Against All Odds

From left to right: the Boss’s son, the Boss, Tom Gabel. Photo courtesy of the author.
 

Tom Gabel is the singer/guitarist of one of our favoritest bands ever, Against Me! What follows is a diary he kept on tour with his band across the US and Canada a couple months ago.

EBRUARY 22: DRIVING NORTH ON I-75, 1:34 AM
It’s the second night of tour. We played the State Theatre in St. Petersburg, Florida. The last time we played there was with the Bouncing Souls in 2005. Or was it in 2004? I had this same problem earlier today, remembering the year an event took place.

Before leaving Gainesville this morning I went with my fiancée, Heather, to the Alachua County Courthouse to get a marriage license. I had to fill in what the year of my divorce was (I was married once before). I knew the date—January 11—but the year?

And then I think I heard Jackie (the woman who works in the marriage-license department of the Alachua County Courthouse) snicker as she typed the date of my divorce into her computer. Fuck you, Jackie.

My neck is killing me. It’s “rock neck”— whiplash from the first two shows. No matter how much you practice, nothing can really prepare you physically for playing live.

Both tonight’s and last night’s shows sold out, both great energetic crowds. My ears are ringing.


FEBRUARY 23: DRIVING NORTH ON US 441, 12:34 PM

I wanted last night to be so much better than it was. In fact, every time we’ve played the 40 Watt in Athens, Georgia, I’ve walked away from the club feeling unsatisfied. Not to say that the 40 Watt isn’t one of my favorite clubs in America. It is. The people who work there are out-of-their-way friendly. The sound onstage and from the crowd perspective is great. The room is a comfortable size, with a capacity of 800. The backstage has three individual rooms for bands, two bathrooms (which is amazing), and a little common room with couches and a coffee table. A couple blocks away from the club is the Grit, one of my favorite restaurants. All of this should equal a great time every time.

Maybe it was the fact that the previous two shows were so full of energy that they made this one pale in comparison. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I haven’t slept for more than four hours in six nights. Maybe it’s the stress of trying to finish mixing our new record while starting a tour. Or maybe it’s something else, like the fact that my veritable stalker was in the audience tonight.

See, I slept with a “groupie” once. It happened a few years ago. I wasn’t yet divorced but I was estranged from my ex-wife. The girl’s name was Kathy. She had been following us around on tour for a couple of weeks. We had been introduced to her through a friend of a friend of a friend. Kathy was moving to Gainesville. She had gotten a job as a nurse at the hospital. One night after we were back in Gainesville, we went to the Top for drinks. Afterward we went back to my house. Horrible, sloppy, drunk sex ensued. I remember she started laughing when I was on top of her. Neither of us got off. I eventually just gave up and went to take a piss, then passed out immediately.

The next morning was stereotypically awkward. When she asked if I wanted to get lunch, I told her I had errands to run, which I did. I told her I would call her later on. Which I did not. I also made a point of not picking up my phone when she called later that evening, and all the next week, and sporadically throughout the next month. I just pushed the incident out of my head and left again on tour.

So we were coming through Florida a few months later at the end of a tour. I called an old high school friend to see if she needed me to put her name on the guest list.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m coming to the show with your girlfriend.”

“My girlfriend?” I asked. I was confused.

It turned out that Kathy wasn’t a nurse at all. She was working at Calico Jack’s (it’s like TGIF or Ruby Tuesday’s, but even more depressing). My friend from high school also worked at Calico Jack’s. Kathy had convinced my friend that she was my girlfriend. She told her that I sent flowers on Valentine’s Day and that I cooked her a spaghetti dinner. Oh, and I was apparently not only paying her rent—I also helped paint her apartment. At least she made me sound like a nice guy. Since I was away on tour, my friend never thought to question it. She just took Kathy’s word. When I found out, I called Kathy, asking her to stop lying to people about me.

Back to the present now: Yesterday before sound check, our drummer, Warren, told me that Kathy had left him a voicemail saying she was coming to the show in Athens. GREAT.

I was standing on the side of the stage watching the River Boat Gamblers’ set when by chance I looked into the crowd and there she was, peering over the top of someone’s head. Hiding herself in the crowd, staring at me. Then she stood right in front of me while we played. Can you be any more creepy? I was convinced she was going to pull a gun and shoot me midsong. I could almost hear the crack of the gunshot breaking through the distortion of the guitars. I was just waiting to feel the impact. Luckily I made it off the stage without any new holes in me and got the hell out of there.

