On the Road in Europe with Natural Child: A Tour Diary

The sun is coming up over a beach on the North Sea. A large, inflatable, huge-breasted, hairy-snatched woman is being deflated. The speed freaks, speed aficionados and casual speedsters have filtered out. Another inflatable goddess, this one just legs with nitrous-tank spout in between was hauled away hours ago. Sand dunes separate the beach from rows upon rows of wind turbines. It's 8:30 AM. This is the Netherlands. Natural Child is loading out of Sleazefest.

Clichés of touring are often true. Hauling gear is a painful and monotonous science. There's hours in the van, hours waiting, hours searching out beer and booze and drugs. Maybe there's an hour of a show. More likely, 45 minutes. This is universal—it knows no continental bounds.

Clichés of touring in Europe also hold true. Bands are treated better. There's not just food; there are multi-course meals. Riders are almost always respected. Crowds are lukewarm; true fans stick out like sore thumbs. Pay's better. It's "worth it."

Before the sun came up over Wijk aan Zee, Natural Child had played two shows with two nearly identical set lists. At 9 PM, in a disco-decorated club in Utrecht. A vegan, three-course meal is served 30 minutes before show time. Like a prophecy, there are groans that it'll be a sleepy show; they'd never do this by choice but, hey, a free meal is a free meal. A crowd of about 75 slowly files in: curiosity seeking college kids, girls in their Friday-night-best and that type of concert goer seen in every venue in every city worldwide: 50-year-old balding men standing close to the stage with sweaters tied around their waists, singing every word.

The crowd is appreciative but never really gets into it. There's some light head-nodding, and an equal, if tepid, level of applause for rockers and ballads. It's a demoralizing show, but there's an hour's drive and another show ahead: it's like punching the clock, doing a 45 minute shift, and rushing out. Load out is done hastily in the street, beside the Vecht River. The food-coma begins to wear off.

At Sleazefest, to a large bar full of sped up hipsters and punks, Natural Child rocks. Downing some tequila, that hard to find delicacy in these parts, probably helps. They make the crowd move, make them sway, make them stomp their feet and yell and climb into the rafters. But when they play the slow songs that were appreciated in the dimly lit club in Utrecht, there's only the shuffling of feet and the sudden hush of an audience realizing they don't need to talk over the music anymore. These kids only wants bangers - this isn't the time for taking it down a notch. So the band switches a few things around, yells a little louder, plays a little sloppier and the crowd responds in kind. That no one has heard of the band before its 3 AM set is a non-factor. For a few speed-addled hours the party wears on. A steampunk jazz band plays in one corner, couples and threesomes move to the beach, security busts some of the guys for hiding a bottle of tequila.

At 8:45 AM, they're back in the van. Inside, everyone has his space and a strategy for sleeping or reading or staring blankly out the window. Every tour has its routine and rhythm. By the time they get to the Netherlands, Natural Child has already been out for ten days and are well accustomed to their temporary home on wheels, every inch taken up by loose merch or a box of drumsticks or a cooler.

By 9:45 AM, everyone is asleep in an apartment in Amsterdam, spread out on any soft surface to be found.

Of course, the hours upon hours of van life must be punctuated with music. Instead of any clamoring for the AUX cable, there's a lot of Grateful Dead. There's a whole host of shows from many eras and they're listened to actively. Commenting and critiquing those shows finds it way into conversations throughout the day. When it's not the Dead, it's probably Bob Dylan, whom the band collectively reveres more than the Dead. His rollicking mid-70s live shows are preferred.

The day is also peppered with discussion of their own playing. From the hours before each show, to immediately after coming off, and over meals and over unintelligible TV shows, there's constant tweaking. New songs or covers are worked on in sound check, a debate over using the keys is held over KFC. Natural Child's joy in improving and evolving their music is a strong bond that the tribulations of touring life scoff off.

The TakeRoot Festival at the Oosterpoort in Groningen is a few hours of fitful sleep and two hours in the van away. The Oosterpoort feels like an airport terminal that just happens to have a large, modern concert hall in the center. The crowd is old. Without exaggeration, the average age is surely over 55, if not higher. Natural Child plays in one of the concourses ringing the fancy main room to several hundred of these grey-hairs. This isn't some gathering of cool-adults in their twilight years. These are folks weaned on and here to see the headliner: Joan Baez.

The band is tired but fatigue actually serves them well as the songs take on a smoother, more melodic feel.

