The Boys In The Van

It's in Spartanburg, South Carolina, that things get as bad as they're going to get.

After two days of small weeknight crowds and negligible pay, the three members of Tampa rock band The Beauvilles were starting to show signs of frustration. Leaving Atlanta, the banter in the van was already down several notches from the nonstop jokes and anecdotes of Tuesday and Wednesday; it waned further as we exited the business loop of I-85 North, and negotiated several narrow old two-lane roads to find a heavy metal club called Ground Zero, sitting on a bald hill out in the sticks next to a decrepit aluminum-walled machine shop.

There was no one at the club. The guys stood in the first real, gray cold of the tour, inspecting the skulls and evil logos painted on the building's exterior and making fun of the goateed metal dudes on the flyers taped near the door.

"Let's get the hell out of here," said Shawn Kyle, the group's singer and guitarist.

We passed at least half a dozen small churches, some in converted homes, on the way to Spartanburg's tiny downtown.

"You tried to prepare me," drummer Jesse Pullen told me, gazing out a window as Kyle looked for a parking space. (I'd been to Spartanburg, and Ground Zero, several years before.) "You tried to prepare me, but there was just. No. Way."

Then came the wind. And the rain. And the Cold War-era air-raid siren, which meant, the young waitress at the Noodle House courteously informed us in her lilting drawl, that a tornado had touched down and was heading this way.

It's about 9 p.m. now, and Ground Zero is open, though there might be 12 more people here than there was when we first arrived. Most sport long dark hair and black T-shirts, and nurse Pabst Blue Ribbon at the club's small, horseshoe-shaped bar, where there's still plenty of room left to belly up. The most hilariously bad local band any of us could possibly conceive, much less actually witness, has just finished its regular Thursday-night set of tuneless, sequencer-assisted pop.

A pretty good punk-bluegrass act called Bitterman is tearing through a bunch of songs about how much Spartanburg sucks (their version of Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" seems to imply that the town is Hell itself) when Randy McMillan, The Beauvilles' six-foot, two-inch, half-Irish, half-Native American stand-up bass player, suddenly loses it.

He belts out a lengthy, inarticulate scream. Then he strides meaningfully across the worn, empty floor to a closed fire exit, and steps out into the storm. Minutes later, he's back at the bar, speaking loudly and directly down into Kyle's face. Minutes after that, all three of The Beauvilles disappear.

They stay gone for what seems like a very long time. I start to head outside; Jesse Martin, drummer for St Pete-based Beauvilles tourmates The Mercy Seat, stops me.

"Give 'em some space," he advises as he passes by, carrying his kick drum.

Eventually, the trio returns. McMillan shrugs off questions about what happened, saying simply that he "got mad," but later, just before The Beauvilles follow The Mercy Seat with a subdued but satisfactory performance, he elaborates a bit.

"I was focusing on the negative," McMillan says. "I should've been feeling gratitude."

Gratitude?

"Yeah. I should've been feeling grateful that I get to leave here when we're done."

The widespread perception of touring rock acts generally includes thousands of screaming fans, trashed hotel rooms, and massive, customized buses and/or airplanes. This is what we've all seen in countless music videos, rendered in black-and-white and intercut with footage of band members talking on payphones, looking exhausted and lonely.But for every recognizable group that hits the road in comfort and plays to packed houses, there are dozens of basically unknown outfits regularly scouring the country in search of experience, exposure, and new fans. Not every local band in the nation does it, but many more than you might think do – particularly the ones who've committed themselves to making a living in music or dying in the effort.

These are men and women who largely work high-turnover labor and service-industry jobs they can quit if they have to, who have never actually bought a piece of furniture, who see nothing strange about the fact that their lives are built around a permanent sort of temporariness. Everything is geared toward being able to go when the time comes.

Some acts have booking agents to help land out-of-town shows, and a guaranteed payday for those shows. Most, like The Beauvilles and The Mercy Seat, do not. There's a vicious circle at work: It's hard to attract a booking agent without establishing yourselves as a touring band, and it's hard to do the kind of touring that establishes you without the help of a booking agent.

So the bands do it themselves. They locate the clubs. They send out their CDs and press clippings. They make the endless rounds of follow-up phone calls. They haggle over guarantees, and almost always settle for a cut of the money brought in by the door charge. They search for ways to promote themselves in a town 500 miles away – college radio, the local free weekly paper, whatever. And then they pack up the van or the RV or the converted ice cream truck and they go, hoping enough people pay the cover to get them invited back to the club for the next time, and buy enough of their merchandise to keep them from losing their asses.

