OUT ONE DAY - ON TOUR WITH KRISTIN HERSH AND THROWING MUSES (Pt. 3)
THROWING MUSES TOUR DIARY, PT 3
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. Out All Day: New Orleans 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. You can keep up, and get lots of extras every month 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
(Read parts 1-3 here / read parts 4-6 here)
7.
Thursday, 9 April, 2026
Pittsburgh, PA
Inconvenient day. Soundcheck done before 3:00, show not until 9:00, can’t check in to Airbnb until the ridiculous hour of 5:00. We puttered about killing time. Lunch at Whole Foods. A walk on a nature trail near the Airbnb. Saw four or five deer blinds, and a single, lame deer limping through the trees. “Oh god, the poor thing,” I thought, “Will this be a harbinger?” Spoiler: yes.
Christine had strict instructions from the Airbnb owner, keyword, STRICT: “5:00 check in. Not a MINUTE earlier!” Spitefully, we entered at 4:59. Read the house rules posted on the fridge. “No shoes inside, EVER. No smoking ANYWHERE on the property. Checkout is 11:00am SHARP! At 11:01, your door code will no longer work. After use, strip beds and put linens in the laundry room. On Wednesdays, drag trash to the curb. Enjoy, and treat the house as your own!” My house doesn’t lock me out at 11:01am, though I DO have to do my own laundry and move the trash to the street once a week, so in that sense it was homey.
Back at the club, sound and lighting guys were cool. Everyone else was…off. They smiled and spoke words in English that I understood, but everything seemed wonky in a way I couldn’t pin down. Like aliens attempting to mimic humans.
The audience was similarly like faux-humans from a Twilight Zone episode. They smiled and said words that were words, but nothing made sense. “I will be having an extra large shirt.” “I’m so sorry, we sold out of that size. We have small, medium, and large left, as this sign clearly says.” “In such a case then shall I take a double XL.” “Also out of those. As I said, I have S, M, and L.” “Extra large for me therefore, please.” Etc.
I can tell by body language whether a person will be a paying customer, a lookee-loo, or an inquisitor. Most everyone who came by our merch booth was a lookee-loo or just wanted to ask a hundred questions.
Meanwhile on stage, the band was giving it their all to polite golf claps. These aliens had read up on applause and were technically doing it, but even that was off. The bouncer, standing five feet from me, never acknowledged our presence or favored us with any eye contact.
I hissed at Christine that we should pack up quickly and get the hell out of this Village of the Damned Yankees. She agreed. I went to the green room and boxed up all the beer. Stopped in a bathroom for a quick pee before leaving. There were vaguely-sexual-sounding grunts from a stall. “Ugh. Ungh. Oh yah. Oh yah, come on baby. Hnnnngggg!!! Yah! THERE you are!” accompanied by plopping sounds. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” I rushed everyone into the van and drove them back to the House of Rules where everyone despondently removed their shoes at the front door and went to bed.
8
Friday, 10 April, 2026
Sandusky, OH
Since we were booted out of The House of Rules precisely at 11:00, and the drive to Cleveland was short, we had time to kill between load-in and show time.
Well, the band had time. I was panicking. Due to miscommunication, I didn’t realize we hadn’t booked flights from Minneapolis to Seattle next week. Because of the lateness of the booking, the prices were predatory. To further complicate things, did you know you have to buy your cello a seat on the plane? And they can only be assigned window seats? Pete’s is too fragile to trust to baggage throwers. Did you also know booking online requires a birthday and gender for each passenger? Did you know that cellos have no birthdays nor gender identity? So you have to call the airline and book that way.
Phew. That’s over. Now let me just get a 12 or 15 seater van reserved in Seattle, then maybe I can take a quick nap.
The van rental turned out to be an exponentially more grueling experience than the airfare. No appropriate vans were to be had in or around SeaTac. Christine and I spent the next four hours searching websites, calling individual car rental branches, and spitballing plans B through Z if we couldn’t find one.
The day was saved by my sister Sheraine who lives near Seattle. She already agreed to house our whole circus for two nights, and she received my west coast shipment of three giant boxes of t-shirts. Though no van was to be found on the 14th, there were a couple options on the 15th down in Auburn where she lives. She said she’d pick us up at the airport, take us home, tuck us in, and the next day we’d get the van.
