OUT ONE DAY - ON TOUR WITH KRISTIN HERSH AND THROWING MUSES (Pt. 5)
THROWING MUSES TOUR DIARY, PT 5 (chapters 13-14)
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 chapters 1-3 here
Read chapters 4-6 here
Read chapters 7-9 here
Read chapters 10-12 here
13
Monday, 20 April, 2026
Sacramento, CA
Kristin’s cold is getting worse, compounded by long Covid from a couple years ago. It’s affecting her voice. Her attitude is pure positivity, her professionalism is 100%, but she’s struggling and hurting. Each night performing only worsens things.
We lost Christine in Minneapolis. She had only signed on with us that far, then had obligations at home. I’ve had a driving partner in Pete since Portland, and a few friends in other cities to work merch with me.
Christine did show up at Santa Cruz and it was a joy to have the old team together again. She never saw John Waters’ 'Serial Mom', so I had to explain the scene where a cranky Ricki Lake, working a booth at a flea market, yells bitchily at a customer, “Thanks for not BUYING anything!” That was Santa Cruz. Friendly dingbats drifting by, looking at everything, ooh-ing and ahh-ing, “Oh, how lovely,” goofy puppy smiles, then floating away.
I’ve also got this cold, and while it’s not hurting me as much as it is Kristin, the fatigue and ache and dizziness cuts my fuse short. Aware my interpretation might be skewed, I asked my team, “WERE they all dingbats?” Kristin: “That’s a really good word. Yes.” Christine concurred, and we trotted out our old chestnut, “But at least it’s not Pittsburgh.”
One more night on the houseboat in Sausalito, checkout at 11:00am, then to Kristin’s brother’s house nearby where we discussed the very real possibility of canceling Sacramento. Kristin coughing, chugging lemon honey tea and apple cider vinegar, avoiding me chasing her around the house with zinc and Emergen-C. She decided to give it a shot. In terms of a work ethic, she’s the anti-Morrissey. She’d have to be in a coma to voluntarily cancel a show. “God,” I said, also feeling run down and my bad back finally acting up, “We’re really limping towards the finish line.” Three more shows. Can we do it?
Sacramento had only half the dingbats of Santa Cruz. One woman came up to me, “You’ll never guess why I’m here!” “Is it for the music?” I said, possibly with a soupçon of snark. “Well, yeah, but in 1993 I saw Kristin at…” I affixed a rictus of a smile and listened to her long story. She balloon-floated away. (“Thanks for not BUYING anything!”) I massaged my feet. Wearing the same boots for sixteen hours a day all month had shifted the bones.
Kristin’s style of singing is wonderfully abrasive and expressive and naturally raspy, so it’s possible most of the audience couldn’t tell that her vocals were compromised. I heard it however. Listening to her almost every night for a month, I winced as I heard her struggling. Maybe we should’ve canceled. In the green room after, I gave her a very long hug, muttering condolences, wishing I could absorb her pain into my body and give her strength. If sickness could be shifted from one person to another like a Venmo transaction, I would happily take all of her suffering.
Back to San Francisco tonight. Someone kindly offered to professionally record the show, and Zack at The Chapel offered to bring in his video guy, but after conferring with K. late last night, we decided now is not the time to immortalize her voice. I sent apologetic midnight emails to the relevant people.
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 chapters 1-3 here
Read chapters 4-6 here
Read chapters 7-9 here
Read chapters 10-12 here
13
Monday, 20 April, 2026
Sacramento, CA
Kristin’s cold is getting worse, compounded by long Covid from a couple years ago. It’s affecting her voice. Her attitude is pure positivity, her professionalism is 100%, but she’s struggling and hurting. Each night performing only worsens things.
We lost Christine in Minneapolis. She had only signed on with us that far, then had obligations at home. I’ve had a driving partner in Pete since Portland, and a few friends in other cities to work merch with me.