There's another vicious circle: It's never about this tour, it's always about the next tour.

"It's for the long haul," explains Mercy Seat drummer Martin. "It's planting seeds."

But before the next tour, there's this one. These two Bay area acts, neither a stranger to the road, have pooled their resources (club contacts, Kyle's knack for slick industry-speak, and a certain status afforded The Mercy Seat by the fact that they've toured the U.K.) for a five-day, five-show jaunt around the Southeast – two three-piece bands, in two beat-up vans, planting seeds.

In an iffy North Tampa neighborhood where somebody's rooster wouldn't shut up and stray dogs wandered the backyard, The Beauvilles – Kyle, McMillan and Pullen – cracked the usual Tetris jokes while strategically loading their van. It was a mid-'90s Dodge custom job that Kyle got about a year ago to replace the one he got to replace the first one, a Chevy Beauville for which the band was named."Randy kindly told me that they'd last a lot longer if I'd quit taking 90-degree turns at 45 miles per hour," he deadpanned.

We headed north on I-75. Before hitting I-10 West to Tallahassee and the first show of the tour, the band stopped off in Gainesville to make sure posters were already hanging at The Purple Porpoise, where they'd play the final show of the tour, five days later.

"Did you ever hear of the three P's?" McMillan asked. "Piss Poor Promotion equals Piss Poor Performance, and Piss Poor Payday."

In most instances, making good time is a good thing; that's why they call it that. On tour, it can work against you, depending on whether you prefer to spend your time talking shit and telling stories while crammed into a moving vehicle, or talking shit and telling stories while wandering around a relatively small portion of a strange town where you don't know anybody, waiting for somebody to unlock the club.

Either way, there are hours and hours to kill. In Tallahassee, The Beauvilles walked them off, exploring Florida State University's Fine Arts Building, using spray adhesive to put up posters for that night's show every half-block or so, and marveling at thousands of kids who would rather talk on cell phones than to each other.

Eventually, the sun went down, and the bar next to the bar they were playing opened. Out back, the gutted, heavily jury-rigged white cargo van The Mercy Seat borrows frequently from an enigmatic patron known only as "The Doctor" pulled up and disgorged its travelers: singer/guitarist James McFarland, bassist Johnny McCarthy, and drummer Martin. Both bands had dumped considerable funds into their respective carriages in preparation for the trip – The Mercy Seat spent $600, while "routine maintenance" cost The Beauvilles around $1,600.

At some point, the club's door was unlocked, and the bands loaded their equipment into Big Daddy's, a tiny grotto lodged in an elderly strip along with other, similarly downscale nightspots.

"This might be the smallest room I've ever played," mused the 32-year-old Pullen, who was on his first trip as a Beauville after several years of live and session drum work in New York and Los Angeles.

Places like Big Daddy's are the lifeblood of do-it-yourself touring – dank, barely adorned shoeboxes run by actual music fans, catering mainly to underground punk and metal acts notable enough to pack the place out, but with a relatively low overhead that allows them to regularly put new blood on their postage-stamp stages.

Neither of these Tampa acts plays punk or metal, however, and these days, originality tends to make under-the-radar touring that much harder. There's no easy categorization, no built-in audience, no immediate association with an enduring scene. The Tuesday-night turnout was small, with the young early arrivals more interested in the local opener's anonymous hard rock than The Mercy Seat's dark, noisy dynamics or The Beauvilles' sexy, rhythmic revivalism.

An older crowd trickled in later to check out the quirky pop of new hometown heroes Pocket Novel Mystery, as the two Tampa bands loaded out, and collected something in the neighborhood of $20 apiece for their efforts.

The Mercy Seat guys were offered a place to sleep by a local friend of Martin's who, while obviously put off by the notion of extending the same invitation to four more men, did it anyway, bless him. Armed with sleeping bags and a couple of cases of cheap beer, we entered the startlingly familiar collegiate apartment to find ourselves in the midst of a small after-party in honor of whatever jam band had played in town that night, complete with tie-dyed fashion, a barely coherent dude on Ecstasy, and the aroma of that really potent pot that always smells like a skunk that died two summer days ago.

McFarland, Martin and McCarthy revealed an interesting Mercy Seat tradition by breaking out a set of bocce balls for a wee-hours match on the lawn, and later, after Pullen tired of playing with the dog and Kyle disappeared to go sleep in the van, everybody managed four-and-a-half hours of unconsciousness.

