On the Road with Fox 45

Last time I was in this van it was smoking from the hood, leaving us stranded in rural New York with no cell service and waning daylight. It’s a rusty tan ten-seater with the remnants of a Pentecostal church logo on the side, torn through with scratches from a shitty parking job. My seat does not seem to have a seatbelt.

Vans like this always sound like they’re going faster than they are, so Casey (drums) turns up the music. Nick (lead guitar) turns to me and says This is that band from Kansas City whose guitar player shot herself in the hand, with a knowing look like I should remember this story, but I don’t. What did she do that for? It was an accident I guess. Amanda (bass and vocals, my best friend and reason why I’m here) is half asleep across the backseat and as usual I envy her ability to so completely tune out her surroundings and ride things out.

We’re tearing through the rain towards Philadelphia, Good Friday 2019. I’m not entirely convinced my door is fully closed and consider the physics of an emergency tuck-and-roll on the shoulder of I-90. I think about the predicament of finding yourself on the side of the highway with no shoes and slide mine back on.

I have been trying to worry less. I am not sure this exercise is helping, but Amanda has assured me that you have the most fun when you’re not sure where you’re going to sleep that night.

So I lean into it.

A carwash advertises in dirty out purdy. I watch Casey light a bowl then ask Will (her boyfriend, also along for the ride) that burning smell isn’t the van is it? I throw kettle corn into Amanda’s half-asleep mouth, getting bored. When we stop to pee the people we pass wear a mixture of shorts and jackets, as if unsure what season it is, as if this stretch of highway is seasonless, forever between here and there. Garish Easter decorations clash against the grey sky.

I pass time thinking things like how the street signs in the Onondaga Nation must have to be made special for the long words that we do not attempt to carry in our mouths. They tell us where we are, but also they don’t.

I also wonder if later the band might read this and think that’s not how it happened.

We have a place to stay tonight, Amanda says. From the backseat: Sweet.

Frank thought there wouldn’t be room for us but he didn’t realize we were willing to sleep on the floor. A mile ticks by. Depending on the neighborhood one of us might want to sleep in the van though.

She’s told me that in the summer the best spot to sleep is on the roof, guarding the gear.

We’re about two hours into the drive. It’s settings like these that make me realize how much less chill I am than everyone around me, always on edge and constantly over-prepared. Even sitting back in my seat my hands are clasped politely as if in prayer, my back is straight, arranged like I’m about to have my picture taken. I cautiously prop my bare feet on the side window, feeling the door give slightly but hold.

I’m glad our brakes are working, says Amanda as we drive into lightning, but I don’t really make the connection.

Day 1: Philadelphia

When we get to the venue there’s one sweet parking spot out front, just a block from the riverfront restaurants where everyone looks very clean as they duck from the rain. Boys in khakis hold umbrellas over girls in dangerous heels. I am suddenly acutely aware of my car hair.

The bar door is locked when we try to load in, and we wait in the humid drizzle until the bartender comes out blinking into the gray light, asking who we’re with. There are 6 bands on the set and Fox is first. No one seems pleased about this.

As they start unpacking the van and stacking gear along the stage, I realize I’ve partly been brought along for my penmanship, and I make myself useful. I rewrite the prices of t-shirts and records on the back of some months-old comedy show flyers I took from bulletin board, and copy out three set lists in Sharpie. It’s a different set list than usual, shorter and with a couple more covers, because their other guitarist was traveling for the week and they had to make do.

Even once all the gear is in place and I’ve switched on the fairy lights at the merch table, we’re still the only ones in the bar. The sound guy says it’s a firm start time, unapologetic. At least we brought along a few people, Amanda says. They collectively grumble a bit then decide it’s at least practice for the bigger show tomorrow night in Pittsburgh. I wonder if anyone else will wander in before they start. Even though everything is set up, no one seems to be holding still, shuttling around the bar checking cords, buying beers, straightening amps.

I go back out to the van to fix my makeup and see if there’s any weed, and find Amanda and Will wrapping a bungee cord around the back window of the van. The latch has rusted through and popped, and they’re trying to rig something to secure it, worried about where we’re parking for the night with all the gear. I find a second way to be useful.

I borrow Amanda’s knife and cut the elastic rope off the bungee cord then loop the metal hook through the hole in the glass and snap it onto the bar where the latch used to be. We back it up with a carabiner and it’s good enough. It at least doesn’t look broken, that’s what attracts attention. I do not realize the weight of this statement at the time.

