OUT ONE DAY - ON TOUR WITH KRISTIN HERSH AND THROWING MUSES
THROWING MUSES TOUR DIARY, PT 1
By Todd Perley
Kristin Hersh is an indie music legend. Now based in New Orleans, she is taking her seminal band Throwing Muses on the road for April 2026. Local NOLA writer Todd Perley is along for the ride and reports exclusively from the coal face of the music industry for Out All Day: New Orleans. Read the first three entries, below - you can keep up by signing up to the free tier of our new Patreon, or choose to support local independent media with a paid subscription, from just $5 per month
1
Prologue
19th January 2026, New Orleans
At around 2:30am on this cold winter morning, I was three-quarters asleep when I heard a violent bang on the downstairs front door that shook the house, accompanied by shouting, then an explosion.
“Fire! Fire! Everyone out of the house!”
In a daze, I grabbed my robe, flip-flops and phone, and my husband Ben and I ran downstairs. We could see flames through the transom window. They shot up and spread, engulfing our beautiful, almost-finished new balcony. Two cars on the block were also on fire, including our downstairs tenant Patti’s. That must have been the explosion we heard. Firetrucks had already pulled up. Is this happening? Is this a dream? This could be a dream. Please let this be a dream.
Around 5:30am, we were allowed back in the house. Miraculously, the inside was not choked with smoke. The cats were hiding, but we knew they were safe. Many friends arrived throughout the morning for moral support and to help remove charred debris. The mayor also showed up, and vowed that she would use every resource in her power to catch the person responsible (forty eight hours later, they had the suspect in custody).
Without power, and the temperature dropping, we bounced from friend’s house to friend’s house for the next month. Floating around semi-homeless while we wrangled contractors and dealt with red tape was eroding my soul, and I was looking for a way out.
In mid-February, I was talking to my friend Kristin Hersh up by Riverbend. She is the founder of Throwing Muses, the first band to ever be called alt-rock, and one of my favorite bands since I was in college in the late-’80s. She had an American tour coming up, and asked if I’d like to design and print her t-shirts. “I can do that,” I said, then added as an afterthought, “Better yet, I can join you on tour. That would get me out of the hellhole that is my current life in New Orleans.”
“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!” she said. I’d played tour manager/roadie/merch dude for her twice before, the first time after Hurricane Ida in 2021 when we lost our roof and the back half of our house was destroyed by weeks of torrential rains (We’re having great luck this decade.) I also needed an activity that got me out of town during that nightmare (I wrote a book about Hurricane Ida as a love letter to New Orleans’ community for helping us get through it - LINK)
In my mid-50s and with chronic back pain, assuming the mantle of tour manager is not a job I would normally take, but I make an exception for Kristin. She is a joy to be around, and there aren’t many people I’d elect to be stuck in a van with for a month. Driving days were filled with laughter, and nights were filled with my favorite music. We’ve had a long history of being each other’s therapy through hard times. So yes, sign me up for the Throwing Muses tour in April!
I spent the coming nights crashing with friends, and days at home printing t-shirts on the dining room table. Three hundred shirts take time when I can only print about twenty a day, and I was grateful for the distraction. Since I work from home, but lack a workable home after the arson, I’d been going bananas trying to fill my days with something productive to do. Shirts finished and shipped, I’m getting excited to join Kristin in New England next week and start this coast-to-coast adventure.
(Our friend Dusty set up a GoFundMe on our behalf, and it’s made the difference between sink or swim. It’s still active, as we’re still in the midst of this tragedy. If you wanna throw us a bone: LINK)
2
Wednesday, 1 April, 2026, Manhattan
After two-plus months of being displaced from our house, today I escaped New Orleans for the first time this year. Early flight to New York with Ben. Travel was blessedly uneventful. For the last few weeks, people all over the country have been screwed at the airport by a TSA walkout, resulting in security queues multiple hours long, and, naturally, missed flights. It seems they’re getting paid again, and the airport hoops were quickly jumped through.
Met with my cousin Eric. He left work early to day-drink with us. I have good cousins. On the bar TV, the launch of the moon-bound rocket Artemis II, which meant something special to us as our NOLA friend Travis who works for NASA at Stennis has been working on this rocket for a decade. We shot a drunken video congratulating him.
