by RAF KATIGBAK

Right now three words are on more than a few Montreal music lovers’ minds: “Disney on Ice.” Of course, for those who aren’t my seven-year-old niece, those three words could also be “Pop Montreal Festival.”

The time where emo-indie hipsters, unwashed true-school garage punks, backpack hip hop nerds and music fanatic beardos who’ve collected every bootleg CD-R of the most obscure Rhode Island experimental gamelan/nose-flute orchestra come together and celebrate the glorious art of trying to stay sober and alert enough to catch as many shows as humanly possible, before their eyes, ears or liver give out first.

But this column is not dedicated to the waifish poor-me emoters, the bubble-butted elfin freak-folk hippy harpsichordists, or the outsider musicians who have never played their homemade electric fiddle-bassoon outside of the janitor’s basement they’ve lived in for the last 76 years before they were “discovered.”

This column is dedicated to the unsung heroes of rock ’n’ roll, the brave men and women without whom this whole music thing could never happen. That’s right, I’m talking about the roadie—specifically, the driver-roadie. That multi-tasking, badly tattooed, beer-swilling, weed burning, Jolt-gum-addicted insomniac, who will hop behind the wheel of a run-down cube van U-Haul, grab an Arby’s bacon beef ’n’ cheddar combo, a six pack of Rockstar and drive for 10 hours without seeing or speaking to another soul for entire states or provinces at a time.

At 6-foot-3 and 300 pounds, Bob S. strikes an imposing figure. If it weren’t for his small squinty eyes and cherubic face, you just might be afraid of him. With a right calf covered in faded tattoos and a hairstyle that could easily come to be known as “the roadie special” (i.e. ponytail/goatee-stache/ball cap combo), he might not be the first guy you’d trust your life to. But probably almost 100 bands have done just that over the last eight years. When I first met him several weeks ago, he was on the first week of a six-week tour driving a well-known Canadian electronic outfit across North America.

“I’m usually on the road nine months out of the year. The longest I’ve been at home between shows this year was four weeks,” he says proudly. “The shortest was one night.”

For tour drivers, long hauls are both the bane of their existence and a badge of honour. “The longest leg I done was 12 hours straight, no stoppin’ to piss or nothin’.” Bob boasted in a languid Midwestern American accent, ”’Course that doesn’t include my Deadhead days when distances between gigs didn’t really matter.”

Bob has the perfect resume for roadiehood. When he’s home, he lives in his parents’ basement, doesn’t have a girlfriend and has an addictive personality. Bob also happens to be very good at what he does. He knows how long it will take to get to any venue worth playing in North America (as well as a few essential dives), has weed connections in every city and knows which hotels have the best hot tubs along the way. He knows that sandals are the best footwear to drive in (the last pair of sneakers he owned stayed so long in his mother’s garage they grew mouldy and had to be disposed of) and he knows how to deal with prima donna rock stars and their tardy ways.

“I just tell ’em, ‘I don’t care what you do, just load up on time and make bus call, ’cause the later you are, the later I stay up, and the later I stay up, the harder it is for me to stay awake at the wheel. Your choice.’ That usually scares ’em enough. Most of these bands couldn’t navigate themselves out of a paper bag. The truth is, without me, they’d be lost.”

So I say, when you’re finishing off that six-pack of Pabst you snuck past the doorman this weekend, pour a little bit on the pavement on your way out for all the roadie drivers stuck behind the wheel delivering fresh hot rock to your city every night. Better yet, if you see a large, lonely dude with bad hair, crusty sandals, and a series of badly drawn tribal tattoos on his leg waiting impatiently for the show to be over, offer him a brew and pat him on the back and say, “Thanks”. But just leave it at that, ’cause they can get kind of creepy if you hang around ’em too long.

Riff-Raff@sympatico.ca

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