Look, I realize where I was at fault in the situation. Not calling her and not answering her phone calls was a jerky thing to do. But her posing as my girlfriend was just psychotic. I hold no grudge, but does she have to still come out to shows?

Anyway, maybe that had something to do with the irked feeling I had when I left the 40 Watt.


FEBRUARY 24: COLUMBIA, SC, HEADLINERS CLUB, 6:23 PM
The first time we played Columbia, South Carolina, it was at a venue called Uncle Doctor’s. This was before we had a booking agent, back when I used to do all the booking myself. I had set the show up over email without ever meeting the promoter. I don’t even remember her name now. She was just some random girl who wrote to the band’s email account saying she could set us up with a show. When we pulled up that day we found that the club had double-booked our show with a local band called Capital. This was exclusively the club’s fault. They promised both bands they could play on the same night. The show was supposed to be Capital’s big CD release show and they were furious. We were more than willing to open up for them. All we wanted was a 20-minute set, but they weren’t having it. They told us that our show had to happen after theirs, once they and all their fans had left the club. Fine, whatever, there were probably only ten people who had actually come to see us anyway. When Capital played they had a huge homemade backdrop that said their name with a sparkly “$” beneath it serving as their logo. I like to think about this show as the pinnacle of Capital’s career, and that I was there to witness it. Their faces were all smiles as they rocked a packed house at Uncle Doctor’s. They didn’t let some shitty punk band ruin their moment. They soldiered on. We did end up playing eventually, after seven hours of sitting in the fucking parking lot drinking beer. The girl who set us up with the show never came. We walked away with no gas money. We’ve played Columbia several times since then, and they’ve been great shows. But I’ve always held a grudge against the city. In fact, I’ve always held a grudge against the entire state of South Carolina because of it.

Last night was the first time we’ve ever played at Headliner’s. All day long, I kept having to remind myself to keep my bad attitude in check. It was a good turnout—400-some-odd kids. But it was a weird show. Momentum would build and then dissipate, build then dissipate. I think it was because we were selfish and played too many new songs. We kept trying to win them over until the very last note was played. I hope people enjoyed themselves.


FEBRUARY 27: RICHMOND, VA, QUALITY INN, 3:30 AM

The show at Alley Katz was oversold by somewhere around 200 tickets. More than 600 people were crammed into a room with a legal capacity of 450. We took the stage around 9 PM. We launched into the first song and kids immediately started pouring onto the stage, tripping over the monitors and into us. Inevitably, they always go to grab the microphone stands to catch themselves. If we’re lucky, the mic stands just fall to the ground. If we aren’t, teeth meet microphone and bloody lips ensue.

One girl in particular got up onstage and managed to completely stop the second song by kicking over Andrew’s mic stand and then unplugging my guitar pedals with her feet. For good measure, she gave the drum set a big kick. She looked like a child having a temper tantrum. We started the song again and seconds later another crowd surfer landed on the stage. Before jumping back into the crowd, he knocked Andrew’s bass completely out of tune.


MARCH 1: DRIVING TO NEW HAVEN, CT, 1:38 PM

I spent yesterday, our day off, drifting in and out of a NyQuil-induced haze. Woke up feeling like complete shit. After eating a breakfast of bland vegetable penne pasta from the Olive Branch (a subpar Olive Garden knockoff attached to our hotel lobby, which had neither free breadsticks nor salad), I went to Target and did some shopping (socks, soap). Got back to the hotel room and popped two more NyQuils, then slept for four hours. I needed the sleep. Plans were made to go see the 8 PM showing of Reno-911!: Miami. It turned out to be just as bland as brunch at the Olive Branch. Maybe Pikesville, Maryland, just has a way of making everything bland.

Today the NyQuil has left me in a foul mood. The backs of my eyes ache. My sinuses are clogged. Everything everyone says is annoying, and every email that comes to my BlackBerry is unwanted. It’s definitely either the NyQuil or all the weed I’ve been smoking.