The main reason we came to New York is there’s a play I really wanted to see on Broadway. Cole Escola’s insane, un-factual, feverish, queer, absurd ‘bio’ of Mary Todd Lincoln, “Oh, Mary!” Think “Hamilton” meets early John Waters. Bonus for seeing it now: until the end of April, Mary is played by our New Orleans friend and neighbor, John Cameron Mitchell. There’s not much of a stretch between chaotic Mary Todd and his infamous Hedwig Schmidt, and John killed in the role. My face is sore from the laughter. I know I usually write play reviews for New Orleans productions, but if you happen to be in NYC in April, go see "Oh, Mary!"
Went backstage after to say hi, and to thank him for letting us crash at his house after the fire. In those first few freezing weeks, it was an enormous comfort to be able to see that my house was still standing out his bedroom window across the street. I told him we still don’t have power, and he responded as so many other friends have: “Are you f****** kidding me?!”
Staying at a hotel in Times Square is as annoying as staying somewhere on Upper Bourbon St. Tourists who’ve never stayed in hotels, ordered a coffee, used elevators, walked down a crowded street, plague those of us who exhibit basic competency. I am by nature thoughtful and generous. I hold doors open for everyone, let people pass, smile, treat people as I’d like to be treated. But I call game off on Mr. Nice Guy when in an elevator. Enochlophobia, the fear of being trapped in a crowd, changes my behavior, and when I see a gaggle of tourists rushing for my elevator, I’m pressing the Close Doors button like a 1982 arcade game. “Hold the door, please! Hold the door, pl…” Phew. That woman with her two strollers and crippled grandfather will have to wait for the next one. Do I feel like a complete dick? Yes I do! But I am unapologetic. I’ll make up for it by holding a door for a stranger later, as long as it’s not an elevator door.
I'm now sitting at Penn Station waiting for the train to Rhode Island, to meet up with Kristin and the whole touring crew and get our ducks in their proverbial rows. Can’t wait to be on the road and busy enough to shelve the stress and panic that has been my existence since 19 January. Maybe focusing on something else and working day after day will bring me natural sleep. I haven’t had more than six hours’ sleep without the aid of pills since my world went boom.
3
Thursday, 2nd April, Penn Station.
Woman in Penn Station, asking a staffer, "Excuse me. Where is Penn Station?" "You're in it, honey." I've said the same thing to tourists on Bourbon St. asking where the French Quarter was.
Seated next to a nice college-age girl on the train. The conductor shows up and asks, "Excuse me, sir, is this woman bothering you?" I raise my eyebrows. "She's often trouble on this train. Has she been behaving?" She laughs and he asks about her family, college, Easter break, etc.
Stamford station, man on platform with a scary-big grin, sweat pants falling down, showing half-moon.
A voice comes over the PA announcing stops, but the PA has a buzz so loud it drowns out the words. It sounds like a very long wrong-answer noise on a game show. People put their fingers in their ears.
Conductor brings my neighbor a slice of something. Asks if I want any. "What is it?" "It's Easter quiche." He brings me a slice. Yankee Coldness, my eye! The treat barely tastes like cat food, but it’s all I’ve eaten today, and I am grateful.
Calculating driving times between upcoming gigs, but the WiFi is intermittent. I type "San Francisco to Los Angeles." Instead of responding "no internet," the app says, "That place doesn't exist." "God, if only," I muse. I had to spend my childhood in Southern California; I've earned the right to hate on it.
Impulsively jumped off the train early in Kingston. It looked much closer to Newport than Providence, and the Lyft was $20 less. Feeling clever. Got a car to the Airbnb where three of the six of our touring party were already there. Many hugs with Kristin and Fred. I always feel like I’m with family when we’re together. K. was sorting little square cards on the kitchen table. “What’re those?” “A dinner party game. Questions you can ask people at a party.” “So, small talk hints?” “Pretty much.” “But you don’t do small talk.” “Guess I do now!” We caught up on the last week or two, with occasional non sequitur questions being added from the cards. “How was the train from New York? And would you rather take a walk in the mountains or on the beach?” “Train was good. Beach. How was mixing your album with Rizzo today, and where would you like to ride horseback?”
Got to finally meet her cellist Pete, whom I’ve been calling Sexy Pete for several years, because the cello is unequivocally the sexiest instrument, and cellists are, ipso facto, sexy beasts themselves. It was a coup that he was there at all after an extended battle with work visa red tape, coming from England, but it was all sorted at the last minute. I was effusive in my happiness to meet him, which I realize can be off-putting for a Brit, but I know a thing or two about red tape misery from our burned house, and I couldn’t help sympathizing to inappropriate degrees.
