Taste in Music: Eating on Tour with Indie Musicians

Introduction

HOW WAS TOUR?

All touring musicians know this question well, but depending on who’s asking, it can be tricky to answer. Going On Tour has long been a heavily mythologized way of life, with ample touchpoints across pop culture. And yet, those who haven’t gone on tour sometimes lack the context to fully appreciate what it actually means. We’ve gone off to play a single depressing college show in Pennsylvania, only to return home that same night and have someone ask, How was tour?

One show in Pennsylvania? That’s not a tour. But tour’s also not Almost Famous, at least not for everyone. In our little corner of the industry, indie rock, tour is many things—too many things, in fact, to sum up succinctly. And it’s different for us all. Of course, tour represents the beautiful exchange between Band and Audience, the singular, ecstatic marvel of live music. But that lasts about an hour, sometimes two, rarely three. The rest of tour—the majority—is governed by two things: travel and food.

As indie musicians, we’re both defined by and reliant on our relationship to movement. The amount of time we spend in the studio is absolutely dwarfed by the amount of time we spend on the road. And once we get on the road, the amount of time we spend onstage is dwarfed by the amount of time we spend in transit and at the table. With the advent of streaming services, most musicians don’t make a living off their recorded music anymore; the bulk of our income comes from relentless cycles of touring that keep us in perpetual motion. During an average cycle, it’s common to be on tour for about 150 nights out of the year.

And just as travel television hosts have local fixers schlepping them around from restaurant to restaurant, we, too, have a vast international network of colleagues, friends, and peers who show us where to eat or cook for us in their homes. And we don’t want to sound flippant or ungrateful—but sometimes, musicians remember their meals more vividly than their shows.

•••

In May 2017, our bands Real Estate and Frankie Cosmos went on tour together around the Northeast and Midwest. We played some great shows—of course—but we also smuggled thick slices of rhubarb pie backstage from Tandem Coffee + Bakery in Portland, Maine; we detoured from Detroit to Dearborn for late-night Lebanese; we ordered deep-dish to the green room in Chicago. In short, we discovered we were each the resident food obsessive in our respective bands and forged a friendship centered around an appreciation of food, travel, and music, all of which have long been important to us both.

We’d taken separate but parallel paths to get where we were. After years spent on shoestring DIY tours, we both graduated to the comfortable-yet-modest confines of mid-level indie rock. Between tours, Luke spent time sharpening his food and recipe writing, while Alex took various front-of-house positions at one of his favorite Brooklyn restaurants. It made sense that we brought these passions on the road with us, finding both comfort and resonance in the universality of food no matter where we went. Eventually, luck intervened, and we ended up in the same place at the same time.

After that fateful first Real Estate–Frankie Cosmos tour, intertwining tour schedules brought us together for more memorable meals and moments—and that’s not uncommon. The indie-rock universe is actually a pretty small world. Bands on the same well-worn circuit either know or are peripherally aware of one another. We play the same venues and festivals, follow the same routes from city to city, and work with the same promoters. For a field so global in scale, there’s an astounding sense of community and interconnectedness.

All that ground to a halt during the Covid pandemic, which left the two of us sidelined from touring. Separated from our bands and the greater ecosystem of live music, we were each privately dealing with some introspection about our careers (e.g., Why did we do this at all? Will we ever do it again? What do we do now?).

Independently, we started to revisit a vague book idea we had thrown around before, albeit in slightly different forms. Alex was dreaming up a musicians’ guide to eating on tour, full of off-the-beaten-track restaurant recommendations. Luke was seriously considering anthropology PhD programs where he could infuse his own music-industry experience into an academic study of touring musicians.

Before long, we were revisiting our ideas together—and then combining them. The book began to take shape organically as we tapped into our extensive networks and chatted with dozens of indie musicians representing several different subgenres, scenes, and eras. Apart from being fascinating and fun, each call felt like the best therapy session we’d ever had. We had to bottle that energy and share it.

