On the Road

Jeremy Skaller's Belizbeha Tour Diary: Belizbeha's slick songsmith Jeremy Skaller gives us a glimpse into life on the road with his seven-person "party-to-go" rhythm machine.

The colors aren't enhanced, the sound is not adjustable and Mr. Sugar Ray can't sing to save his life. This is the real world of a touring band, someone always has to drive the graveyard shift, $10 per-diem never fills the stomach with anything other than Dirty Ron's and someone always has to pee.

Day one, I don't know the date:

It’s 6:30pm, we just arrived in Columbia, South Carolina. Yo, seven hours in the van, you've got to be kidding! This is what... our fifth time here? Anyway, management seems to think it's time to move up to the national room. The Elbow Room. I have my doubts. Numbers at our shows have been pretty solid down in this area, they must be starving for something different. I guess I'm just the eternal skeptic.

Its 9:30, not a God-damn soul in the house. "K-Dog and Chocolate Funk," the opening act, is doing some horrific, fucked up version of "Sexual Healing." Please, people, if you're gonna do covers, remember, melody and lyric can only be changed so much before it becomes obvious that either you can't sing or the lyric never really meant all that much to you, which would suggest that you should take more time in choosing your cover songs.

Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, we are "BluesBaha." I can never figure this one out. We send the clubs posters with the correct spelling (I hope!), we play the area any number of times, our name is announced correctly on radio spots and it is spelled out on the CD. We even have a bloody song which tells you how to spell the damn thing and yet, still, the permutations of this spelling that we come across are nothing short of insane. At least we're not "Beelzebub" tonight, or "Velidizblhaha" (get out of here, can you believe that one?), "Belizelala" or even the benign but ever so annoying "Beliz-Baha". Indeed, "BluesBaha" ain't all that bad. At least the joint is starting to fill up . . .

Day Two, is the date really all that important?

Somebody ate my banana, Kyle is snoring so loud I can't hear the radio, Shawn is in one of his annoyingly good moods where every little thing draws a snide remark and Cass must be on Mountain Dew number five. We're stuck in traffic, and have been so for at least the last two hours. God, the van stinks. Incense doesn't work, air fresheners give Kadi headaches, it's too cold for open windows and you damn-well can't wish the funk away . . . everyone in the van just breathes through their mouth.

Friar Tuck's in Norfolk Virginia has long been one of our strongest clubs. This does not mean it is a band favorite, however. To begin with, the stage is smaller than almost any that I have seen and it has two monitor mixes which for this band makes it almost impossible to hear anything; the floor is a wreck and even the employee bathroom is foul. All these traits are common to many clubs, yet the final problem is that there are always fights. Not little testosterone testers but big ol' faces-getting-smashed-by-beer-bottle-type of showdowns. One dude even got shot outside the club during one of our shows. Needless to say, it's hard to be creative in this atmosphere.

Well, we just had a real serious situation arise. Kadi's sister is in the hospital, something about her heart... this is not good, we're over a thousand miles away from home. Kadi needs to get home, who's got the cash for that? If we leave now it'll take at least thirteen hours to get back, the club owner will be pissed and we'll have to miss two other gigs. Not that any of this really means anything, Kadi needs to get home, no ands-ifs-or-buts about it. This is one of the major problems with being in a national touring act, the further afield you go, the harder it is to stay in touch with your family. Shawn looks at me, (he's one of those people who can convey entire worlds of meaning in a single glance), and wonders out loud what he'd do if his brother were in a similar condition. We both arrive at the same conclusion, fuck the band! Three gigs ain't that important.

Day Three and I have to call my mom to get the correct date:

Kadi flew back home today, her sister's condition is too unstable for her to wait any longer. It's an ugly morning and all that I feel like doing is sleeping. Tonight I will have to sing her parts with Shawn and it will be up to Kyle and Shauna to hold the crowd. We are going to Indiana today, it's a long drive. We also decided to head back to B-town after the show. Can you say twelve hours at least?

I'm starting transmission again from my satellite position in the front seat of the van two hours into our homeward journey. We are in a blizzard. Mark is doing the best he can but we're averaging ten miles an hour. At this rate we'll be home sometime next week.

Van rides home are always peaceful, and even with the snow slamming down and Mark pumping jungle out of the stereo, we all find time to reflect a little.

My old friend Davinchi used to tell me, after listening to hours of my screaming about how this sucks and that ain't right, or how being in a band is too hard, too inhuman, too unstable and ever so draining: " J, stop justifying, stop trying to figure it out . . . it's just hard, that's all, just really fucking hard, but if it wasn't would you still find it as rewarding?"

Peace, Ten more hours and I'm home. ~GC~

Jeremy Skaller plays keyboards in the band Belizbeha and has his hand in everything from Orange Factory to producing, writing and singing. The man is everywhere.