve and Scotty. Then we zipped down to Los Angeles. Easy first day with general pleasantries and first-day niceties. Steve did the morning radio show at KROQ the next morning, one of the most famous radio stations in the nation. From there it was an easy drive to Phoenix.

  All the places were the same. We raced across the country so Steve could
hit all the morning shows. Here is a thank you plaque for making “Walking On The Sun” such a big hit, and by the way, here is our new album “Astro Lounge.” Blah blah blah. All the bands had to do it. All the stations had to do it. Promote, promote, promote.

  For Steve to make the morning shows in all the major markets, we had to haul ass from city to city to make each of them on time. From Phoenix, we trekked to Dallas, an all day-and-nighter. I passed the test. We got there just fine. Dallas to Houston was a breeze, but Houston to Atlanta was tough because of the horrendous traffic. After Friday morning’s radio show we had the weekend off before D.C. on Monday morning. We picked up Greg Cramp, the guitarist, who would be my passenger if I passed the test for the upcoming Smash Mouth tour, and headed to Bristol Motor Speedway for a NASCAR race. Greg was a great guy, and I had decided almost immediately, stories be damned, this could work out well doing the family thing for the tour.

  We got to the racetrack, and Steve had an announcement.

  “Jerry, I decided you’re gonna be my driver for the tour.”

  “Well, that’s not the plan,” I said. “I’d been planning on driving Greg and his family, and we need to stick to that plan.”

  “I don’t really care about that,” he returned. “I really want you to be my driver.” With that, he was off to the races.

  I grabbed Scotty.

  “I don’t care what he says, this is not what I signed up for,” I explained. “I prefer to be driving a family, not the chief partying guy of the group.” It seemed to be settled, and I strolled into the Speedway. Met Dale Earnhardt and had a good weekend. Sunday we headed up to D.C., worked the East Coast for a few dates before heading back out west. Then it was a few weeks off before the real tour kicked off.

  A common belief is that bands all ride together in one bus. That may be the case when budgets are small, but when they become more successful, more famous and have a bit more in the bank account, they tend to stretch out their comfort zone and acquire individual buses. It becomes a home away from home. After all, the average person doesn’t go home with their co-worker. With new government rules in place and being a family person myself, for Baby Bus, I wanted to drive a real family. My want was fulfilled but not without the hassles.