TO BE CONTINUED
SUPPORT US VIA PATREON
THROWING MUSES
KRISTIN HERSH
By Todd Perley
Kristin Hersh is an indie music legend. Now based in New Orleans, she is taking her seminal band Throwing Muses on the road for April 2026. Local NOLA writer Todd Perley is along for the ride and reports exclusively from the coal face of the music industry for Out All Day: New Orleans. Read the first three entries, below - you can keep up by signing up to the free tier of our new Patreon, or choose to support local independent media with a paid subscription, from just $5 per month
1
Prologue
19th January 2026, New Orleans
At around 2:30am on this cold winter morning, I was three-quarters asleep when I heard a violent bang on the downstairs front door that shook the house, accompanied by shouting, then an explosion.
“Fire! Fire! Everyone out of the house!”
In a daze, I grabbed my robe, flip-flops and phone, and my husband Ben and I ran downstairs. We could see flames through the transom window. They shot up and spread, engulfing our beautiful, almost-finished new balcony. Two cars on the block were also on fire, including our downstairs tenant Patti’s. That must have been the explosion we heard. Firetrucks had already pulled up. Is this happening? Is this a dream? This could be a dream. Please let this be a dream.
Around 5:30am, we were allowed back in the house. Miraculously, the inside was not choked with smoke. The cats were hiding, but we knew they were safe. Many friends arrived throughout the morning for moral support and to help remove charred debris. The mayor also showed up, and vowed that she would use every resource in her power to catch the person responsible (forty eight hours later, they had the suspect in custody).
Without power, and the temperature dropping, we bounced from friend’s house to friend’s house for the next month. Floating around semi-homeless while we wrangled contractors and dealt with red tape was eroding my soul, and I was looking for a way out.
In mid-February, I was talking to my friend Kristin Hersh up by Riverbend. She is the founder of Throwing Muses, the first band to ever be called alt-rock, and one of my favorite bands since I was in college in the late-’80s. She had an American tour coming up, and asked if I’d like to design and print her t-shirts. “I can do that,” I said, then added as an afterthought, “Better yet, I can join you on tour. That would get me out of the hellhole that is my current life in New Orleans.”
“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!” she said. I’d played tour manager/roadie/merch dude for her twice before, the first time after Hurricane Ida in 2021 when we lost our roof and the back half of our house was destroyed by weeks of torrential rains (We’re having great luck this decade.) I also needed an activity that got me out of town during that nightmare (I wrote a book about Hurricane Ida as a love letter to New Orleans’ community for helping us get through it - LINK)
In my mid-50s and with chronic back pain, assuming the mantle of tour manager is not a job I would normally take, but I make an exception for Kristin. She is a joy to be around, and there aren’t many people I’d elect to be stuck in a van with for a month. Driving days were filled with laughter, and nights were filled with my favorite music. We’ve had a long history of being each other’s therapy through hard times. So yes, sign me up for the Throwing Muses tour in April!
I spent the coming nights crashing with friends, and days at home printing t-shirts on the dining room table. Three hundred shirts take time when I can only print about twenty a day, and I was grateful for the distraction. Since I work from home, but lack a workable home after the arson, I’d been going bananas trying to fill my days with something productive to do. Shirts finished and shipped, I’m getting excited to join Kristin in New England next week and start this coast-to-coast adventure.
(Our friend Dusty set up a GoFundMe on our behalf, and it’s made the difference between sink or swim. It’s still active, as we’re still in the midst of this tragedy. If you wanna throw us a bone: LINK)
2
Wednesday, 1 April, 2026, Manhattan
After two-plus months of being displaced from our house, today I escaped New Orleans for the first time this year. Early flight to New York with Ben. Travel was blessedly uneventful. For the last few weeks, people all over the country have been screwed at the airport by a TSA walkout, resulting in security queues multiple hours long, and, naturally, missed flights. It seems they’re getting paid again, and the airport hoops were quickly jumped through.
Met with my cousin Eric. He left work early to day-drink with us. I have good cousins. On the bar TV, the launch of the moon-bound rocket Artemis II, which meant something special to us as our NOLA friend Travis who works for NASA at Stennis has been working on this rocket for a decade. We shot a drunken video congratulating him.
