Citizen.

These aren't the droids you're looking for.

I’ve often said that I can run tours across the United States with my eyes closed. I’ve been everywhere except Alaska multiple times with all types of shows: hip-hop artists, pop groups, jazz bands, musical theater companies. I’ve loaded in shows to clubs, theaters, arenas and massive festivals like Coachella and Lollapalooza. I’ve rolled off my tour bus and worked with probably every flavor of American there is. I’ve longed for more international adventures and I’ve gotten a few. In total, I’ve managed road shows through six different countries. The most common other country I go to, understandably, is Canada. And just like most US roadies, I hate going to Canada.

First off, tour bus wi-fi never works in Canada. The change in currency can be a pain for several aspects of tour operations. There’s always that one guy whose phone plan doesn’t extend that far so he’s thrown back into the dark ages. The layout is different - hotels aren’t built where you’d think they’d be and the chains can be different and the front desk can be weird about credit card authorizations and every business card I’ve ever had has been American Express, which many Canadian businesses understandably do not accept. There’s only one major highway and if anything happens to it on a tight show schedule, you’re kind of screwed. All the tour bus companies are based in the US so if something significant happens to your bus, getting it fixed in a timely manner is unlikely and sending a new bus across country lines is equally an ordeal. Now you’re booking emergency flights from point A to point B and good luck dealing with Air Canada and their different weight and luggage size policy compared to airlines based out of the US. Good luck checking your two dozen pelican cases worth of production gear without significant delay. And despite warning the tour party several times along the way, there will always be that one person with a DUI from a decade ago that they didn’t think would be an issue when - uh oh - the Canadians really don’t fuck with DUI’s. Have fun walking back across the bridge to America!

And the drugs (usually - but not always - just weed). Don’t even get me started. I’ve been detained by Canadian border agents more times than I’d like to admit because an idiot on my bus didn’t get rid of their bullshit despite having plenty of opportunities to and inevitably when they ask “who is the person in charge?” I’ve gotta raise my hand. Interrogation time! I tell them that they’re going to bring out the dogs! You can’t hide anything from the dogs! But here we are, two hours in, our tour bus outside getting torn apart, guitars in the street, mattresses sliding down the steps. Though given the number of times I’ve toured with artists who are not American, I spend just as much time saying that, no matter how much of a pain Canada is, they should be twice as wary of the United States. Because if the Canadians don’t fuck around, the Americans will destroy your entire life. And good luck using your phone. You’ll notice that cell phone signals seem to lose some or all of their strength at any border crossing point on the road. You can’t convince me that this is not by design.

So for this and many other reasons, border crossing days are always my most stressful days on tour. When I was younger, I figured I’d get the hang of it. Going to and from Canada isn’t a big deal for most people, but you must understand that it’s different when you’re crossing with a show. The scrutiny is on a whole other level. And what makes me the most genuinely fearful of border crossing days is the fact that I’ve crossed enough times in enough places with enough shows to know that the only rule is that there are no rules. Your show getting the green light to continue on their way is contingent on which agent you get and how they’re feeling that day and which hour of their shift they’re on and how smooth of a talker you are. The only other defense is having paperwork up the wazoo and hope no one brings up another form of paperwork that up until that point you’d never heard of. I prepare for border crossings weeks in advance for a fleet usually consisting of semi trucks filled with production gear, the whole other beast that is merchandise logistics, and - of course - the artist and crew themselves. If any one of those things falls through, there will be no show. And everyone can tell that on border crossing days, I don’t fuck around either. So you can understand the panic that would be triggered within me on a routine bus ride deep in the night from US Town A to US Town B with the whole tour peacefully cocooned in their bunks, I am woken up with a hand shoving my shoulder, a flashlight shining in my face, and a male voice asking me if I am a US citizen.

The day before, we’d had a show in Texas that was right on the border, so my first thought is that our bus drivers had taken a wrong turn and accidentally brought us to Mexico. Cue more panic. I didn’t have any paperwork available and given that I would later see that it was two in the morning, my response to stating how many people were on the bus was definitely a second more delayed than I knew was desired in a border crossing setting. By luck when the man asked to see my passport, I had it in my bunk next to me in the bag I’d carry everyday since later in the tour we were actually going to Canada. I realize other members of the tour are up because my bunk was not the first one he went to. I tell one of them to start getting everyone up, assuming that we’d all need to exit the bus as one would do at a border crossing. I’m asked where we were coming from, where we are going, which venue we performed at. The man is young, white, and as the petite and bubbly female performers start emerging from their bunks he looks increasingly bemused and convinced of the story I’m telling.

“I thought this was a bus,” he said.

“It is a bus,” I say.

“Yeah, a real fancy one.” And it’s true. Most people have never seen a tour bus. If he was expecting a normal 52 seat coach bus he surely would’ve been surprised to see the front lounge complete with a bathroom, kitchenette, two couches, and two TVs. Even more surprised to barge his way into bunk alley where we slept. He laughs and before everyone is out of their bunks or even awake he’s turning around and leaving. I’d been awake at that point for maybe all of 90 seconds.

I rush to the front where our bus driver is standing there, confused why my face has transformed from panicked to furious as I realize that we are, in fact, on the side of the highway. I pull out my phone to see we’re a good two hours away from any border to speak of.

“We got pulled over,” he said. “It’s not like I can tell them not to come on the bus.”

“Did you say what show we were?” I ask because the border agent had asked me just that.

“Yes,” the bus driver insisted. “But he came on anyway.”

I exit the bus onto the side of the road where the security vehicles are already gone, my passport still in hand on very much American soil.

“What the actual fuck?” I say to no one, heart still pounding.

Back on the bus, I start getting thrown question after question. One artist is shouting about ICE agents, another is explaining that no one should be mad because there are bad people out there that these cops need to hunt down every night.

“And what would’ve happened if we didn’t have our passports? What if we weren’t American?” One of them asked.

“It would’ve been fine,” the supporter says.

“Has that ever happened to you before?” I am asked.

No. It hasn’t. In my ten years on the road, I’ve probably been to every town in Texas worth mentioning and even some that weren’t, and not once did I ever think what just happened was remotely within the realm of possibility. I say just as much.

“It’s Texas though,” I add. “And it’s 2025.”