From Plastic Tables to Real Connection: The Unexpected Joy of Touring in Italy
Touring with a band — especially in the UK, USA or Australia (where I’m from) — isn’t as luxurious or even comfortable as you might think.
After a bone-shaking full day of driving on the highway comes time to lug heavy equipment from the van to the stage. Straining muscles, while trying to calm the rattled nerves after racing the clock and fighting the traffic all the way from the scene of the previous night’s gig to this new town.
Other than driving, the next most common activity while touring is waiting. Rushing and then waiting. Always waiting for soundcheck to start, or waiting for someone to arrive, or waiting for the gig to start, or waiting to leave for the hotel. Your movements never in your own control.
Nightclubs and music venues during the day aren’t pleasant places to wait. Dank smells, and every surface either worn out and/or unclean. They bustle with people filling fridges, climbing ladders, fixing stuff. And bands — like us — moving heavy gear around and making what is better described as noise rather than music, as we wrench the PA system from its daily slumber, getting prepared for the evening ahead.
Finding food was always a struggle. It usually involved traipsing around unfamiliar city backstreets looking for a decent takeaway dinner, in the short hours between the late afternoon soundcheck and doors opening.
But when it came to touring in Italy, things were different.
Not always, but often enough, in that same window between soundcheck and doors opening something magical would happen.
Out of nowhere, someone would emerge with a trestle table and set it up in front of the stage in the middle of the club. Within minutes, it would be adorned with disposable white plastic food bowls. Enough spots set around the table to feed an army. Next would appear someone from a back room who had been cooking an enormous batch of pasta.
In this glorious moment, when the trestle table appears and the steaming pasta starts being served into the plastic bowls, these clubs become the most warm and hospitable place you can imagine. The frenetic activity stops. Everyone takes a place at the table — from the bar person, to the club owner, the sound engineer, the band members and tour managers, and anyone else who happens to be around. Red wine flows freely, and everyone eats and talks and laughs together, taking a pause between the busy preparations and the long night ahead.
These moments of authentic and easy connection were welcome relief amongst the endless cycle of being in a van on the highway all day, and then entertaining an audience all night. It didn’t matter that the conversations weren’t profound. What was profound was coming together with people who had a shared passion and purpose, and forming instant connection over a meal.
How could an experience so simple and beautiful be so rare in the world?
I initially put it down to the Italian love of food and their gift of hospitality.
But then I had a realisation that cracked the code.
The places where this happened weren’t regular clubs. They were unique in that they were run by people who were part of cooperatives or associations. Even though the local government supported some of them financially to organise cultural events, these people were in it for the love of music, not money. They would collaborate to bring the musicians they admired from around the world to their town to perform. Sharing a home cooked meal with their team and guests was a natural extension of their passion, and an expression of their pride in the place they are from.
One memorable example was in Milan. It was explained to us en route to the show that we would be playing in a squat. I immediately formed a dire picture in my mind of an abandoned building with no windows or electricity, occupied by semi-homeless people. I was a bit scared of what we were about to walk into. But what we found instead was a building that had been occupied, professionally kitted out and steadfastly tended to for decades. The people running it had a shared ideology, and co-operated to make it the place they wanted it to be.
Breaking bread in these places, with these people and in this way, was somehow more than just sharing a meal. It was a form of communion. A ritual to remind ourselves that we can work together to create the reality we want to be in. Live music is a powerful shared experience. But musicians are less than half of the equation, as are the audience. The crucial third element is the people who bring everyone together — the promoters and club owners who have the vision and tenacity to make it all happen. Sitting at those tables, we all felt part of something bigger than any one of us.
As I look back on the first chapter of my music career when I had these experiences, it’s obvious that we never hit the highs of fame and fortune that we were striving for at the time. While we spent 10 busy years releasing albums and touring the world to promote them, we never broke through to achieve any level of real commercial success. But now I am thankful for that. If we did, I really doubt I would have had these stories to tell. If we were instead in some fancy hotel room or tour bus I would have missed out on these moments of connection and shared purpose, experienced around a simple meal.
Now as I look forward, I have a much clearer understanding of what is important. Whether it is in my professional life as a business consultant, in my family life, or in my future travels with music — creating moments of connection around the table, sharing food that someone has lovingly prepared. These are the moments I have been missing.