Eight hours went into this quest. When it was settled, I nearly collapsed from exhaustion. My ear still hurts from being on the phone for hours. Christine and I got through it by occasionally muttering to the other, “At least we’re not in Pittsburgh.” Then it was time to go to actual work.
Pittsburg this was not. Cleveland Heights’ Grog Shop club washed all the stank of western Pennsylvania from our souls. Sold out show in a dive-y, bestickered room—heaven! Club staff were actual earthlings, lovely, helpful, and pumped about the show. Some mega-fans did show up six hours early to hopefully get some face time with Kristin.
I must reiterate that she is absolutely not a snob or a diva. She just doesn’t know how to react to the line 85% of people throw at her: “Oh my god, I saw you at So-n-So’s in 1994!…” followed by a pregnant pause. I mean, what would YOU say? “Oh. That’s very nice,” she’ll usually reply with frightened doe eyes. I don’t know what people are expecting in response—for her to hug them and say, “Oh yah! I remember you in the dark crowd from thirty-five years ago! Has that rash cleared up yet?”
In lieu of Kristin, they’ll pounce on anyone associated with the band. In order to look busy as I walked by one mega-fan, I sent this to Ben:
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. Out All Day: New Orleans 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. You can keep up, and get lots of extras every month 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
(Read parts 1-3 here / read parts 4-6 here)
7.
Thursday, 9 April, 2026
Pittsburgh, PA
Inconvenient day. Soundcheck done before 3:00, show not until 9:00, can’t check in to Airbnb until the ridiculous hour of 5:00. We puttered about killing time. Lunch at Whole Foods. A walk on a nature trail near the Airbnb. Saw four or five deer blinds, and a single, lame deer limping through the trees. “Oh god, the poor thing,” I thought, “Will this be a harbinger?” Spoiler: yes.
Christine had strict instructions from the Airbnb owner, keyword, STRICT: “5:00 check in. Not a MINUTE earlier!” Spitefully, we entered at 4:59. Read the house rules posted on the fridge. “No shoes inside, EVER. No smoking ANYWHERE on the property. Checkout is 11:00am SHARP! At 11:01, your door code will no longer work. After use, strip beds and put linens in the laundry room. On Wednesdays, drag trash to the curb. Enjoy, and treat the house as your own!” My house doesn’t lock me out at 11:01am, though I DO have to do my own laundry and move the trash to the street once a week, so in that sense it was homey.
Back at the club, sound and lighting guys were cool. Everyone else was…off. They smiled and spoke words in English that I understood, but everything seemed wonky in a way I couldn’t pin down. Like aliens attempting to mimic humans.
The audience was similarly like faux-humans from a Twilight Zone episode. They smiled and said words that were words, but nothing made sense. “I will be having an extra large shirt.” “I’m so sorry, we sold out of that size. We have small, medium, and large left, as this sign clearly says.” “In such a case then shall I take a double XL.” “Also out of those. As I said, I have S, M, and L.” “Extra large for me therefore, please.” Etc.
I can tell by body language whether a person will be a paying customer, a lookee-loo, or an inquisitor. Most everyone who came by our merch booth was a lookee-loo or just wanted to ask a hundred questions.
Meanwhile on stage, the band was giving it their all to polite golf claps. These aliens had read up on applause and were technically doing it, but even that was off. The bouncer, standing five feet from me, never acknowledged our presence or favored us with any eye contact.
I hissed at Christine that we should pack up quickly and get the hell out of this Village of the Damned Yankees. She agreed. I went to the green room and boxed up all the beer. Stopped in a bathroom for a quick pee before leaving. There were vaguely-sexual-sounding grunts from a stall. “Ugh. Ungh. Oh yah. Oh yah, come on baby. Hnnnngggg!!! Yah! THERE you are!” accompanied by plopping sounds. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” I rushed everyone into the van and drove them back to the House of Rules where everyone despondently removed their shoes at the front door and went to bed.
8
Friday, 10 April, 2026
Sandusky, OH
Since we were booted out of The House of Rules precisely at 11:00, and the drive to Cleveland was short, we had time to kill between load-in and show time.
Well, the band had time. I was panicking. Due to miscommunication, I didn’t realize we hadn’t booked flights from Minneapolis to Seattle next week. Because of the lateness of the booking, the prices were predatory. To further complicate things, did you know you have to buy your cello a seat on the plane? And they can only be assigned window seats? Pete’s is too fragile to trust to baggage throwers. Did you also know booking online requires a birthday and gender for each passenger? Did you know that cellos have no birthdays nor gender identity? So you have to call the airline and book that way.
