Tour Diary: Mike Mattison on the Road with Tedeschi Trucks Band
As he celebrates the release of his new solo album Afterglow, the Tedeschi Trucks Band vocalist tracks his February run with Derek Trucks, Susan Tedeschi and the rest of TTB.
Musicians tend to avoid revealing how they perform, unlike writers, whose raison d’être seems to be discussing their “craft,” or magicians who must obfuscate the secrets of their trade. With musicians, it’s more like golfers and the “yips;” the idea that too much analysis muddies the chi; the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle applied to jams. There is no single “technique” to singing the blues, but there are factors. Some you can control, some you can’t. Let me try to explain how to prepare for a professional blues performance.
Soundcheck is a necessary evil. It is tedious, but serves several purposes: It allows the technical crew an opportunity to dial in their process, the musicians a chance to adjust their “rigs” (guitars, amplifiers, microphones, individual monitor-sound, etc.) and everyone the ability to warm up and rehearse. That “check-check, one, two, three” isn’t a put-on. It is important to be rid of feedback, impedance, 60-cycle hum— all of the nuisances of physics that could disrupt the show.
Arrive early. Bat away your invitations for cocktails and dinners with friends and family. That’s for later. Get to know your club, theater or auditorium. Stroll the grounds. You want a surprise-free environment. Know what and who you are working with. Sometimes the venue has amazing historical significance. Maybe Paul Robeson was arrested for Communism there. It never hurts to have some context.
Brush your teeth and floss. You can’t sing past a thread of chicken once it flies into your windpipe. For that matter, eat well before the show and avoid heavy and/ or spicy foods. Though you’ve never shat yourself onstage, there have been some close calls. Use the restroom—there are no potty breaks in the blues.
Be mentally prepared. It’s important to be mentally prepared. Find a place to be alone. If you can’t isolate yourself physically backstage, then do it artificially: Put on some headphones and read The New York Review of Books. (If you have an actual book, then people will inevitably ask you what you’re reading. But if they see a foliosized article on Vita Sackville-West spread across your lap, then poof—you don’t exist.) You don’t even have to be actually listening to music. Headphones are the perfect prop to keep potential conversations at bay. Hide in plain sight, letting your thoughts potter among the peccadilloes of the Bloomsbury Group and, in this way, speak to that inner sunniness that is your truth and pride—the fact that you have an ability and, hopefully, something to say. Soon you will be asked to share it.
What to wear? Basic black is always right for the occasion. You don’t want to look like you’re trying to be “current,” and you certainly don’t want to divert attention away from the music by wearing something stupid. Hats and sunglasses are just crutches. Blues uniforms often go two ways: Snappy suits with fedoras, or something “rural” like overalls. Try to avoid either if you can. Remember when you shared a bill with that kid who dressed like a rounder who rode the Wabash Cannonball out of The Grapes of Wrath? He screamed at the promoter because you’d inadvertently eaten his rider-mandated deli tray of locally sourced watermelon. That is not the blues. That’s not even nostalgia. Don’t be on that train.
For God’s sake, do not have a hangover. That will only compound your general anxiety. Have a drink or two, but pace yourself.
Remember your meds. You’re not exactly sure how but, somewhere along the line, you became a bonafide hypochondriac. You are not proud of this, but one thing is true: If you get sick, you can’t do your job. Have a supply of over-the-counter antihistamines handy, the kind where they check your I.D. in case you’re cooking meth. Those are the only kind that work. Hand sanitizer—or as you’ve come to call it, “Folks B Gone”—is essential. You will be shaking many hands—onstage and off. Stick with name brands like Purell. The other stuff leaves a film and smells like embalming fluid. If you think about it, singing is really about the intake and expulsion of breath. If you are gassy, respiring becomes more difficult. Methane takes up precious volume that should be devoted to song. The net effect is a balloon-battle in your main cavity: You tend to lose vocal power and, in the worst-case scenario, you feel like you might vomit. Always have a few Tums in your pocket.
As the performance approaches, you may find song lyrics scrolling across your brain like an exchange ticker. This is good. Let the lyrics play. The more lyrics that are embedded in your core, the more you are able to effortlessly profess them. Storytelling is part of the art form. Have the tools at the ready. Also, don’t mention this outloud: Very few people really understand what you’re singing anyway, so if “Three o’clock in the morning” comes out as “Seen your duck. So boring,” the incident usually goes unremarked.
Have earplugs—you might need them. The sound has changed since soundcheck four hours ago, especially now that the room, in the parlance of the engineering community, is filled with “meat baffles.” Know that, in the heat of the moment, musicians always play louder. The one way you can control what you hear is by having one or two earplugs handy. When you pop them in, they deaden the ambient roar of the band and trap your voice, essentially turning your skull into its own amplifier. It’s not wise to rely on this, but it can save you in a pinch.
Create a pre-show ritual. Your friend, Dave Yoke, used to play guitar for Dr. John. On his first night with the band, “Mac” gathered everyone around for a pre-show prayer. “Dear Lord,” he said as he solemnly lowered his head. “Please don’t let these motherfuckers ever forget what happened to them here tonight. We will fry their fuckin’ faces off and then they gonna hafta eat they own faces,” etc. You have now adapted this as your own pre-show ritual.