Christine did show up at Santa Cruz and it was a joy to have the old team together again. She never saw John Waters’ 'Serial Mom', so I had to explain the scene where a cranky Ricki Lake, working a booth at a flea market, yells bitchily at a customer, “Thanks for not BUYING anything!” That was Santa Cruz. Friendly dingbats drifting by, looking at everything, ooh-ing and ahh-ing, “Oh, how lovely,” goofy puppy smiles, then floating away.
I’ve also got this cold, and while it’s not hurting me as much as it is Kristin, the fatigue and ache and dizziness cuts my fuse short. Aware my interpretation might be skewed, I asked my team, “WERE they all dingbats?” Kristin: “That’s a really good word. Yes.” Christine concurred, and we trotted out our old chestnut, “But at least it’s not Pittsburgh.”
One more night on the houseboat in Sausalito, checkout at 11:00am, then to Kristin’s brother’s house nearby where we discussed the very real possibility of canceling Sacramento. Kristin coughing, chugging lemon honey tea and apple cider vinegar, avoiding me chasing her around the house with zinc and Emergen-C. She decided to give it a shot. In terms of a work ethic, she’s the anti-Morrissey. She’d have to be in a coma to voluntarily cancel a show. “God,” I said, also feeling run down and my bad back finally acting up, “We’re really limping towards the finish line.” Three more shows. Can we do it?
Sacramento had only half the dingbats of Santa Cruz. One woman came up to me, “You’ll never guess why I’m here!” “Is it for the music?” I said, possibly with a soupçon of snark. “Well, yeah, but in 1993 I saw Kristin at…” I affixed a rictus of a smile and listened to her long story. She balloon-floated away. (“Thanks for not BUYING anything!”) I massaged my feet. Wearing the same boots for sixteen hours a day all month had shifted the bones.
Kristin’s style of singing is wonderfully abrasive and expressive and naturally raspy, so it’s possible most of the audience couldn’t tell that her vocals were compromised. I heard it however. Listening to her almost every night for a month, I winced as I heard her struggling. Maybe we should’ve canceled. In the green room after, I gave her a very long hug, muttering condolences, wishing I could absorb her pain into my body and give her strength. If sickness could be shifted from one person to another like a Venmo transaction, I would happily take all of her suffering.
Back to San Francisco tonight. Someone kindly offered to professionally record the show, and Zack at The Chapel offered to bring in his video guy, but after conferring with K. late last night, we decided now is not the time to immortalize her voice. I sent apologetic midnight emails to the relevant people.
14
Friday, 24th April 2026
Irvine, CA
The tour ended conveniently (for me, at least!) in Los Angeles, not far from where my parents live. I was going to fly out here late April or early May anyway to see them, so Throwing Muses saved me half a trip, cheers.
In a way I’ll never understand, Kristin muscled through the second San Francisco night with a crippling cold and compromised voice. The long drive south, and the closing night in L.A. sounded fantastic. “How did you do it?” I asked with wonder. “DID I do it?” she responded, equally mystified.
Being at the merch tables all month, I got to overhear people’s opinions on the shows as they passed by me. Most were in rapture of course. But the odd contrary snippets amused me the most. One guy, I forget where, started yelling at me of all people that the drums were too loud and he couldn’t hear the vocals. “Not my department,” I smiled as he stomped off, to be replaced by another guy, just as angry, complaining that the vocals were too loud and he couldn’t hear the drums.
I think we were all feeling some way about the last show: nostalgic sorrow that it was ending, combined with utter relief that it was ending. Cello Pete and I agreed that sitting on the rocking chairs in Rhode Island seemed like a lifetime ago. I took a photo of the final soundcheck and sent it to the group. Sad emojis in response.
Through dumb luck, we were fortunate that every opening act across the country were actually good and complementary to Muses’ vibe, whatever that undefinable thing is. The last show was supported by Escape Artist Lovers, fronted by Rain Phoenix. I told her after the show how much I enjoyed her set, and how well it worked with Kristin’s music vacillating between sweet crooning and head banging fury. “Sometimes you want to be whispered to, and sometimes you want to get fucked in the face,” I said. “Yes!!! Exactly,” she said. We hung out with her after the show much longer than we would ordinarily. All agreed Rain should open for Kristin at the next opportunity.