By the time The Beauvilles' van reached the outskirts of Atlanta Wednesday evening, the cloying, too-sweet smell of Red Bull had worked its way into everything. DIY touring in the new millennium is all about Red Bull, MapQuest, and not having to use truck-stop bathrooms. (Thank you, Borders; thank you, Barnes & Noble.) And hyper-trendy online community MySpace.com, where a band can not only find other bands in other cities with whom to set up shows, but also connect with live-music fans they've never met in cities they'll be playing on the road:"So, did you meet anybody on MySpace who lives in (insert city name here)?"

"No, but I did 'talk' to this one girl in (insert other city name here) who said she was gonna try to come out, and bring, like, five or six friends."

"Cool."

(The above exchange occurred at least once every day that I rode with The Beauvilles.)

The bands couldn't secure a shared bill in Atlanta. The Mercy Seat was booked into a little underground bar called Ten High, while The Beauvilles played The Earl, an excellent venue in increasingly hip East Atlanta. It was easily the coolest room in the biggest city of the tour, but it was also a Wednesday night; while twice as many patrons socialized out in the separate bar/restaurant section of the place, the trio played a loose, chaotic set to less than 20 onlookers, most of whom were part of another group's entourage.

Most were impressed, and made a point of approaching frontman Kyle afterward at the back of the darkened red-and-black space where they'd set up their merchandise. He was his usual socially adept self, gracious and funny, but was privately disappointed in both the turnout and the sloppy performance.

Not to mention the pay.

"The club didn't break even," he explained, meaning that The Beauvilles wouldn't be making any door money on this stop.

Then he smiled.

"But the soundman bought a CD."

Planting seeds.

After the night's final band – a poppy group of identically suited guys called The Californias who, while obviously talented, were entirely too happy for most of us – we decamped to Ten High. The place was locked up when we arrived, the show over and The Mercy Seat gone to The Clermont Lounge.

(A trip to The Clermont is pretty much tradition for all out-of-town scenesters visiting Atlanta. For those who've never been, the storied nightspot is basically a cross between a vintage strip club and a David Lynch movie.)

A bar. A 2:30 a.m. last call. Another Kyle disappearance. A rambling Tudor-style house on the outskirts of town. A long, hot shower. A comfortable sofa.

The next day, following that other visiting-scenester tradition – an extended, aimless walking tour through the various overpriced shops of Little Five Points – Kyle was located via cellphone at a new friend's apartment. With Thursday more than half over, the Dodge van went north and east, and delivered the band into the surreal, frayed-nerve experience that was the night of the Spartanburg show.

The past catches up with the present here, in the parking lot of a seedy, mildew-caked Days Inn located at the edge of Spartanburg's worst neighborhood. Last night's rain has abated, but it's still cold, with a toothy breeze. The Dodge van pulls away, leaving me in front of Room 111, which the desk clerk has been trying to get The Mercy Seat to leave for half an hour now.

"It's really all about Savannah, and the weekend shows," says McFarland from the shotgun seat of The Mercy Seat's borrowed, battered ride as it hurtles south, pulling a little rented U-Haul. "The shows during the week aren't going to be amazing, but it's pointless to come all the way out here for one show."Though the two bands might seem quite similar – talented unsung-veteran trios, each with a stand-up bass player and a singular take on fringe-rock – their respective sounds, attitudes and methods are markedly different. They even tour differently. The Beauvilles plan in broad strokes beforehand, then surrender themselves to the chaos of the road, splitting up for hours at a time and scrambling to find a place to stay; it's exciting and unpredictable.

The Mercy Seat, on the other hand, moves with steady, unified purpose; there's a friend, relative or hotel reservation awaiting the group in every town. There's a daily budget of $130 that includes gas, lodging and a $10 per diem for each member.

There's even a ledger, into which goes the money made, the money spent, the number of CDs sold, the names of every club employee met, and little details about every stop, like how much free beer they received or that a particular person was extraordinarily cool. The whole thing doesn't provide the roller-coaster ride of The Beauvilles' method, but it's also comparatively worry-free, and The Mercy Seat's straightforward, largely unflappable low-key enthusiasm is infectious.

Plus, they all smoke cigarettes; we're allowed to drag away in the van (stubbing our butts in an empty chewing-tobacco tin), and the smell helps counteract the odor of Red Bull that's as omnipresent in here as it was in The Beauvilles' van.

Today's destination is Jinx, a small Savannah venue whose hospitality, sound quality and sizeable regular crowd has endeared it to many touring Tampa Bay acts. Both of these bands have played the club before, and the knowledge that they'd be there, in a college town starved for nightlife, on a Friday night, has probably played a larger part in getting them through the past three days than they'd care to admit. If tonight sucks, it's doubtful even The Mercy Seat will remain undaunted.

