It’s 1:17 a.m. We’re on the bus, again, driving from our last gig in Red Rocks, CO, to our next show in Gallup, NM. The itinerary after that is a one-nighter in Tucson, followed by Las Vegas, concluding in L.A. We’re the Earbugs, a fusion rock/c-w/folk whatever band. Our front-and-center vocalist gets all the girls. Our lead guitarist stands next to the vocalist and gets all the way cool, supersonic, wailing licks. Our drummer gets at least one solo each show. I’m the bass player, you know, the guy in the shadows just keeping the beat.
We’re the opening act for Bob Dylan, the headliner, obviously. He plays for two hours, the crowd digging it. We play for thirty minutes. Our first half of the show is dedicated to covers that everyone knows and can sing along to. Then we morph into our own work, the songs that no one knows—and maybe never will. When we play the covers, the Rolling Stones, a few Beatles, one Johnny Cash, our version of the 13th Floor Elevators’ version of Dylan’s “It’s all over now, Baby Blue,” and so forth, the crowd dances and claps. When we get to our original songs, the crowd talks to each other and gets excited about Dylan, forgetting us completely.
No biggee. We’re still having a ball, four young guys on the road, enjoying the four Bs of touring—babes, booze, bongs, and burritos (bought at the highway stops when our bus driver needs gas). My mom and dad think I’m a loser. Maybe they’re right. After all, my brother Todd is a computer programmer making bu-ku bucks. But, hey, he sits in front of a computer all day, staring into the void of a monitor like its an oracle, hoping to create the next, great, useless app. Who wants that? Plus, he's surrounded by other computer nerds, you know, plastic pocket protectors, $7 haircuts from Great Clips, and smudged glasses.
My sister Barb is a success too, according to the parentals. She’s in community college getting a degree in dental hygiene. Ok, she’ll make big bucks also, but she’ll have her hands in a bunch of people’s mouths eight hours a day. That sounds like a bad plot from a B minus sci-fi flick. No thanks.
Give me the road. Right now, our driver, nicknamed Jingles because he carries pocket loads of change for the toll roads, is driving a comfortable 70 mph, taking the tight turns slowly so our instruments don’t get banged up. We’re sleeping in our bus seats in various contortions like a Z or a C or a Y or an X.
Or at least my bandmates are sleeping. I’m listening to the bus’s groovy beat on the highway—whomp, whomp, whomp flap snap. And I’m getting ideas for our next song (I’ve become the group’s lyricist—man, how cool is that?). We even play a few of my tunes each night. I think I saw Dylan give me a nod of approval when he passed us backstage, maybe. And I’ve got a master class just being on the bill with Dylan. When he sings, “who prophesize with your pen” from “the times they are a-changin'” or “Inside the museum infinity goes up on trial” from “Visions of Johanna,” I mean, dude, how could I not learn a thing or two? Sure, Todd and Barb are getting educated in college, but I’m with a poet laureate every night. You can’t put a price on that.
OK, he’s Dylan, you say, and I’m not. You got that right, but he wasn’t always Dylan, was he? At some point he was just like me, a loser nineteen-year-old. Mom and Dad say I’m going nowhere. Not true. I’m on the road every night, and it’s a long road. I’ve got time enough to become something.
Aboutthe the author
teve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in many journals plus his six chapbooks: Once Planed Straight; Viral; And the Land Dreams Darkly; The 13th Floor; What Is Isn’t; and There Is a Season.
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