The road from home

Life on tour with John Moreland

I heard them just after exiting a gas station outside Dayton, Ohio. 

“Oh shit! Hey! Is that John Moreland?” 

It took me a moment to register what was happening. John, his wife Pearl, and myself were traveling from Tulsa to Newark, New Jersey. From there, we would fly to London for John's first European headlining show. 

It’s a young man in a delivery truck, clearly in the middle of his workday, who had shouted out. Enthusiasm overtook him and, for a moment, his parked truck blocked traffic, causing a choir of honking horns and tempers rising. He waved cheerfully and drove off. 

While moments like these have become more commonplace since Moreland’s release of last year’s High on Tulsa Heat, and even more so since his appearance on “The Late Show with Stephen Colbert” last February, they’re still surreal, especially when they come at unlikely times. I don't know if I'll ever get used to it. I can't speak for Moreland but, if I were to guess, I believe he'd say the same. 

I remember the first tours I did with John as tour manager. Stopping at Taco Bell before the show to use the bathroom was a common practice because the dives we were headed to didn't have a toilet anyone would want to use. This created a gauge for success: Moreland began his career not being able to use the bathroom at the venue. Now he plays venues that give him his own private bathroom. If the crowds never get bigger, it doesn't matter; he's already made it.

It's a 1,381-mile drive from Tulsa to Newark. Upon return from the UK, Moreland had shows scheduled that called for the tour truck, which is why we had to make the seemingly endless drive before the seven-hour flight across the ocean, leaving the big red beast we travel the country in at Newark Long Term Parking. 

The first day of travel was ten hours, with a stop in Indianapolis, Indiana. Along the way we killed the time by discussing politics and things we dislike (a common conversation piece), and listened to Boyz II Men and Alan Jackson. We ate fast food out of convenience and spent a lot of time staring out the window at the changing landscape. The second day was slightly less grueling at eight hours, followed by a stop for the night in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. We had traveled from the plains, through the Midwest heartland, up into coal and tunnel country. By this point, our destination was now an easy two-hour drive away. 

The next day required an errand in Brooklyn before heading to the airport. New York City traffic is enough to make you believe in spontaneous human combustion. We figure out the secret to surviving it is “What A Fool Believes” by the Doobie Brothers, on repeat. 

We made our flight with little time to spare. On board, I watched a movie I've already forgotten and John listened to a Tom Petty/Bruce Springsteen playlist for the duration of the flight. 

We waited in line for two hours at London Heathrow International Airport, herded like cattle through customs and into the country. Once the ordeal of just getting there was complete, exhaustion and hunger set in. We were staying in a beautiful hotel in a trendy neighborhood in London with any food from any culture or cuisine you could want within walking distance. We decided on Chipotle because it’s uncrowded and familiar. There was mild disappointment at the lack of queso in a British Chipotle, but overall it was pretty OK. 

The show wasn't for another few days, which left plenty of time to sightsee, take in the culture, get out and embrace the experience. While that sounds great, the reality is jet lag and half a life spent touring means sightseeing will only happen (maybe) after a day of catching up on sleep. 

Before the days of international travel, I first saw Moreland play at Mercury Lounge. The venue in London is a far cry from the corner of 18th and Boston. Union Chapel is a prestigious and historic church that doubles as a music venue. Founded in 1799 by evangelical nonconformists, it’s renowned for its stunning architecture, otherworldly harmonics, and beautiful stained glass windows. During a WWII bombing raid, one side of the building was hit. The blast destroyed one of the windows that has since been replaced and is referred to as the “new” side, despite being more than half a century old. The doorway to the back green room is adorned with a chunk of Plymouth Rock, sent to the church in 1886. 

In the years since that Mercury show, the songs haven't changed. The delivery hasn't changed. The reception has absolutely changed.

The pre-show ritual is important. Sometimes it's a game of dice and a Ghostface Killah album. Sometimes it's a case of Red Bull and Swedish metal—not really what folk audiences would expect. Before playing Union Chapel, the pre-show event was getting tattooed by Kentucky-based artist Frank Armstrong, a first in Union Chapel green room history. There is something comforting, when so far away from home, to be hanging out with a southerner in an Atlanta Braves hat. 

When Moreland took the stage a hush fell on the room and stayed there, with the exception of roaring applause after each song, for the duration of the night. No chatter. No outbursts. Just a group of near-five hundred Brits, and at least one guy who drove twenty hours from Oslo, Norway, who hung onto every word. 

I couldn’t help but feel like a Tulsa crowd could learn something from those folks. People often ask me if I ever get sick of seeing John play every night. The answer is no, but more than that, I never get sick of watching the crowd and how his moving performance affects them. This audience was it. This was why we came. 

After the last song a standing ovation demanded an encore, something I can say from experience John does not arbitrarily do. Often, the common formula is a band will play, leave the stage and return after a few minutes to finish the set. John will only return to the stage if an encore is truly wanted. This was one of those nights.

We stayed in England a few more days. We killed time and tried not to miss our loved ones too much. We were grateful to get back to New Jersey, something I never thought I'd say. But we still had a few shows left. 

In Newark, we had a three-hour stop for a brake job at a Meinke that resembled a war zone. We played a show in Abingdon, Virginia, which greeted us with lightning and flooding, causing our show to be moved from a spacious amphitheater to a crowded sports bar in a strip mall. We played a festival in Ohio that changed lineup dates and time last minute, which turned what was supposed to be a day off into a rushed five-hour drive with fingers crossed to make load-in on time. 

We still have a lot of miles to go before we get home.  

Over the last year, we've been to almost every state in America, Canada, much of Europe and the UK twice. I might be the luckiest guy I know. I get to travel the world with one of my best friends and see things I never thought I'd see. Not a bad gig for the son of a carpenter. There’s no denying it’s the journey of a lifetime, and we are both grateful to be on it, but if the road has shown me anything, it’s an appreciation for the familiar, for home. For Tulsa.

For more from Bobby, read his preview of the Bob Dylan celebration, On a Night Like This.