MARCH 2: NEW HAVEN, CT, TOAD’S PLACE, 1:04 AM

Three hundred crunches. Sixty pushups. Stretch out the legs, stretch out the arms. Get the blood moving. You don’t want to hit the stage cold. The house is packed. We start playing and the room explodes. The crowd is louder than us at points. A sea of hands and bodies. At one point a kid gets up center stage and starts sieg-heiling. Jordan and John both grab him, drag him to the door, and boot him out. The song stops, and we are at a loss for words. Did that really just happen? The show goes on. During the encore, the stage is overrun by kids. We’re trapped. We can’t play—we can’t move. All we can do is sing along, wait to make our escape when the song ends, and pray the amps don’t come toppling down. I feel bodies pressed against me. An arm is thrown around my shoulder. A girl grabs me and plants a kiss on my cheek and tells me she loves me. There is no greater high than this. There is nothing more addictive.

Afterward, we take some photos, sign some autographs. The club clears out. The gear gets packed and loaded. I change clothes, grab my bag. Everybody piles into the van to leave for the hotel. Tomorrow we will wake up and do it all again.

ARCH 3: DRIVING TO BURLINGTON, VT, 2:17 PM
Bruce Springsteen commands a room. Everyone around him pretends to be immersed in conversation, but really their attention is on the Boss. They’re watching him out of the corners of their eyes. They can’t believe they are in the same room as Bruce fucking Springsteen. Neither can I. I want to hear every word he says. I want to shake his hand, ask to get my picture taken with him.

How fucking cool is that? Bruce Springsteen and his son hanging out backstage at my band’s show. Last night, Sayreville, New Jersey, at the Starland Ballroom. Our largest-ever headlining show. 1,890 people coming to see my band. 1,890 people including Bruce Springsteen and his son.

He comes backstage after the show is over. I introduce myself and tell him thanks for coming. I talk to his son briefly. I can see the resemblance. On his way out, I ask for a picture. I couldn’t resist. I might have to prove this someday. He tells me that my band was very “soulful.”


MARCH 4: QUEBEC CITY, QC, THE IMPERIAL THEATRE, 4:25 PM

It took two hours for us to make it across the border. Two hours to look at all our passports, enter our names into their computers, and check for criminal records. They fill out our work permits, and we pay for our work permits. We give them the inventory of merchandise we are crossing with, and we pay the taxes due. We do everything legal and legit. In all of our travels we have never had more difficulty crossing a border than the Canadian border. This was my first time crossing with a newly acquired letter recognizing my “criminal rehabilitation.” In the past I’ve had to pay $250 for a temporary-residence permit each time we came here to tour, all for a resisting-arrest and obstruction-of-justice charge I got back when I was 18 years old.

My throat is in bad shape. I barely made it through last night’s show. I’ve been coughing up thick yellow mucus all day long. I guess this is what you get for doing a Canadian tour in March.

Despite the physical maladies, all the shows continue to be above expectations.


MARCH 5: DRIVING TO DRUMMONDVILLE, QC, 12:15 AM

I have an addiction to Immodium AD. I usually start off each day by popping one or two pills, then I proceed to self-administer more as needed throughout the day. I have a nervous stomach. It’s gotten worse over the years. Constantly touring, constantly stuck in a van or in a venue with no bathroom backstage and the only bathroom in the building has a door that doesn’t lock and even if it does the toilet seat is covered in piss and the bowl is filled with beer cans, large shards of glass, and feces.

It’s impossible to get on a regular poop schedule when you don’t have a regular eating schedule. My nightmare is having to shit onstage. What would you do? Tell everyone to hold on for a second? Shit your pants? Please let me never have to find out.


MARCH 7: MONTREAL, QC, HOTEL GODIN, 12:30 AM

Played Montreal tonight at Le Studio. We’ve never played the club before. Nice size, horrible sound. My voice is still wrecked, so not having adequate monitors is frustrating. It’s also frustrating that I’m doing everything possible to take care of my voice and it is still failing me. I’m not smoking, I’m not drinking. I’m even wearing the scarf that Mom got me for Christmas. Yesterday I asked Jordan to get me something for my throat while he was out running errands. He came back with suppositories. He said that it was what the doctor recommended. Sure enough the package did specify that they were for loss of voice. The codeine cough syrup makes it go down a little easier. Hell, it makes it almost enjoyable. How’s that for suffering for your art?