Once in town, we head straight for the offices of WRFS, the Savannah College of Art and Design's radio station. Having lost its spot on the FM band in the wake of the FCC's review of low-power radio, WRFS makes do with an extremely weak AM signal and Internet streaming at www.scadradio.org.

But it's promotion, and both bands are greeted warmly by the station's young staff, and given five minutes or so each of interview time. (This, and a preview for tonight's show in the local alt-weekly, go a long way toward explaining the groups' love for playing here – they didn't see show previews in any other papers along the way, including Creative Loafing, the Weekly Planet sister paper in Atlanta, to which both bands submitted press kits and events listings.)

The anticipation dims a bit when the hotel McFarland booked online turns out not to exist, forcing The Mercy Seat to waste over an hour looking first for it, then for a suitable alternative. Following an additional half-hour of touring Savannah's gorgeous old-section architecture (read: getting lost), they arrive at Jinx to find some familiar faces amongst the staff, and spirits improved once again.

Beers are cracked, The Beauvilles' Kyle disappears for the umpteenth time, McCarthy beds down backstage for a nap that won't end until The Beauvilles' sound-check wakes him hours later, and McFarland, McMillan and I go in search of the 15th slice of pizza I'll eat since leaving St. Petersburg on Tuesday.

When we return, the doors are open but Jinx is still pretty empty, and the opening act has called and cancelled. The assorted band members crack more Pabsts, fiddle with their respective instruments, and try unsuccessfully to keep their eyes away from the entrance to the building, doubtless wondering if, after everything, tonight's gig will be just like the others.

It's not.

Though the house isn't exactly crowded when The Beauvilles take the stage, it is by their third song. Among the throng are every single person they met at the radio station, and several drunken screamers; Kyle matches wits with the loudest of them between flawless, energetically rendered tunes.

The patrons eat everything up, from Kyle's now slightly tour-ragged melodies to Pullen's tight, frequent and completely over-the-top drum fills and McMillan waltzing and dipping his upright bass around the stage. The set ends with Kyle atop Pullen's kick drum, guitar neck skyward, as Pullen circles his kit pounding the cymbals.

And the crowd, as they say, goes wild.

"I think that may have been the best set I've ever played," says a sweat-drenched Kyle minutes later, during a break between greeting clusters of new fans wanting CDs and T-shirts. "Hey, can you watch the merch for me for a minute while I go talk them out of towing the van?"

Then he's gone again.

The crowd thins a bit before The Mercy Seat has a chance to set up and get to it, but many remain, and the threesome turns in a great performance of their own, brooding, poetic and marred only by an out-of-tune slide guitar on the stomping, ass-shaking "Community."

The applause dies slowly. Then the cool, canned background music comes back up, and everybody spends the time up until last call meeting new people, collecting new e-mail addresses, and selling their tunes. At the end of the night, they're paid $160 per band, a sum that, along with the merch sold tonight, brings both groups close to breaking even for the tour.

The Beauvilles, all smiles, go out into the cold with a small group of partiers; the members of The Mercy Seat hang out with the friendly Jinx staff for a while, collect a bonus 12-pack of free beer, and head back to the hotel, where they teach me how to play Texas Hold 'Em before cleaning me out.

Tonight is it, why they do it, why they risk unemployment and bankruptcy and ill health to drive a long time to play for nobody. The tour may be all about "planting seeds," but the option to tour is only there because they're musicians, and nights like this – when everything that can work at one time does, when it really gets over – are a big reason why they're still musicians at all.

There's one more show in the tour, in Gainesville, and it will go well, despite the fact that The Beauvilles' van will break down, and there will be a dispute about the running order of the bands, and the take will be suspiciously light, given the attendance. But the Savannah show is the one that matters, the one that will make them pick up the phone to book the next tour.

"All of the bullshit up until now, this makes it worth it," is how Shawn Kyle put it.

Later, I'll ask several of them, explicitly, why they do it.

"I just love going on the road with my guys," Johnny McCarthy will say. "I can't wait to do it, every time we do it."

"Some people want to make a big hit record, be on MTV," James McFarland will say. "The reality is, I just want to travel and to make a living doing this. People do it all the time."

"You're bringing it to the people," Jesse Martin will say. "Just having someone buy a CD of your songs, and knowing they're going to go and play it for somebody else, makes it worthwhile. And it can grow from there."

And Kyle will say:

"What else am I gonna do?"

scott.harrell@weeklyplanet.com

This article appears in Feb 2-8, 2005.