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Some days, tour management feels less like exploring the inner workings of the music industry and more like wrangling a bunch of fifty-year-olds with the libidos and attitudes of overgrown teenagers.
They say people mentally stay at the age when they become famous, so in the minds of Vince, Priya, Apollo, and Henry, they're forever twenty-two—even as they approach fifty-two. But Apollo has a wife and kids. Priya probably knows the universe's secrets, and Henry is so polite he could converse with a brick wall.
Vince is the only one who lives up to his wild rockstar reputation, with exorbitant bills of hotel damages to prove it.
Tonight, I’m grateful all he did was bring a girl back to the wrong room rather than chuck a TV out the window.
Rock and roll is all fun and games until you’re the person explaining to the front desk that the band decided to take ‘shrooms and peel off the wallpaper because they thought they found a portal.
But I love tour management. I love seeing the world and seeing how music is made without the added pressure of facing thousands of expectant faces every night.
I’m hidden in plain sight.
No one ever stops me for an autograph. I look simple enough with shaggy blonde hair, brown eyes, and wire-rimmed glasses. I’m five-nine, and I can’t walk in heels to save my life. I stand as a stark contrast to the occasional glamour around me, and that's just the way I like it.
When I got the phone call to work for the Imposters, one of the most iconic rock acts of all time, I had no idea how much my life would change.
Pasadena, CA.
Three Weeks Ago.
“Fuck, Tori, you’re breaking up!” I hissed into my phone as I jimmied the portable printer.
Lola, the lead singer of Oli June, applied a liquid blush to her stark cheekbones. She was petite, prone to wearing rainbow-colored bomber jackets, and sprinting around onstage with her guitar; like a rock’ n’ roll Tinkerbell hopped up on Adderall and kombucha.
I wore my usual uniform of a black hoodie, gray tank top, and black jeans. Unlike seventy percent of the industry, I wasn’t here to be noticed. I kept my shaggy, blonde hair in a loose ponytail and tried to offset the fact that I was 5’9 by wearing the same pair of beat-up Converse sneakers.
We were finishing up a month-long stint along the East Coast before heading back to L.A. I landed the gig as Lola’s tour manager through her cousin I knew in college. Fast forward, and what began as a summer fling with American gas stations became my career and legitimate livelihood.
“I said, I have good news for both of us!” she howled into the receiver. Tori was the only other “industry” friend who wasn’t a musician. She managed a couple of different bands.
“What news?” I asked, slapping the printer with my palm. It came alive with a screech and started to print out the setlist at a painfully loud crawl.
“I got! I-I-I—” It sounded like Tori was in a tunnel, but I knew I was the one deep underground at the Canyon Club. Who decided that green rooms had to have the same energy as medieval dungeons? I leaned back against the cool cement wall and pressed my phone closer to my ear.
“I got into grad school!” Tori finished. The setlist was warm in my hand. I passed it to Lola, who nodded in approval before passing it to KD, the bassist.
“Since when are you going to grad school?” I stepped outside into the small hallway; the reception was much clearer.
“Just got in two days ago. Urban Planning at UCLA, with a stipend!”
“Dude, that’s amazing!” I knew Tori wanted to return to school. She started looking into graduate programs during COVID, but I figured she’d put the application process on hold once touring picked back up. Touring isn’t exactly the most conducive environment for academic success.
“It is, but—okay, this is going to sound insane, but you listen to the Imposters, right?”
“Yeah, Tor, I have ears and a mom who listens to NPR; I know who the Imposters are. I had a poster of Priya on my bedroom wall growing up.”
The Imposters were prolific, sonic sorcerers, with the funk edge of the Talking Heads and the kinetic energy of early Patti Smith. They’d been touring since the early eighties. Music journalists compared Priya to Poly Styrene of the X-Ray Spex for her bombastic stage presence.
She could do a cartwheel onstage and make you cry in the same breath. The band’s interpersonal history was equally intriguing; trying to sort out who slept with whom and when would make the most hardcore tabloid devotee pop an Advil and reinvest in red string.
So yes, I loved the Imposters. I grew up listening to the Imposters; their Christmas album (a psychedelic cash grab with more than one sitar) was my mom’s favorite.
“I was supposed to TM for them for the North American run of the Glass Eyes reunion tour, but the tour starts the day of my orientation.”
“Oh, shit! I forgot that was happening!” Their first record, Glass Eyes, was turning thirty in the fall. Though Priya disliked touring, her management released a statement saying she was excited to return to the road and ‘get the band back together’, as they say.”
“Yeah, and I was supposed to TM! I know this is crazy! It starts in two weeks, and you’re with Lola right now.” I nodded, and my stomach clenched in anticipation at what she was about to say.
