Doug Richards of Reviver

           

             You’ll find him at a rest area somewhere in the Midwest, sleeping sitting up in the old dusty seats of his van, whose odometer reads well over 240,000 miles. You’ll see him eating some vegetable-oriented entrée at a random all night truck stop in North Carolina at two in the morning, surrounded by others that look like him; eyes cradled by dark semicircles, bodies sheathed in earth-toned sweatshirts, tufts of hair sticking out in random throes and growing splotchy on their newly adult faces. You’ll see him standing atop a stage, strumming his worn Stratocaster, whipping his body about as if being intermittently jolted with electricity and straining his voice to match the high registered screech of the bands front man, his face unnoticeably growing red in the low lighting. If you’re one of the lucky few, you’ll catch him driving the same old van up and down the streets of downtown Salt Lake City in the interim, those few loathed months where he is forced to come back home, whether to work on new material—working and reworking tunes in their squalid rented storage space—or, the much more common reason; the lack of financial means needed to fill the van with fuel and the boys’ bellies with terrible fast-food along the way.

            You may find yourself asking why. Why would one do such a thing? Why would someone subject himself to months of sleeping in parking lots? Why would a flesh and blood person want to spend the vast majority of his time behind the wheel of a van with no air-conditioning, his body and those of his band mates glistening in the Texas heat, well aware that a shower could be days away. Why would a smart, dedicated, capable young man just scraping at his twenties want to sustain himself on terrible food, little rest and perpetual bodily discomfort, all the while digging himself into thousands of dollars of debt, that of which he has no means of remedying and likely won’t for years to come?

            Well, I asked him. His answer: “Because I love it. Don’t get me wrong; there are aspects of it that just plain suck. And there are moments on the road, while everyone else is asleep and I’m pulling an all-nighter that I long for home. I get crazy homesick sometimes, Dude. And, I’ll be glad when I get to see it again. But it never fails. I’ll be home for two days and I’ll get that itch. I’ll get restless. And me and the boys will start booking the next one, you know?”

            Doug has been this way for the better part of his adult life. Every friend he has is a musician or someone he met through one. He has a list of contacts in his phone that span the contiguous forty-eight states and parts of Canada. He scrolls through them while I sit with him, and he laughs, noting that he has no clue in the world as to who in the hell the vast majority are, even with the random clues in their names, clues such as: Blast-o-mat Dan; or Kentucky Diana. This is part of his life on the road. There is a kind of resigned sadness in his eyes and in the way his shoulders settle as he muses on it. Is he lonely sometimes? Of course he is. Because of his transiency, he has little ability to maintain his relationships with friends and family, though he tries, and less still to foster the new friendships that are struck up by means of a mutual laugh or a conversational meditation on a random subject on the road. Girlfriends are a particular struggle. It is obvious that this weighs on him. “What kind of girl is willing to wait around for a dude that, according to anyone, is doing nothing with his life and has nothing to offer? And it’s true, man. I really don’t.” His repeated attempts to nurture a romantic relationship always end in the female refusing to put up with his persistent need to be away. Because of this, he is in a constant battle with loneliness, a battle fought via phone lines or in stranger’s beds. Such battles, he openly admits, generally end in his feeling even more alone, thus perpetuating cyclically.

            Another hassle is sustenance. Doug and his band mates are all vegan, a collective decision made years ago in an attempt to be about something, to stand for something, that of which they have just never had any relapse, despite their viewpoints on the issue lessening in fervor. “I no longer jump down people’s throats about it. That never does any good. I don’t believe in it. Simple. And I just don’t want to be part of something that I see as unnecessary. All I ask is for people to respect that.” Not only does this make finding suitable food difficult, but it, at times, puts a wedge between them and a Good Samaritan trying to help out a bunch of boys in transit. A handful of occurrences on each and every tour see a friendly face that, in addition to putting them up for the night—generally meaning giving them a floor to sleep on and a shower—will surprise them with a warm home made meal. Try as they might to keep from offending the gifting party, the dwelling’s inhabitants always leave irritated, obviously feeling unappreciated, taking advantage of, and foolish. Doug hates this. Regardless of whether or not he will ever see someone again, he has no intention of dampening anyone’s spirit of hospitality, and wishes there were a way to explain his food habits to them beforehand without wearing a shirt emblazoned with “Vegan” across the front of it or coming off as if he assumes food will be thrown in with the roof over his head.

            Money is always an issue, as is to be expected. There have been many country-wide treks that have been financed solely by credit cards and the money made from album and t-shirt sales, which never amounts to much. There are times when they will drive 200 miles out of the way just to play at an echoing venue with a population of maybe a dozen. When an outfit with no name recognition and a sound that is not unlike dozens of others sets out to make some momentum for itself, traction is hard to come by. Yes, with each subsequent tour more and more people come out to shows, but it only makes a small dent in the living costs that are being run up higher and higher with each mile marker they leave in their wake. There has been a time or two, Doug admits, that they had to panhandle to get home. He is not ashamed of this. He, in fact, appears proud in some way, proud that shame will not stand in the way of what he believes—at this point in time, at least—he was meant to do.

            Is he naïve? Is he overly optimistic and a fool to think that his band’s loud messages of idealism, of being good to one another, of not taking advantage of your fellow man will mean anything to anyone save for four sweaty kids in a broken down van? I don’t know. He says he is. He then follows that up by saying that if going through the disillusionment that is required to become part of the real world as is expected will stunt or snuff out entirely his optimism, his aspiration, his love for what he is doing, then he wants nothing to do with it. That he will gladly go on a fool. “Ignorance is bliss, after all. Bring it on.”

            I ask Doug if he can sum up his reason, the very essence of whatever it is that drives him on, that propels him to keep doing what he is doing, in spite of any number of consequences that will inevitably arise on its account. He replies with this quote by Charles Bukowski:

“If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery--isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that.”

Perhaps we could learn something from this fool. I, for one, believe I already have.