The main reason we came to New York is there’s a play I really wanted to see on Broadway. Cole Escola’s insane, un-factual, feverish, queer, absurd ‘bio’ of Mary Todd Lincoln, “Oh, Mary!” Think “Hamilton” meets early John Waters. Bonus for seeing it now: until the end of April, Mary is played by our New Orleans friend and neighbor, John Cameron Mitchell. There’s not much of a stretch between chaotic Mary Todd and his infamous Hedwig Schmidt, and John killed in the role. My face is sore from the laughter. I know I usually write play reviews for New Orleans productions, but if you happen to be in NYC in April, go see "Oh, Mary!"
Went backstage after to say hi, and to thank him for letting us crash at his house after the fire. In those first few freezing weeks, it was an enormous comfort to be able to see that my house was still standing out his bedroom window across the street. I told him we still don’t have power, and he responded as so many other friends have: “Are you f****** kidding me?!”
Staying at a hotel in Times Square is as annoying as staying somewhere on Upper Bourbon St. Tourists who’ve never stayed in hotels, ordered a coffee, used elevators, walked down a crowded street, plague those of us who exhibit basic competency. I am by nature thoughtful and generous. I hold doors open for everyone, let people pass, smile, treat people as I’d like to be treated. But I call game off on Mr. Nice Guy when in an elevator. Enochlophobia, the fear of being trapped in a crowd, changes my behavior, and when I see a gaggle of tourists rushing for my elevator, I’m pressing the Close Doors button like a 1982 arcade game. “Hold the door, please! Hold the door, pl…” Phew. That woman with her two strollers and crippled grandfather will have to wait for the next one. Do I feel like a complete dick? Yes I do! But I am unapologetic. I’ll make up for it by holding a door for a stranger later, as long as it’s not an elevator door.
I'm now sitting at Penn Station waiting for the train to Rhode Island, to meet up with Kristin and the whole touring crew and get our ducks in their proverbial rows. Can’t wait to be on the road and busy enough to shelve the stress and panic that has been my existence since 19 January. Maybe focusing on something else and working day after day will bring me natural sleep. I haven’t had more than six hours’ sleep without the aid of pills since my world went boom.
3
Thursday, 2nd April, Penn Station.
Woman in Penn Station, asking a staffer, "Excuse me. Where is Penn Station?" "You're in it, honey." I've said the same thing to tourists on Bourbon St. asking where the French Quarter was.
Seated next to a nice college-age girl on the train. The conductor shows up and asks, "Excuse me, sir, is this woman bothering you?" I raise my eyebrows. "She's often trouble on this train. Has she been behaving?" She laughs and he asks about her family, college, Easter break, etc.
Stamford station, man on platform with a scary-big grin, sweat pants falling down, showing half-moon.
A voice comes over the PA announcing stops, but the PA has a buzz so loud it drowns out the words. It sounds like a very long wrong-answer noise on a game show. People put their fingers in their ears.
Conductor brings my neighbor a slice of something. Asks if I want any. "What is it?" "It's Easter quiche." He brings me a slice. Yankee Coldness, my eye! The treat barely tastes like cat food, but it’s all I’ve eaten today, and I am grateful.
Calculating driving times between upcoming gigs, but the WiFi is intermittent. I type "San Francisco to Los Angeles." Instead of responding "no internet," the app says, "That place doesn't exist." "God, if only," I muse. I had to spend my childhood in Southern California; I've earned the right to hate on it.
Impulsively jumped off the train early in Kingston. It looked much closer to Newport than Providence, and the Lyft was $20 less. Feeling clever. Got a car to the Airbnb where three of the six of our touring party were already there. Many hugs with Kristin and Fred. I always feel like I’m with family when we’re together. K. was sorting little square cards on the kitchen table. “What’re those?” “A dinner party game. Questions you can ask people at a party.” “So, small talk hints?” “Pretty much.” “But you don’t do small talk.” “Guess I do now!” We caught up on the last week or two, with occasional non sequitur questions being added from the cards. “How was the train from New York? And would you rather take a walk in the mountains or on the beach?” “Train was good. Beach. How was mixing your album with Rizzo today, and where would you like to ride horseback?”
Got to finally meet her cellist Pete, whom I’ve been calling Sexy Pete for several years, because the cello is unequivocally the sexiest instrument, and cellists are, ipso facto, sexy beasts themselves. It was a coup that he was there at all after an extended battle with work visa red tape, coming from England, but it was all sorted at the last minute. I was effusive in my happiness to meet him, which I realize can be off-putting for a Brit, but I know a thing or two about red tape misery from our burned house, and I couldn’t help sympathizing to inappropriate degrees.
TO BE CONTINUED
SUPPORT US VIA PATREON
THROWING MUSES
KRISTIN HERSH