Our Band Could Never Be Our Life: MURF’s Blood-Soaked, Confetti-Caked Financial Tour Diary

So we’re not the frickin’ Foo Fighters here, yeah? We’re not goddamn Kings of Leon here either, packing stadiums, sharing their songs of perilous lust with thousands of people all hopped up on Corona Extra, making goddamn bank to support their beard oil side hustles, right? We’re just five 30-something Minneapolitan schlubs trying to play a little rock ‘n’ roll across the United States of America, mostly ‘cause we’re getting a little bored of playing the Eagles Club every month, OK?

Touring, for bands of our stature, is more like an existential vacation that’s intended to make memories and build connections while serving as a psychological endurance experiment, one that tests the limits of our social and moral boundaries. And hey, if we make a little cheddar along the way, peddling our new record and slingin’ our T-shirts? If that subsidizes the gas and keeps the light blue American Spirits puffin’, then that’s a big ol’ Al Pacino “HOO-AH!” for us.

I have nothing but respect for musicians who hit the road, especially when they aren’t “the frickin’ Foo Fighters.”

I enjoyed this piece about a band I’ve never heard of, but certainly will give their album a stream later today.