Stageside, behind the curtain, you take a peek at the audience. They are the lost face; “petals on a wet black bough.” They’re relying on you to entertain them, to make this exchange “real.” Don’t assume they are on your side. Audiences are not there to love you; they are there to judge you. Have you ever read the Yelp reviews of your favorite restaurant? It can make you reconsider everything you hold dear. Holden Caulfield said it for the ages: “People always clap for the wrong things.” Applause is opprobrium and audiences wield it like a sick parent does his love and attention: Withholding it when you deserve it, and then showering it upon inexcusable behavior. Do not play their game. You’re probably already in therapy for myriad reasons. Applause makes you feel good, but like any Schedule One drug, once you need it, you’re fucked.
Ignore the chatter: If you’re lucky, then people might shout shit like, “We love you!” But they are just as likely to yell, “Where have you been?!” You will hear whispers ranging from “Did he get fat?” to “She changed her hair!” Never acknowledge anything—not even the good stuff.
Inhale to the diaphragm, not the lungs; the diaphragm gives you the power. If your shoulders lift as you breathe in, you’re doing it wrong. Breath is your fuel and your engine. Maintain and replenish a healthy supply. Don’t immerse yourself so completely in the song at hand that you forget to give yourself the oxygen to accomplish it. Singing is an effort that you hope to accomplish effortlessly. It is also inherently lonely, which is weird because it seems like the most communal of arts. At the bottom, it is just you—a bag of air with a larynx—and a stack of choices. That’s our cue! Put one foot forward, inhale and remember: You deliver the blows.
FEB. 14: WARNER THEATRE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
Happy Valentine’s Day! We kick off our D.C. residency at the Warner Theatre. Everyone is so nice at this venue; it’s a little disconcerting. If you’re not careful, you might start to think you’ve done something edifying with your life.
I find it helpful, before a show, to listen to other people’s soul music: salsa, West African Highlife, Haitian konpas and Cajun waltzes. There’s something relaxing about music sung in a language that’s not your own. It gets you out of your head and sheds a little perspective on how the rest of the world defines a good time. Maybe there are some pointers in there? Also, when you have headphones on (see above) nobody talks to you.
Derek and Susan nailed some quality alchemy tonight! If I went through every band member’s peak moments, this thing would start reading like a box score. So I’ll lay off.
FEB. 15: WARNER THEATRE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
It was one year ago to the day, in this very theater, that we learned of the passing of our dear friend Kofi Burbridge, son of the District of Columbia. So we were thinking of him tonight—his bright light and wild talent. We tried to play as many of his compositions as we could. I’m glad we squeezed in “Life Is Crazy.” It’s based on a guitar lick that Derek’s late, lamented tech Joe Main would play at every soundcheck. In fact, it’s the only guitar lick Joe knew. Kofi just went off and kind of cooked up a chord progression, and I flew in lyrics based on Joe’s real-life antics. (He often awoke to find himself in Derek’s flower bed.) Kofi was like that. He could just snatch music out of the air like you would a bird flying by. And he was generous in his assumptions. If he knew what diminished chords were— and could seamlessly weave passages of Ravel into his solos and teach himself perfect pitch at age 11—well, then he thought you could too. I think he was always slightly astonished that this was not the case.
One time, many years ago, we were watching an opening band that was really going for it—enthusiasm for days, endless notes and fever-pitched noodling. Kofi just kind of nodded and, without malice, said: “That’s not music. That’s sports.” Then, he just walked away. I think about him all the time.
FEB. 18: ALTRIA THEATRE , RICHMOND, VA.
A sold-out show in Richmond, Va. Who woulda thought? Although, in his memoir, Springsteen did say that Richmond basically kept him and his band alive and employed in the early ‘70s. So something’s bubbling in that well. The Altria Theatre was originally built for the Shriners. The centerpiece of the structure is a huge blue-lit cupola that makes it seem like performers and musicians are in thrall to a UFO. This is a good thing. The crowd was amped up, like they had been waiting for the Mothership.
FEB. 19: UPMC EVENTS CENTER , MOON TOWNSHIP, P.A.
It’s just Pittsburgh, out by the airport. We’re playing a small basketball arena on the campus of Robert Morris University. The thing about a tour diary is that not much really happens on tour. You kind of move from one strange place to the next, with only your suitcase and a few dissociated thoughts. I could share them with you, but they’re pretty pointless—like, “Wouldn’t it be cool to have a vending machine for tacos?”
FEB. 21: WARNER THEATRE, WASHINGTON, D.C. We put an acoustic set together with some gems we haven’t played in years, like “All My Friends.” It’s a song made famous by Gregg Allman on Laid Back that was actually written and recorded by Cowboy, featuring the great Scott Boyer and Tommy Talton. It was an exceptional night, made more so by one of those strange, serendipitous touring moments—somebody dropped off a platter of Southern Maryland Stuffed Ham. If you have not experienced this regional delicacy—corned ham stuffed with garlic and kale—and you are a fan of charcuterie, you have not lived. Whoever had the foresight to bring this extravagance by our dressing room: You are a Child of God.
FEB. 22: WARNER THEATRE , WASHINGTON, D.C. What a run! What a crowd! What a theater! Until next year, compadres!
Mike Mattison has just released Afterglow, available via Landslide Records. For more information, visit mikemattison.com
This article originally appeared in the April_May 2020 issue of Relix. For more features, interviews, album reviews and more subscribe below.
