Growing up on the road with my parents, touring felt exciting. Life in the music industry was feast or famine, and we spent plenty of time in the latter, but the gigging life still brought us to new places and strange adventures. It was exhausting and exhilarating at the same time. Some things never change.
Touring in 2026 looks a lot different than touring in 1985. For my band, Tonguecutter, time is limited. All three of us are middle-aged parents with careers.
These days, we rely on βweekend warriorβ runs: short stretches that work alongside family life, careers, and the practical realities of staying out of the proverbial marital doghouse. It works. But, as our bassist Addison said as we crossed the Michigan state border at the end of the trip, βIt never feels like enough.β
We are lucky to have understanding spouses and strong support systems behind us. Still, there is a limit. As a lifelong musician married to another lifelong musician, I know what it feels like to be the person at home holding everything together. Because of that, we stretch every dollar and every moment. On this most recent trip (and thanks to the support of other musicians and fans), we managed to break even financially, which felt like a victory in itself. But, making money was never the goal. The point? Momentum.
For this run, we tried a different logistical approach. Instead of moving cities every night, we chose a central home base and booked shows within driving distance. We would travel an hour or two to each venue, then return to the same place at night.
This time, the home base was a converted historic church apartment in Palmyra, Wisconsin. It turned out to be the perfect reset between shows. Instead of chasing late-night bar hangs and whiskey shots, we drank French press coffee, ate broccoli sprouts, and hiked state parks.
The run began at the legendary Liarβs Club in Chicago, IL with Numerical Control Society and Farseer. The bar felt gritty, intimate, and appropriately chaotic, complete with rumors of being haunted. After load-out, we drove a couple of hours north and arrived at our rental in Palmyra, WI around 3:30 a.m.
That next day took us to Milwaukee for the start of a two-show run with Reptilian Records noise rock outfit Sinking Suns, supported by locals Florida Bros Band.
The venue, MKE Ultra, was exactly the kind of place touring bands appreciate: cozy couches, a crockpot of chili in the green room, and a welcoming DIY atmosphere.
Attendance was sparse, with only a small handful of people watching us play. We didnβt mind at all. Ironically, all of us agreed it may have been our strongest performance of the weekend. Small rooms create the best energy. There is nowhere to hide, and that breeds the promise of connection.
Still, something about the final night felt special.
Our last show was in Madison at Mickeyβs Tavern in Madison, WI. When we rolled into town, flowering trees lined the sidewalks, and students pedaled through the streets on bicycles. The patio was full of people enjoying the weather, and the venue greeted us with hospitality. As we scanned the menus before soundcheck to cash in on our generous free meal, our drummer Derek casually told the waitress, βWeβre the touring band.β She smiled and replied, βI could tell.β Later that evening, after dinner service wrapped, tables were moved aside to make room for the show. While setting up gear, I heard someone say my name.
βHi, Chantal.β
I turned around and immediately froze.
Standing in front of me were two dear friends I had not seen or spoken to in nearly 18 years, James and his wife, Nicole.
James and I had started my first punk band, the Hombres, in 1995. He played bass. I played guitar and sang. Those years were formative, chaotic, and deeply important to me. We lost touch around 2008, and the last I knew, he and his wife were living in California. I had no idea he had relocated to Wisconsin. They found out about the gig, and drove in as a surprise.
The timing felt almost unreal. After a weekend spent driving, hauling gear, sleeping too little, and trying to justify the effort, I was standing right in front of my past and the catalyst to my love of playing heavy music, counterculture and punk rock ethos. It was the best way to start the evening, other than the melodic psych punk of openers The Hypnic Jerks. At the end of the night, standing at the merch table, James reached over, squeezed my arm, and said, βIβm proud of you. Youβre still doing it.β
I felt tears sting my eyes.
Most musicians in their forties understand the fear of stagnation. The question of whether you should have pushed harder, toured more, tried harder. There is always a tension between responsibility and ambition, between growing older and refusing to stop creating.
Standing there chatting with James, I was suddenly transported to that first band we started three decades ago, standing in cramped practice spaces and trying to build something that mattered. In that moment, the exhaustion, expense, and uncertainty of the road made perfect sense, and I knew it was worth every penny.
Thirty years later in my music journey, the miles feel heavier, but the reason for taking them feels clearer.
Author Chantal Roeske fronts the 3-piece heavy punk/grunge/noise rock band Tonguecutter from Muskegon, MI. Check out their most recent full-length album release, Minnow, from Learning Curve Records.
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