Phew. That’s over. Now let me just get a 12 or 15 seater van reserved in Seattle, then maybe I can take a quick nap.
The van rental turned out to be an exponentially more grueling experience than the airfare. No appropriate vans were to be had in or around SeaTac. Christine and I spent the next four hours searching websites, calling individual car rental branches, and spitballing plans B through Z if we couldn’t find one.
The day was saved by my sister Sheraine who lives near Seattle. She already agreed to house our whole circus for two nights, and she received my west coast shipment of three giant boxes of t-shirts. Though no van was to be found on the 14th, there were a couple options on the 15th down in Auburn where she lives. She said she’d pick us up at the airport, take us home, tuck us in, and the next day we’d get the van.
Eight hours went into this quest. When it was settled, I nearly collapsed from exhaustion. My ear still hurts from being on the phone for hours. Christine and I got through it by occasionally muttering to the other, “At least we’re not in Pittsburgh.” Then it was time to go to actual work.
Pittsburg this was not. Cleveland Heights’ Grog Shop club washed all the stank of western Pennsylvania from our souls. Sold out show in a dive-y, bestickered room—heaven! Club staff were actual earthlings, lovely, helpful, and pumped about the show. Some mega-fans did show up six hours early to hopefully get some face time with Kristin.
I must reiterate that she is absolutely not a snob or a diva. She just doesn’t know how to react to the line 85% of people throw at her: “Oh my god, I saw you at So-n-So’s in 1994!…” followed by a pregnant pause. I mean, what would YOU say? “Oh. That’s very nice,” she’ll usually reply with frightened doe eyes. I don’t know what people are expecting in response—for her to hug them and say, “Oh yah! I remember you in the dark crowd from thirty-five years ago! Has that rash cleared up yet?”
In lieu of Kristin, they’ll pounce on anyone associated with the band. In order to look busy as I walked by one mega-fan, I sent this to Ben:
Cleveland’s such a great town, not even the mega-fans loitering are particularly creepy. They’re just…there. Being nice. The show was phenomenal. The rapport between audience and band was palpable, perhaps by mere contrast from icky Pittsburgh so close behind us. No, I think it was the best show yet, irrespective of Pittsburgh.
Every person I interacted with seemed lovely. A senator bought a lot of merch. Several old touring musicians were there. Throwing Muses has always been a band other musicians look up to for their innovation, and freedom from serving a corporate overlord. Christine introduced me to Sarah, an absolute sweetheart who lost her sight over the years. Her sister was describing the Muses’ poster to her. “There’s a robin holding a lit match over thorny roses, the whole image is a giant postage stamp…” “That sounds wonderful. I want one.” This is the most beautiful thing that’s happened yet, I thought, eyes welling up.
Loading out, I was wishing I had some chapstick. My lips tend to shred the moment I step out of swampy Louisiana. I looked down and saw a tube of liquid lip balm on the pavement.
I asked Christine how gross would it be if I used some. Pretty gross, she said. But it’s kismet, I said. I was literally wishing for lip balm when I saw it lying there. “Wow! Amazon’s algorithm really has you pegged! You didn’t just get ads for chapstick, but they manifested the product right at your feet!” It seemed too miraculous to ignore. I took the tube into the bathroom, squeezed some of the goo out, cleaned the applicator tip thoroughly and the cap. Don’t judge; I hate chapped lips more than a stranger’s herpes.
Well, okay, you can judge.
Hour and a half drive to the Airbnb at midnight. I thought everyone was asleep when I snuck some lip goo on. The candy cane smell woke up Christine who mumbled, “Are you putting on your groundscore lip balm?” I nearly choked from shame and laughter. “That’s my band name!”
Last night’s shelter was a 19th century brick schoolhouse in Sandusky, refurbished to be a pretty swanky home. Photo of the class of 1908 on the wall, each eleven year old face looking weirdly middle aged. Confusing light switches everywhere, half of which did nothing. A pool (covered for the winter), a hot tub (on, and hot) and a frog pond (complete with frogs).
Important house things are conspicuously absent. In the grandeur of the pool and deck, not a chair to be found. In a stocked kitchen, no salt. Kristin was looking for some. I handed her some Tony Chachere’s (Louisiana-made seasoning) I found. She held up a neti pot and we both broke down laughing. I handed her more things: garlic salt, chili flakes, bouillon. Won’t these clear the sinuses?