Christine’s daughter who lives in L.A. kindly came to collect all the unsold merch so no one would have to fly with boxes of heavy records. As we were loading out, I was running on fumes. Two fans had snuck into the back parking lot—someone had left the gate open.
One guy said he was Throwing Muses’ number one fan, bringing to mind the opening lines from Stephen King’s 'Misery', and that Dave was awesome on drums. “That was Fred. Wasn’t he great?” I said. Oh, well, um, Bernard was killing it on bass. “That was Kristin’s son Dylan.” I was so busy trying to shoo them away I forgot about the merch in the van, and Christine’s daughter was long gone.
Kristin said it’s okay, they’d Uber it down to her son Bodhi’s house the next day and he could hang on to it. I dealt with many tenacious fans this month who purport to love Kristin with every fiber of their being, then when I explain that she’s sick and has no energy left to meet people, they argue. “Geez, so she can’t come out here for just, like, twenty minutes and take dozens of photos with me and fulfill all MY needs? Rude!” Some people’s lack of self-clarity is hilariously pathological.
Woke up the next morning at the Airbnb. Dylan was already gone, having an early flight back to Brooklyn. I went over the final accounting with Kristin. We were both amazed at the total of merch sales. She said, “We might actually come out ahead on this one. Usually we’re lucky if we break even. Touring is so expensive.”
At the beginning of the tour she told me she doesn’t make any money. “I do it so my band can get paid.” I hope my and Christine’s efforts put something in her pocket. Someone who works so incredibly hard, putting energy she doesn’t have into nightly performances, should be compensated. Hell, someone who makes music this good should be deified and have no worldly worries ever.
We said our goodbyes, lots of hugs, then I took Cello Pete to LAX for his long flight back to Scotland, and returned our van. My dad drove up to L.A. to pick me up and bring me to mom’s where I’ve now been for a couple days catching up with her. I’ve slept about twelve hours a night, which is starting to make up the deficit for the usual five hours. When awake, I’ve been fidgety, feeling like there’s work I need to be doing. I stand up to walk to another room, and find there’s no van to load, no people to drive around, no show to prepare for.
This is both a relief, and rather sad. I joined this tour to get out of New Orleans and be so busy that my personal problems would take a back seat. Mission accomplished, in spades. I’ve had very little time to fret about our still-uninhabitable house back home. Yesterday, I got the news that the electrical work is almost done, we passed the rough-in inspection with Entergy, and our contractor is back on site and won’t be leaving until all the carpentry is completed.
It is just possible we’ll have a home again in early May, over three months after a deranged psychopath lit our house and our lives on fire. Also got notice that my new piano was shipped and will arrive on the 27th (my pianos were destroyed by water damage during the fire).
All this news is making for a tidy, happy ending to a grueling, hateful year. As hellish as my existence has been since January, it provided the opportunity to be with my friends for a month, meeting people and sharing music across the country. Kristin and Fred will be back in New Orleans in a couple weeks. I’m hoping to have them over to my functioning house where I can drown them, and myself, in strawberry margaritas. And not have to load a van when I take them home.
Friday, 24th April 2026
Irvine, CA
The tour ended conveniently (for me, at least!) in Los Angeles, not far from where my parents live. I was going to fly out here late April or early May anyway to see them, so Throwing Muses saved me half a trip, cheers.
In a way I’ll never understand, Kristin muscled through the second San Francisco night with a crippling cold and compromised voice. The long drive south, and the closing night in L.A. sounded fantastic. “How did you do it?” I asked with wonder. “DID I do it?” she responded, equally mystified.
Being at the merch tables all month, I got to overhear people’s opinions on the shows as they passed by me. Most were in rapture of course. But the odd contrary snippets amused me the most. One guy, I forget where, started yelling at me of all people that the drums were too loud and he couldn’t hear the vocals. “Not my department,” I smiled as he stomped off, to be replaced by another guy, just as angry, complaining that the vocals were too loud and he couldn’t hear the drums.