The grey-hairs may not twist and shout, but they'll bob their heads and enthusiastically clap after each song. A lot of converts are made, merch moves pretty well. Perhaps more importantly, there's an all-you-can-eat buffet for the bands.

Joan Baez plays to a rapt crowd, including songs in Spanish and a somewhat obnoxious story of being left behind one day by her tour bus in Italy—it's OK, the police helped, she's Joan Mother-Fucking Baez. Yes, she tells an Italian man in a hotel lobby, she does know Bob Dylan.

Benny Divine lives in New Orleans, LA. Divine's own description of his drumming is "first class." It very well might be, but he plays keys with Natural Child. He does so nonchalantly, often with only his right hand—his left perched up on the knobs of his keyboard, modulating and flourishing his accompaniments.

Divine's contributions are vastly more active than that of a fill-in or backing musician. On one of the bands new tracks, his piano is essentially lead and takes both solos. Other tracks find him nearly motionless, looking bored. His nonchalance makes his solos looking as measured as the moments when he's keeping time. He's not sure he'd play keys with anybody else.

Divine talks of missing his girlfriend and pets. The band complains that he never takes them anywhere good to eat in New Orleans. He's the class clown—eminently comfortable with himself and unafraid to walk right into the close bond that exists between the founding members.

That night, the band is given three hotel rooms by the festival's promoter. There's nothing to do in Groningen, not even on a Saturday night. It's a sleepy and peaceful town—no one locks their bikes, living room shades are open while couples cuddle and families stare dispassionately at the TV. No bars are open. There's only one "Night Shop" open past 10 PM. The legality of open-containers is murky. A rare and appreciated early night.

Zack Martin is not a showman. As Natural Child's drummer, Martin patiently and stoically holds it down. His frame remains largely unmoved song-to-song. His style is all hands, their rapid-fire beat keeping, quickly turning to hit a crash or fill.

While guitarist, bassist, and keys are wandering off like Nashville's Garcia, Lesh, and Godchaux. Martin is holding it down, nailing every cue, setting up ever segue, knowing exactly when and where to pick up the pace or when a solo is about to end. Drummers may be the backbone, but Martin's still shoulders are what Natural Child rests its hat.

His participation in discussions on the direction of the bands sound is just as vocal as any other member. His commentary is gleaned from absorbing what others do while never losing his own place. Where he may not fill any track with bombast or showmanship, he's a true timekeeper: part studio-ace, part soul of the sound.

A late departure, McDonald's lunch and three more hours in the van bring the group to Rotterdam. A survey of the four blocks around the hotel and venue shows that it is a city of silly statues. There's a giant black gnome holding a butt plug (or supposedly, a bell). There's a creepy, silver man holding something in his hand for you to stick your eye up against. There's a dreaded street musician-playing guitar. There's a dog lying down, his own turds a few feet away, cast in bronze for all time.

Half the band is feeling sick or a bit too tired for comfort. The show is in a popular restaurant, but the turnout isn't that strong. The fans that do show are quite enthused. When Natural Child gets off stage, the band is convinced it was the worst show so far—lethargic with missed cues.

And yet many in the audience said the band slayed that night. Yes, they seemed zapped and yes there were a couple of flubs—but the jams were lengthy and excellent. It's the closest thing to a Dead set of the run. (So what if the flubs make it closer to the more late-period fare than the type of 70s shows they listen to in the van?)

Wes Traylor and Seth Murray play bass and guitar, respectively. Their musical bond is brotherly—be it singing co-lead on the vast majority of tracks or a democratic approach to soloing. Neither truly serves as a lead, and the balance of writing songs with singing them together seems to keep any thought of ego in check. Murray's guitar has moved from a Ramones sound on their earliest 7-inch to JJ Cale or Jesse Ed Davis on their recent Dancin' With Wolves. Traylor's bass is by turns a pounding, authoritative rumble accentuated by steep back bends on stage, to a country swing taking lead over a ballad.

Finding a common musical fandom over the Dead or Dylan, and with Martin finding a common musical desire, has kept the friends releasing records and on the road at a heavy clip. The band's common attitude is "let the good times roll" and focusing there, and pushing themselves to collectively be better, serves both their music but also their friendship.

Amsterdam is a gorgeous city, one with enough history and activity to make anyone forget that pot is just a storefront away. And while its musical contribution to the world of late has been of the Electronic Dance Music variety, it still hosts an eclectic and appreciative rock scene, even when it's not fostering much of that itself.