9
Sunday, 12 April, 2026
Milwaukee
Chicago roads and traffic are such a shitshow, so we opted to drive to Milwaukee at midnight after the Chicago show to miss the morning madness.
Also, an absurdly early load-in—11:00am for a 1:00pm show. Got to the Airbnb around 1:00am. Very strange to be playing a daytime show. Even the club manager said it’s never been done. There were a couple bands already booked for the evening, and so this matinee was the only option. Milwaukee is certainly on the way to Minneapolis, and Kristin never turns down a gig because she’s a pro, or a sucker, so a daytime show it was. This may have been the first time in her long career where she greeted the crowd with, “Good morning.” Everyone laughed.
While the band was doing sound check, I was outside with Dave, an employee of the club, who had asked me to move the van. Two goobers came down the street in fur-lined hunting caps and thick Fargo accents. “Aw, who’s the band tonight, eh? They local?” Dave sputtered, “They’re from … they’ve been … they’re in the middle of a … THEY USED TO BE FAMOUS!” “Aw geez! Famous, ya say!” the goobers responded. I told Kristin about this after the show and she just about fell out of her chair.
Christine and I decided not to sell merch because, a) we have so little of it left, and there are two Minneapolis shows before we are replenished in Seattle, b) this club claims a fifth of all merch income, by far the worst of any joint on the whole tour, so fuck that, and c) Christine and I wanted a day off so we could enjoy the show without distraction for once.
She was dancing the whole time. I was crying. I’ll explain:
I had been texting with Ben about our still-no-power-having house yesterday. He’s been busy this month scraping char off the old windows and casings and sculpting missing bits with a two-part epoxy. These huge, antique windows and shutters would cost thousands to manufacture from scratch. Ben’s dedication to the messy job moved me.
Since I wasn’t working for once, I had time to think about this year and all the hardships we’ve experienced. How exhausting it’s been simply existing. And how happy I was to take a break from that life, and be in this one, if only for the month. It was two waves coming from different directions, one from misery and one from love. The waves crashed together and something happened to me and I was grateful the club was dark and no one could see my face.
After the show, I went to the green room and babbled incoherently to everyone about this being the worst year of my life, and somehow also the best, and that something weird happened to me today, and how grateful I was in that moment, with those people—with more tears and snot.
Christine and I had seen a cat café earlier and made plans to hit it up after load-out. We’re both crazy cat ladies and needed a furry fix. Did you know some cat cafés require an appointment? Neither did we. Sad-meow.
My friend Tim from New Orleans and his friend met us for dive bar day drinking instead. The Standard Tavern might as well be on Lower Decatur, and I felt right at home talking to all the barflies. “We couldn’t get into the cat café. We couldn’t score any pussy!” A woman said, “Usually you have to pay for that.” “I wouldn’t mind paying; it’s the waiting I won’t do.”
The luxury of such an early show is a whole afternoon off. Yah, we drank too much, but what a rare treat to relax like that for a few hours.
This is only my second visit to Milwaukee—the first also with Kristin on her 2022 tour—but I could see living here. So could Tim, evidently, as he’s been here for years now.
(to be continued...)
This feature is free right now as an example of the bonus material that you can enjoy when you support us on Patreon. Even free tier subscribers get bonus content and early access. Click here to support local independent journalism - thank you.
Every person I interacted with seemed lovely. A senator bought a lot of merch. Several old touring musicians were there. Throwing Muses has always been a band other musicians look up to for their innovation, and freedom from serving a corporate overlord. Christine introduced me to Sarah, an absolute sweetheart who lost her sight over the years. Her sister was describing the Muses’ poster to her. “There’s a robin holding a lit match over thorny roses, the whole image is a giant postage stamp…” “That sounds wonderful. I want one.” This is the most beautiful thing that’s happened yet, I thought, eyes welling up.
Loading out, I was wishing I had some chapstick. My lips tend to shred the moment I step out of swampy Louisiana. I looked down and saw a tube of liquid lip balm on the pavement.
I asked Christine how gross would it be if I used some. Pretty gross, she said. But it’s kismet, I said. I was literally wishing for lip balm when I saw it lying there. “Wow! Amazon’s algorithm really has you pegged! You didn’t just get ads for chapstick, but they manifested the product right at your feet!” It seemed too miraculous to ignore. I took the tube into the bathroom, squeezed some of the goo out, cleaned the applicator tip thoroughly and the cap. Don’t judge; I hate chapped lips more than a stranger’s herpes.