We began collecting essays based broadly on the subject of eating on tour, and found that each story brought to mind different aspects of our own experiences moving through the world. Our suspicion—that food looms large in both the physical and emotional lives of touring musicians—was confirmed. And what’s more, we found that stories centering food are the perfect gateway into understanding tour itself.

•••

Three-plus years have elapsed since we began working on this project—Real Estate put out a new album and started touring again, and Alex formed a subversive jam band called Taper’s Choice. Frankie Cosmos put out a new album, Luke and his bandmate Lauren got married, and they amicably left the band after just a release show, their final tour thwarted by extenuating circumstances. The live-music industry, still in its pandemic slumber when our work here began, has more than bounced back. While there was always an archival bent to this book, the touring culture we’ve documented is very much alive today, even as our relationships to it evolve.

We’ve done our best to curate this collection like we’d curate a festival—making sure to include folks from different parts of the world, with different backgrounds, representing different generations. Within the following pages, there are artists from Mississippi, New Zealand, New Orleans, Uruguay, Algeria, Japan, Alaska, the UK, the Bronx, and more. We have a ’70s art-pop icon, an ’80s underground pioneer, an influential ’90s rhythm section, early-aughts folk rockers, and current stars of the indie scene.

And alongside these musicians, we had to include a handful of the legendary promoters who take top care of touring artists, as well as the private chef who’s sure to become the envy of every touring band. A couple of food writers make appearances in our Rest Stop featurettes, which focus on roadside dining culture in a few key locations around the world. But they aren’t the only ones with clips—several contributing musicians are also published writers or poets. Several others are publishing pieces of writing here for the first time, though you’d never know.

We would have loved to include perspectives from front-of-house crews, tour managers, and the many others who make up the touring industry, but that’ll have to wait for another volume. In fact, with such a vast subject, there are many things we weren’t able to include. But here’s what we do have.

In addition to wide-angle meditations about eating on tour, we’ve gathered stories that take place on five continents, in private homes, and at street-side stalls. In temples of fine dining and in actual temples. Backstage and in the van. Early in the morning and late at night.

Stories that deal with the best parts of touring: meaningful cultural exchange, hospitality-induced euphoria, and the opportunity to build relationships around the world.

And the worst parts of touring: loneliness, exhaustion, estrangement from family and friends, struggles with disordered eating, and unsteady access to medical care.

So the question isn’t How was tour? It’s What do you eat on tour? The conversations and essays that follow, like the best songs or meals, evoke something central about the human experience. They show us all the ways that music and food bring us together, break us down, lift us up, and add color to our lives.

Chapter One

It’s Time for Tajik Breakfast: Hospitality in the Green Room and Beyond

It’s a familiar still life. Set on a table in the green room, a bunch of bananas, a bowl of apples, a loaf of sliced bread, a meat-and-cheese tray, a bowl of mixed nuts, a flat of bottled water, and hummus. Always, no matter what, hummus. This tablescape, either more austere or more lavish depending on the band and the venue, is what often constitutes hospitality for touring indie bands—in industry jargon, that’s the term we use. And of the many words that pass the lips and occupy the minds of musicians on tour, there is perhaps none more important.

Hospitality—in our world—refers not only to the idea of host-guest relations and the rituals that govern them, but also literally to the bowl of apples, the bunch of bananas, the meat-and-cheese tray, and the hummus. The word is used in countless ways, countless times per day, and in almost every case, hospitality either implies or directly involves food.

Venues and promoters have a hospitality budget for each show, which goes toward satisfying a band’s hospitality rider. The food items off that rider procured with that budget comprise part or all of that evening’s hospitality. In some cases, especially at festivals, an emissary reveals themself to be in charge of hospitality for you guys and might direct you to the hospitality tent, where the food is. You might finish soundchecking, when somebody peeks their head into your green room to take care of hospitality and hands you an envelope of cash (buyouts) or a stack of meal vouchers. Alternatively, you might search tirelessly around the venue for somebody in charge, only to be told that there is no hospitality or that it’s one drink ticket per member.