Natural Child pulls up to a sleek, modern venue, with an expansive restaurant attached, numerous auxiliary performance rooms and as modern a sound system as one could find just about anywhere. It's a gorgeous, if Brutalist structure, and the main concert room is ringed by a stiffly white balcony, a vision of music halls past, rendered for the 21st century.

During the show, they find an early groove, playing one of their new songs, "Transcendental Mediation," to a crowd more on their side to start than anyone yet. "Transcendental Mediation" is the kind of serious but clever work the band has begun to create. It's something you can't help but move your feet too, but you would never start a pit over.

A couple of songs later the band launches into "Firewater Liquor." The performance makes one wonder what would happen if a band like Natural Child (and there are a host of other, current bands the same question could apply to) decided to try to make something else of themselves, go full-Grateful Dead, play the same show but play a song like "Firewater" for fifteen minutes, instead of five. This performance is moody and drives further and further on until the deafening roar cedes to a crowd full enthralled now.

Little changes in set list from night-to-night often come down to how the crowd is taking things. This manifests itself quickly, as a song like "Baby" can be rushed through when the crowd seems apathetic like in Utrecht. In Amsterdam, in part because of how the crowd has responded so far, it's a ripper.

Natural Child takes that adrenaline and channels into a slow and rising version of "Blind Owl Speaks. The lead-in bubbles a guttural urge to breakout and brood over the ways to "get high" but is held in check. Tension builds, Traylor's bass slowly grows in the mix, it's pounding like an angry mob gathering force. Martin keeps the band on pace, slowly gathering steam, 0 to 60 in three minutes. When Murray's riff begins, all hell breaks loose and the entire room is swaying. It's blues with scowl and punk with a sly smile.

During a cover of NRBQ's "Magnet," Murray twice directs the attention of the crowd toward Divine as a means of introducing those solos. It's a subtle move, an arm wave in the direction of Divine. The second time it's more in anticipation of what Divine can do, his first solo having been that enjoyable to even those on stage. Martin, Murray and Traylor each take a turn turning to Divine, an acknowledgement of both respect and "told ya you could do it."

All tour, the band closes with "B$G P$MP$N," a track about acting like a badass, about not giving a fuck, about being a baller and a player and exuding an immense amount of cool. At a hometown show back in Nashville, the crowd might lose its shit, jumping on stage, yelling or miming the lyrics and stage diving.

In Amsterdam, as with each show preceding it, the song is not calling the people to arms, nor is it making anyone beeline for the exits knowing that the show is now over and the house lights will soon rise. Instead, it buys the band a few more fans; a closing argument in a demand for satisfaction.

Natural Child are now back in the States. There was no press epiphany, no common-man's uprising, clamoring for more. Maybe later this year, maybe next, maybe years down the line, they might ask, "was it worth it?" Are a few fans worth the tired nights, the endless lugging, the waiting, and being so far from home?

Is that all that different from trudging across America, being looked at like you're foreign just cause of the clothes you wear on a stretch of I-10 where towns get shitty names like "Ozona?"

Ask the fans that did come out if it was worth it. Ask Simon, at Sleazefest, on that beach in Wijk aan Zee who didn't know a soul, who didn't know when the band would play so he showed up at 8 PM, who's never done speed and doesn't like to drink. Ask Simon if sitting on a bench for seven hours, neglecting to bring a sweater, losing his brother's ID and losing his ride back Hoorn was worth it?

At 5:30 AM that morning Simon turned to me, apologized for blowing smoke in my face and said, "Yeah, it was worth it. I thank them for coming here. I'm scared to tell them. If you would, I'd appreciate it."

Catch NATURAL CHILD on TOUR
November 6 - Memphis, TN - The Hi-Tone #
November 7 - Dallas, TX - City Tavern #
November 8 - Austin, TX - Fun Fun Fun Nights #
November 10 - Springfield, MO - Bar and Arcade
November 11 - St. Louis, MO - Off Broadway
November 12 - Chicago, IL - Empty Bottle
November 13 - FT. Wayne, IN - Brass Rail
November 14 - Grand Rapids, MI - Pyramid Scheme
November 15 - Detroit, MI - Lager House
November 16 - Toledo, OH - Frankie's
November 17 - Cleveland, OH - Beachland Tavern
November 18 - Pittsburgh, PA - Smiling Moose
November 19 - Washington, DC - Black Cat
November 21 - Brooklyn, NY - Baby's All Right
November 22 - Philadelphia, PA - Underground Arts

# - Burger Caravan of Stars