MARCH 8: BROCKVILLE, ON, BEST WESTERN 2:51 AM

Last night in Montreal the Riverboat Gamblers’ van got broken into. Fadi’s bag, containing his clothes and passport, was stolen. So was Ian’s guitar. The van was parked in front of their hotel. The thieves broke a window to get in. Ian said whoever broke in opened up all the guitar cases and chose which one they wanted. The asshole left behind Ian’s sweaty guitar strap—took it out of the case and threw it in the back of the van. The window cost around $500 to fix. Regardless of how much the guitar cost, there is always a sentimental value attached to it. Your guitar is your friend—sometimes your only friend. Fucking Canadian junkies.

Despite the comically high stage and the barrier between us and the crowd, it was an amazing show tonight in Ottawa. The audience was with us all along.


MARCH 8, LONDON, ON, CALL THE OFFICE, 11:40 PM
Warren has made it abundantly clear today that he hates Call the Office. In all fairness it is a total shithole. It has horrible sight lines. There is a huge pole right in front of the stage. The walls backstage are covered with low-grade graffiti: band names that no one has ever heard of, crude drawings of penises and vaginas, nonsensical inside jokes.

“Anal Chutney!! Curry in your ass mo fo.”

“Fuckin bitches without rubberss ’07.”

“Unicorns don’t have wings faggot I know cause I’ve got three.”

The couches, once orange, are now brown. They are greasy to the touch, covered in a mix of sweat, piss, snot, feces, barf, semen, and God knows what else. This will be our fourth time playing here. I can’t help but think it won’t be the last. I have a feeling that the rest of my life will be a never-ending version of this club each night. Somehow, I’m OK with that.


MARCH 10: PORT HURON, MI, COMFORT SUITES, 5:00 AM

Drove two hours after the show in Toronto to this hotel in Port Huron. We were trying to save time by crossing the border at night, when it’s usually less busy. This was not the case.

While entering Canada as a band can be difficult, at least their border control staff are usually friendly. US border control are always assholes. Tonight was no exception. They act like they’re doing you a favor even considering letting you back into the country you were born in. They act like they just might turn you away.

“What were you doing in Canada?”

“We’re a band. We’re on tour.”

“How many days where you there?”

“Eight.”

“So you came all the way from Florida to play shows in Canada?”

This is said with indignant disbelief. As if the idea of you traveling around freely is completely absurd. You are suspect.

“Yes.”

“What, was there some kind of battle of the bands or something?”

“No, we’re just on tour.”

The usual round of questions follow. What’s the name of the band? What kind of music? They don’t really care. They’re just asking so that they can tell their story of the time that Toby Keith came through. Toby Keith, Toby Keith, Toby Keith. The name is dropped with immense pride.

“I even got to step on the tour bus.”

This is not only an expression of the border guards’ musical taste, it is a proud display of their patriotism.

“Who’s Warren Oakes?”

It’s the beard. He’s asking who Warren Oakes is because he has a beard.

“Right here…”

“You ever live outside the country?”

“No.”

“You have any relatives who live outside this country?”

You mean Osama?

“No. Why? Do I have a look-alike?”

It takes around 45 minutes for them to check our passports and search the van. We don’t get into the hotel until around 4:30 AM.


MARCH 12: DRIVING SOUTH ON I-55, ST. LOUIS, MO, 2:00 PM

The last time we played in Madison was over four years ago. It was a basement show. I remember we played with a band called Big Fat Ass. They gave us four copies of their self-titled debut album. It’s always been my job to clean out the van at the end of each tour since I drive the van when we’re not on tour. I ended up with all four copies of said album. I never listened to any of them. Who knows, it could have been genius.

Last night’s show at the Orpheum Stage Door was the worst one on the tour so far. A horrible venue and a dead crowd. A little less than 300 people showed up, which isn’t horrible for a Sunday night. The chairs were still left in the room, bolted into the ground, with a 20-foot gap between where the seats ended and the stage began. I thought the stage was going to collapse. There were a total of four lights on us: two on each side of the stage, with the lighting rig coming up to about my shoulder. Despite the expressionless faces and limited enthusiasm we were met with, I thought we played very well.

TOM GABEL