In the late 1950s, the anthropologist A. M. Hocart wrote on the divinity of the guest in his book The Life-Giving Myth and Other Essays. This is a concept well known to many societies, and in the Western tradition it can be traced to Homeric times. In ancient Greece, all travelers were thought to be accompanied by gods and thus deserving of equal treatment. In some cases, travelers actually were gods, testing the moral fiber of ordinary folks by passing through their towns in disguise and accepting whatever hospitality was offered.

I like to imagine Zeus backstage, contemplating a half-eaten tub of hummus and rubbing a single drink ticket between his fingers. There’s a knock at the door. Hey, man, I’ve got buyouts …

Of course, hospitality extends beyond the biome of the show itself and out into the real world too. Because while our experiences on tour generally revolve around the show and its attendant cast of characters, we do occasionally get a night, or at least a few hours, off. Some of the most memorable moments on tour can be traced back to being hosted and fed—by friends, by family, by friends’ family, family friends, perfect strangers, colleagues, and others both easily categorized and not.

On the nights that we’re treated like Greek deities and everything clicks into place, there’s nothing better. When things go the other way, well … at least we get a good story. These experiences have an indelible effect on our moods, our relationships to one another, and ultimately even the performances we put on for each audience.

A couple of years ago in the northwestern Spanish city of A Coruña, I was treated to a multicourse, wine-fueled banquet of Galician specialties with my father-in-law’s friend’s friends. Normally, a regional feast alongside random European septuagenarians is quite literally a dream come true, but I was there in my capacity as the drummer of a mid-level indie band, not as an insatiable food adventurer.

The table was filled with pulpo a la gallega, sardine empanadillas, and fried artichokes; our hosts ensured my wine glass remained perpetually full no matter how much I drank. When I thought the meal was winding down, a local breed of pork was trotted out, and my wine glass was of course refilled. Everything about the meal—the setting, the food, the company—was perfect, except that it immediately preceded an hour-long set of live music.

I had to excuse myself from the table to speed-walk the twenty minutes back to the venue, where I had only a moment to compose myself before taking the stage. It’s great, on nights like this, that we drummers get to sit down. But that night, sitting down felt like standing up, and standing up felt like passing away. I could not tell you a single thing about the performance.

Examples of similar nights and many other permutations of on-the-road hospitality follow in the chapter ahead. We’ll hear from Devendra Banhart and Andy Cabic on Japanese pre-show-meal etiquette, and Kevin Morby on Thanksgiving dinner in Portugal. Sasami Ashworth will share memories of staying with a Guinness heir in Ireland, and Auckland’s The Beths fondly recall post-show pancakes at their sound engineer’s parents’ house in suburban Ohio. If you’re from New Zealand, that’s a pretty exotic proposition!

We’ll also hear from Hand Habits’ Meg Duffy about a tension-filled tasting menu at Iceland Airwaves, and from the James Beard–nominated chef (and noted rocker) Cheetie Kumar on the roots of her beloved Raleigh restaurant Garland and its upstairs music venue, Kings. Plus, thanks to drummer Chris Frantz, we get to drop in on Talking Heads’ majestic first meal in Paris alongside the Ramones. Most would agree that’s an example of veritable gods passing through town—and even gods need to eat. -LP

They’re Feeding You Tonight

Devendra Banhart in conversation with Andy Cabic (Vetiver)

One of the most surreal and delightful aspects of a career in music is the rare opportunity to meet some of your heroes. I had been listening to Devendra Banhart and Andy Cabic for years before I got to know either of them socially. Fans of theirs will be happy to know that they are both kind and charismatic gentlemen. I was hosting Andy for dinner over at my place one night when he told me a wild tale about a feast he’d eaten at a temple after a show in Kanazawa, Japan. Naturally I was like, Wait, can you tell that story again?

Andy suggested that he and Devendra could tell the story together from memory, so we got them on the phone with each other to do just that. It was a serious delight to be a fly on the wall for the following conversation. These two veterans of the road really nailed all the fine points (both high and low) of eating on tour and far away from home. -AB

Photo by Alissa Anderson.