Well, okay, you can judge.
Hour and a half drive to the Airbnb at midnight. I thought everyone was asleep when I snuck some lip goo on. The candy cane smell woke up Christine who mumbled, “Are you putting on your groundscore lip balm?” I nearly choked from shame and laughter. “That’s my band name!”
Last night’s shelter was a 19th century brick schoolhouse in Sandusky, refurbished to be a pretty swanky home. Photo of the class of 1908 on the wall, each eleven year old face looking weirdly middle aged. Confusing light switches everywhere, half of which did nothing. A pool (covered for the winter), a hot tub (on, and hot) and a frog pond (complete with frogs).
Important house things are conspicuously absent. In the grandeur of the pool and deck, not a chair to be found. In a stocked kitchen, no salt. Kristin was looking for some. I handed her some Tony Chachere’s (Louisiana-made seasoning) I found. She held up a neti pot and we both broke down laughing. I handed her more things: garlic salt, chili flakes, bouillon. Won’t these clear the sinuses?
9
Sunday, 12 April, 2026
Milwaukee
Chicago roads and traffic are such a shitshow, so we opted to drive to Milwaukee at midnight after the Chicago show to miss the morning madness.
Also, an absurdly early load-in—11:00am for a 1:00pm show. Got to the Airbnb around 1:00am. Very strange to be playing a daytime show. Even the club manager said it’s never been done. There were a couple bands already booked for the evening, and so this matinee was the only option. Milwaukee is certainly on the way to Minneapolis, and Kristin never turns down a gig because she’s a pro, or a sucker, so a daytime show it was. This may have been the first time in her long career where she greeted the crowd with, “Good morning.” Everyone laughed.
While the band was doing sound check, I was outside with Dave, an employee of the club, who had asked me to move the van. Two goobers came down the street in fur-lined hunting caps and thick Fargo accents. “Aw, who’s the band tonight, eh? They local?” Dave sputtered, “They’re from … they’ve been … they’re in the middle of a … THEY USED TO BE FAMOUS!” “Aw geez! Famous, ya say!” the goobers responded. I told Kristin about this after the show and she just about fell out of her chair.
Christine and I decided not to sell merch because, a) we have so little of it left, and there are two Minneapolis shows before we are replenished in Seattle, b) this club claims a fifth of all merch income, by far the worst of any joint on the whole tour, so fuck that, and c) Christine and I wanted a day off so we could enjoy the show without distraction for once.
She was dancing the whole time. I was crying. I’ll explain:
I had been texting with Ben about our still-no-power-having house yesterday. He’s been busy this month scraping char off the old windows and casings and sculpting missing bits with a two-part epoxy. These huge, antique windows and shutters would cost thousands to manufacture from scratch. Ben’s dedication to the messy job moved me.
Since I wasn’t working for once, I had time to think about this year and all the hardships we’ve experienced. How exhausting it’s been simply existing. And how happy I was to take a break from that life, and be in this one, if only for the month. It was two waves coming from different directions, one from misery and one from love. The waves crashed together and something happened to me and I was grateful the club was dark and no one could see my face.
After the show, I went to the green room and babbled incoherently to everyone about this being the worst year of my life, and somehow also the best, and that something weird happened to me today, and how grateful I was in that moment, with those people—with more tears and snot.
Christine and I had seen a cat café earlier and made plans to hit it up after load-out. We’re both crazy cat ladies and needed a furry fix. Did you know some cat cafés require an appointment? Neither did we. Sad-meow.
My friend Tim from New Orleans and his friend met us for dive bar day drinking instead. The Standard Tavern might as well be on Lower Decatur, and I felt right at home talking to all the barflies. “We couldn’t get into the cat café. We couldn’t score any pussy!” A woman said, “Usually you have to pay for that.” “I wouldn’t mind paying; it’s the waiting I won’t do.”
The luxury of such an early show is a whole afternoon off. Yah, we drank too much, but what a rare treat to relax like that for a few hours.
This is only my second visit to Milwaukee—the first also with Kristin on her 2022 tour—but I could see living here. So could Tim, evidently, as he’s been here for years now.
(to be continued...)
This feature is free right now as an example of the bonus material that you can enjoy when you support us on Patreon. Even free tier subscribers get bonus content and early access. Click here to support local independent journalism - thank you.