Two Days, One Van, and Zero Regrets: Notes From the Road With Last Straw

Day One, 6:47 AM — The Van Smells Like Coffee and Bad Decisions

Somebody thought it would be funny to set the alarm for 5 AM. Nobody is laughing anymore.

We're crammed into the van outside a budget motel outside Columbus, Ohio, and our bassist is trying to convince everyone that a gas station taquito counts as breakfast. It does not. But here we are, eating them anyway, because the tour schedule doesn't care about your feelings.

This is the part fans never see. The load-in is hours away, the stage is just a rumor, and right now we're five people, one GPS that keeps saying "recalculating," and a merch tub full of shirts we're pretty sure will sell out by the time we hit the next city.

Soundcheck, or: How to Panic Politely

The venue is a gorgeous old theater — the kind with plaster cherubs on the ceiling and a basement that's roughly 40 degrees colder than the rest of the building. Our drummer hits the kit for exactly eight seconds before the kick pedal snaps clean in half.

Cue the local crew hero: a stagehand named Marcus who produces a spare pedal from a toolbox like he's been waiting his whole life for this moment. Marcus, if you're reading this, we owe you more than the high-five you received.

We run through half the set list with half the gear working, and honestly? The stripped-down version of the ballad might've been the best it's ever sounded. Sometimes the glitch is the genius.

Doors Open and Everything Makes Sense Again

There's a moment right before we walk on stage — standing in the dark, hearing the crowd noise swell like a wave coming in — where every 5 AM taquito is worth it.

The show itself was a blur of sweat and singalongs. Highlights include:

• A front-row fan holding a sign that read "THE LAST STRAW WAS MY FIRST CONCERT IN 2019 AND I'M BACK" — so were we, buddy
• Our guitarist forgetting an entire verse and the crowd covering for him without missing a beat
• A crowd surfer in a full pizza costume riding the third song. We still don't know how they got it through security

Afterward, we do the meet-and-greet line, and a kid tells us our second album got them through their parents' divorce. What do you even say to that? You say thank you, and you mean it, and then you go sit on a road case for a minute and collect yourself.

1:30 AM — Waffle House: The Unofficial Sixth Band Member

No tour diary is honest without this part.

Post-show, we roll into a Waffle House with the lights still blazing, the jukebox still going, and a cook who greets us with the weary authority of someone who has seen every band that ever passed through this highway. We order an absurd amount of hashbrowns — scattered, smothered, covered, the whole liturgy — and debrief the show like generals reviewing battle footage.

Our drummer falls asleep upright in the booth. Nobody takes a photo, which by tour law is the only noble act left in America.

Day Two — Rain, Radio, and a Gas Station Detour

Day two starts with local radio (we played two songs live and knocked over a mic stand), a record store signing where the line wrapped around the block, and a detour to a roadside attraction featuring the world's largest something. We won't spoil it. Go to Ohio.

By soundcheck, the pedal is fixed, the set list is locked, and the van playlist has devolved into everyone queuing their guilty pleasures out of spite. The show goes off. The pizza costume person is there again. Legend behavior.

The Real Takeaway

People ask what touring is actually like, and the honest answer is: it's 90 percent waiting around and 10 percent pure electricity. But that 10 percent? Nothing on earth touches it.

Thanks to everyone who came out, sang the wrong lyrics with us, and waited in parking lots to say hi. Next stop, we'll see you at the merch table.

— Last Straw