Devendra Banhart: You’re hungry all the time on tour. But you don’t wanna get too filled up before playing a show; at least that’s my experience. And then the show’s over, and it’s like midnight, and where are you gonna eat?

Tour is like, how am I gonna figure out how to get a good meal at these weird hours, and tour is survival mode in so many ways. And it’s such a privilege to be able to be on tour, it’s such a luxury, that you can only kind of talk about tour with other people who have toured. Because if not, you sound like a total ungrateful asshole, you know, as opposed to just an asshole.

Andy Cabic: Well, the story—I wish I could go back to that meal! I wish I could do that meal over again; I wish I could savor and remember each thing that was on the table.

DB: I think that’s quite potent—Andy doesn’t want to go back on tour; he wants to go back to that meal.

AC: My memory is that we had a whirlwind tour of Japan, and we were in a different city pretty much every day. This was maybe the most special of them all because it was at a temple; I think it’s called Kouseiji.

We were hungry; I mean, Devendra, I remember in particular, was hungry. Our tour manager, this guy Kozuki Tomita—Kozuki was very sweet and would always talk with us in very hushed tones, with his hand over his mouth—he’s like, They’re feeding you tonight, and Devendra was like, That’s great, that’s amazing, but I’m a little hungry now, and the show’s a couple of hours away. Can we just stop somewhere and get some food and see the town?

DB: I need to interject: Andy is trying to illustrate that perhaps our tour manager was so polite that while he knew what was in store, because of my insistence, he relented. I think just mentioning that there would be food later that night was his version of making it very clear that there was a big surprise in store. But, of course, I’m a stupid American and I’m like, Nah, nah, I gotta eat!

AC: He’s totally right; that’s how Kozuki was. He was being so polite!

DB: The only reason I’m so stressed about eating is that not only am I trying to eat in time to digest by the time we play, but I’m also in my favorite city, my favorite country in the world, with my favorite cuisine in the world! Andy too! We’re so excited, we love to eat, and the adventure of finding a good restaurant, especially on tour—it’s wonderful.

Andy (left) and Devendra (right) in Devendra’s kitchen in LA. Photo by Alissa Anderson.

AC: So we found this sushi-boat place, which, in the whole time we were there, we had not eaten at a place like that. I think there was something kitschy about going to a sushi-boat place.

DB: Just to make it clear, we’re not going to Yoshinoya [a Japanese fast-food chain] while we’re in Japan, but the sushi boat was the closest thing to something a little bit novel that we could find at that moment. I got a little funny kick of eating this corny sushi boat while I was in Japan, but it was still really tasty.

I did this silly thing, which was to just eat anywhere, because everywhere in Japan is so good anyways. Because after the show I’m expecting four grains of rice and a little bit of tea, which is fine. I’m happy to eat that; what an honor to play at a temple. This is where I’m at. Hey, Devendra, be humble, and be grateful you got to play this beautiful temple, and just drop your expectations; this is monastic food, a monastic environment.

AC: And then we played the show. We’ve done a few tours like this; we’re onstage at the same time, and we pretty much go back and forth. We do one or two songs of mine, or two of his, some covers, acoustic or electric. These were very intimate shows, and that was really remarkable. The people, just two feet away from you, just big smiles on their faces, both of us not believing we’re there. The surroundings were so beautiful.

We took a moment afterward, and then we went into their kitchen and sat down around this table, probably seven feet long—surrounded by the people who lived at the temple—which was just filled with food. And every time a dish was finished, another one was put down in its place. This went on for a few hours, and I remember within, like, the first like ten minutes looking at Dev and our eyes meeting like, Oh. This is a serious meal here that they’re doing for us.

DB: It was this incredible spread—there was uni, there was soba, there was ramen, there were these beautiful blocks of tofu, so much fish, and shirako, which is one of my favorite things in the world, beautiful cod sperm just, like, melting! Just gorgeous cod sperm. And natto, which is another of my favorite