To the outside world, my job description is simple: get the band from point A to point B safe and sound. And yes, a huge part of my life is spent with my hands glued to the steering wheel, watching the arid landscapes of the plains or the green hills of the north roll by. This past week has been a string of kilometers through historic stone cities—places where the winter bites hard, but the people welcome you with warmth. However, reducing my role to just “the driver” would only be telling half the story. There are no nightliner hierarchies or loading crews waiting at the door here; here, it’s just us and the road.
On paper, my responsibility ends the moment I kill the engine in front of the venue. In practice, as soon as I pop the trunk, I become one of them. I’m not a hired backliner or an external tech; I am the extra pair of hands helping to lift the speaker cabinets when the musicians’ backs can’t take anymore, and the one pushing flight cases down narrow hallways in venues that were never designed for rock and roll. We set up together, soundcheck together, and eat together at whatever roadside restaurant we can find. That camaraderie is the true fuel of this tour.
These past few days we’ve played in small clubs, the kind that smell of history and sweat. We aren’t filling stadiums, and honestly, we don’t need to. There is a special kind of magic in packing a hundred people into a “shoebox” where there is no separation between the crowd and the stage. From my corner—often with a beer in hand after helping get everything ready—I watch the atmosphere shift. You can breathe in the genuine good vibes, an electric connection that justifies every hour in the van and every early morning alarm.
But the part nobody sees comes when the house lights go up and the audience goes home. That is when the reality of “DIY” returns. It’s time to coil cables, play the impossible game of Tetris to fit everything back into the van, and share the physical exhaustion with the band. In those moments, hauling gear at 2 AM in the biting cold, is where the bond is truly forged. I’m not just the guy driving; I’m there to ensure the gears don’t grind to a halt, looking out for them as if they were my own family.
This is the start of a series of stories about life on the road, far from the glamour sold in the movies. Over the next year, I want to show you what touring is really like from the inside—from the perspective of the person watching through the rearview mirror and carrying the weight, both literally and figuratively. Welcome to the van, the asphalt, and the real life of a working musician’s crew.