It’s humid in the van and sticky with smoke. My makeup is smeared from a half-accidental nap on the way down, and I’m sweating from moving gear in a raincoat. I have brought bright purple lipstick, certain it will help.

Back inside the band is bickering with the sound guy about the bullshit of starting a show when it’s light out, until they settle on a slightly later time. The other band from Rochester, Jan the Actress, shows up and I introduce myself to them for at least the third time. Everyone forgets my face, yet I’m self-conscious as ever. I smile and nod, again, and order a double gin and tonic. I lean into it.

I perch on a stool in the corner as Fox 45 plays through their set, taking low-light photos where the disco ball and Christmas lights strung over the stage glitter. The black-clad band blends into the darkness of the stage. The front window is plastered in outdated show posters, so you can’t tell it’s light outside. I stop taking photos for a moment and just listen, songs I know and songs I don’t. I’ve heard them play dozens of times, but the sound is different without Vicky, each one of them trying to fill a space that they usually don’t venture into.

Over the course of their set, a few more people filtered in, but I suspect that most of them are also on the bill. Musicians watching musicians, while I watch all of them. Jan the Actress takes the stage.

I hear: This song’s called warm beer. I know you don’t know it, but if you could sing along that would be great.

Amanda and I sit in the corner at the merch table and I try to tell myself I’m not hiding back there, while she tries to sell albums to people who weren’t even there when Fox played. I’ve been told by a lot of people that I have the confidence of a mediocre white man, she says. I don’t even have that and I am a mediocre white man, Nick says. It isn’t a criticism.

He asks if it’s okay if he gets a little drunk. Amanda, who has to drive, shrugs, and I say that I encourage it. He buys me a shot. Then it’s out to the van to get cookies, because that’s the best way I know to make friends. I introduce myself to everyone in Jan the Actress (again) and consider that maybe I need to stop telling people when I’ve already met them. Let it be a forgettable first, over and over and over again.

When our shot glasses hit the counter, Nick says, This is what I want my life to be. On the road.

Around the fourth band and the fifth drink we give up on politeness — they weren’t here for our set, why should we stick around — and push through the crowd with armfuls of gear. I am amazed by people’s obliviousness to a hundred-pound bass cab floating past them and try to make my shouts kind but assertive.

We’re staying with a friend of Frank (bass, Jan the Actress), a cute girl with high-waisted shorts on and a tiny apartment in a part of town that I can’t gauge the sketchiness of. Casey and Will say they’ll sleep in the van, which makes me think maybe it’s not great. Next to her apartment there’s an old dive bar with free soft pretzels, and Amanda and I split the last one, kind of dry but salty and warm. I buy three beer-and-shot combos for Amanda, Nick and me, but our host is standing next to me and misunderstands that one is for her. I wait a few minutes before I order another, trying to avoid the awkwardness. By the time I order, she’s already turned around and is deep in another conversation.

Nick is in his element, telling us about the Irish dive he worked at in Brooklyn in the early 2000s. Let me ask you something. Do you have the problem where the drunker you get the harder time you have telling the difference between reality and dreams you had before? I tell him no. The AC drips from the ceiling into my drink. Do you think that’s ok? I ask and Nick says, That’s Philly. The air is thick and sticky so I drink it anyway.

The next bar we go to is a notch too fancy. Frank buys our food and drinks and Eric (Jan the Actress, guitar) is too drunk for polite company. I catch a rocks glass as he throws it to the floor and Karrah (Jan the Actress, vocals) gives him a look that makes me feel guilty too, even though I haven’t done anything.

We walk back talking about the amazing vegan sandwiches we had at the bar, and I smoke my first cigarette in years. This is just so cool, Nick says, a type of giddy we usually don’t see in him. When we get back to the van to get our sleeping bags, Casey and Will are already asleep, and they rustle around confused as we pull out our things. Casey is using my pillow and I don’t have the heart to take it. Her long hair spills over her face so as she looks up it is hard to tell front from back. As we close the door gently I see her settle back into a nest of hoodies and blankets.

In the morning Karrah says wait, where is everyone, and heads poke out of sleeping bags in every corner of the room. I spent half the night playing with Janet the kitten, who is lanky and crazy with razor-sharp claws, while my skin stuck to the leather couch in the wet heat. Karrah keeps saying have you guys seen this kitten, not a question but a statement. She’s less amused when we’re tearing apart the apartment looking for her contacts, which it turns out are stuck to Eric’s arm, though no one knows how or why. When I get up to use the bathroom I see that no one bothered to lock the front door.