I think we were all feeling some way about the last show: nostalgic sorrow that it was ending, combined with utter relief that it was ending. Cello Pete and I agreed that sitting on the rocking chairs in Rhode Island seemed like a lifetime ago. I took a photo of the final soundcheck and sent it to the group. Sad emojis in response.
Through dumb luck, we were fortunate that every opening act across the country were actually good and complementary to Muses’ vibe, whatever that undefinable thing is. The last show was supported by Escape Artist Lovers, fronted by Rain Phoenix. I told her after the show how much I enjoyed her set, and how well it worked with Kristin’s music vacillating between sweet crooning and head banging fury. “Sometimes you want to be whispered to, and sometimes you want to get fucked in the face,” I said. “Yes!!! Exactly,” she said. We hung out with her after the show much longer than we would ordinarily. All agreed Rain should open for Kristin at the next opportunity.
Christine’s daughter who lives in L.A. kindly came to collect all the unsold merch so no one would have to fly with boxes of heavy records. As we were loading out, I was running on fumes. Two fans had snuck into the back parking lot—someone had left the gate open.
One guy said he was Throwing Muses’ number one fan, bringing to mind the opening lines from Stephen King’s 'Misery', and that Dave was awesome on drums. “That was Fred. Wasn’t he great?” I said. Oh, well, um, Bernard was killing it on bass. “That was Kristin’s son Dylan.” I was so busy trying to shoo them away I forgot about the merch in the van, and Christine’s daughter was long gone.
Kristin said it’s okay, they’d Uber it down to her son Bodhi’s house the next day and he could hang on to it. I dealt with many tenacious fans this month who purport to love Kristin with every fiber of their being, then when I explain that she’s sick and has no energy left to meet people, they argue. “Geez, so she can’t come out here for just, like, twenty minutes and take dozens of photos with me and fulfill all MY needs? Rude!” Some people’s lack of self-clarity is hilariously pathological.
Woke up the next morning at the Airbnb. Dylan was already gone, having an early flight back to Brooklyn. I went over the final accounting with Kristin. We were both amazed at the total of merch sales. She said, “We might actually come out ahead on this one. Usually we’re lucky if we break even. Touring is so expensive.”
At the beginning of the tour she told me she doesn’t make any money. “I do it so my band can get paid.” I hope my and Christine’s efforts put something in her pocket. Someone who works so incredibly hard, putting energy she doesn’t have into nightly performances, should be compensated. Hell, someone who makes music this good should be deified and have no worldly worries ever.
We said our goodbyes, lots of hugs, then I took Cello Pete to LAX for his long flight back to Scotland, and returned our van. My dad drove up to L.A. to pick me up and bring me to mom’s where I’ve now been for a couple days catching up with her. I’ve slept about twelve hours a night, which is starting to make up the deficit for the usual five hours. When awake, I’ve been fidgety, feeling like there’s work I need to be doing. I stand up to walk to another room, and find there’s no van to load, no people to drive around, no show to prepare for.
This is both a relief, and rather sad. I joined this tour to get out of New Orleans and be so busy that my personal problems would take a back seat. Mission accomplished, in spades. I’ve had very little time to fret about our still-uninhabitable house back home. Yesterday, I got the news that the electrical work is almost done, we passed the rough-in inspection with Entergy, and our contractor is back on site and won’t be leaving until all the carpentry is completed.
It is just possible we’ll have a home again in early May, over three months after a deranged psychopath lit our house and our lives on fire. Also got notice that my new piano was shipped and will arrive on the 27th (my pianos were destroyed by water damage during the fire).
All this news is making for a tidy, happy ending to a grueling, hateful year. As hellish as my existence has been since January, it provided the opportunity to be with my friends for a month, meeting people and sharing music across the country. Kristin and Fred will be back in New Orleans in a couple weeks. I’m hoping to have them over to my functioning house where I can drown them, and myself, in strawberry margaritas. And not have to load a van when I take them home.