Day 2: Pittsburgh

The next day I don’t feel so much hungover as I feel dazed, not believing that I’ve really slept. We walk around Philadelphia, a city that seems to exist mostly underneath train tracks, stepping on the fallen flowers of gummy trees that have an unpleasant smell you can’t place until you realize they smell like stale sex.

As we pull out of town Casey weaves through construction barrels and someone lights a bowl. Happy four twenty she says, and I think it’s a joke, but then realize what day it is. We settle in for a car ride that is much longer than I’d realized it would be, surprised as always by my somewhat loose grasp on American geography. My stomach feels heavy and angry, not used to a diet that largely consists of French fries and jelly beans. I root around in the back for a bag of baby carrots and for a moment feel like myself again. I dismiss the thought that the reason I never let go is that it always ends up like this — an upset stomach and no seatbelt on.

Pittsburgh’s built on land that doesn’t seem to want to hold a city, all slopes and grades and gray skies. It’s raining again. Casey scoots out from behind the wheel and makes Amanda park, facing steep downhill. Once the e-brake is cranked into place we shuttle gear from the van to the bar. I imagine accidentally letting go of one of the amps and watching it wheel down the hill. I grip it tighter.

Several men try to take things out of my hands as I push through the crowd and I stare daggers, wondering how they think it’s helpful to wrestle a heavy amp from someone’s arms as they walk past you. Unlike the last bar this one is already packed. I’ve never been to a bar that allows smoking indoors, and the stale haze hanging over everything softens the lights and makes it hard to tell what direction someone is talking to you from. Every inch of the bar is covered in stickers and graffiti and the yellowed residue of old nicotine. A huge American flag hangs behind the stage, with a penis hastily Sharpied onto one of the stars. Across the course of the night I see several people stare at it and shake their heads.

I set up the merch on the unused pool table and people start buying it before the show even starts — Amanda was right about the fan base in Pittsburgh. People in cut-off leather moto vests and metal t-shirts, head-to-toe black, shoulder-to-fingertip tattoos approach them like celebrities, with a mix of reverence and friendly familiarity. We meet the guys whose house we’re staying at that night. At the time I make a mental note that one of them is attractive, but now for the life of me cannot remember his face.

Jan the Actress is up first, all of them pissed because their suitcase of CDs and merch was somehow left back in Philadelphia and no one is sure who to blame. I learn that this is their last show with their current lineup — Karrah is leaving to do her own thing, getting married, traveling. She’s the life of the group, with a perfectly hectic voice and a way of commanding the stage that makes everyone pull in a little closer. Tonight she’s wearing round glasses and still pissed about her contacts.

Afterwards, Fox 45 plays the best show I’ve ever heard them play, balanced and tight but still pulsing with energy. It’s clear that they’re having fun and everyone else is too. Karrah hops on stage for the last song and shares the mic with Amanda, the two of them spiraling off one another’s energy.

I end up outside smoking a cigarette with my friend’s younger brother, holder of two DUIs, and his girlfriend, a very petite racecar driver. A stranger with blond dreads hands the racecar driver a joint without a word and just nods slowly as he slips back inside. She smokes it down to the tiniest nub, seeming to shrink even smaller as she relaxes into the wall behind her. We could have been smoking inside, but there’s something strange about it to me, like my brain is still insisting on fresh air.

We stick around for the last set, everyone riding off the high of a good show. We make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the corner, offer them around. My head is light, but not in a bad way. I don’t know the city or the people, but I feel in place.

I can’t do math but I can recite all the words to Baby Got Back…what is wrong with my brain? We’re killing time in the van parked on what we think is the right front yard, music thumping out of the speakers. Somehow we beat our hosts there, even though the roads twisted and veered and without making linear sense.

Once we’re inside I can’t remember anyone’s name, which is unlike me. This was the first guy’s grandma’s house and he says he’s still redoing the decor. The curtains are ratty but flowered, empty beer cans and stains cover almost every surface. I can’t tell who all lives here, but they’ve offered everyone weed and beer and another kind of weed. Their dog is old and a bummer, a bulldog with a snaggletooth and an unidentifiable crust on her nose. I feel like I should apologize to her.

Sitting on the porch on Amanda’s lap, I feel myself skipping out of the state where I can explain things clearly. Leaning into it so far I’ve fallen.

Lying back onto my friend’s shoulder, I watch her cigarette sparks falling into the unmown grass. I relax. We fall, we glow, we fade.

This story was written in Spring 2019, back when tours and live music were still possible. You can find Fox 45 on Instagram, @foxfortyfive.