Mad Anthony – CRAZY TOUR STORIES

In this Crazy Tour Stories segment, Ringo Jones of the rock band, Mad Anthony, talk about some of their crazy moments from touring. You can check out the feature, after the break.

I was used to waking up in strange places, but even the forest floor next to I-65 was new to me.

We had made a name for ourselves by touring relentlessly, at times playing three or four shows a day, city to city, sleeping on floors and couches just to share our music with the sparse crowds at under-attended rock shows. We had been through everything together and when people would mistake us for brothers, we wouldn’t correct them.

Like most days that summer, the drive from Dayton, OH to Evansville, IN was wet and rainy, and the ground was already full of water like a sponge at the bottom of the kitchen sink. It was just after 6 p.m. when our van started to fishtail on the slick road, Adam tried to correct but it sent us into a spin. We crossed both lanes of traffic unscathed and when we hit the opposite shoulder we were facing the wrong direction, but I thought we had somehow cheated death. That’s the last I remember before we slid down the embankment, off the highway, into the treeline just outside Louisville, KY at mile marker 22. For some reason, that sticks out in my mind, just like our epic sunglasses collection that littered the forest floor.

I shut my eyes for what felt like a second, and when I opened them I couldn’t see a thing. My vision had blurred up like the windows of a car on a dewy spring morning. I shook my head like windshield wipers to clear the view. My head was throbbing. When I looked at the ground to push myself up I could tell I would need stitches just by the consistency of the blood and mud concoction beneath me. I directed my eyes back to the big yellow van that I had called home for that last 4 months. Adam was ripping his seat belt off and kicking his driver’s side door open.

He shouted, “Ringo, are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Marc?” No response.

Marc was sleeping in the back of the van before the accident. When he didn’t respond, my heart dropped to the pit of my stomach. A maple tree as thick as me had punched in one of the double doors closest to Marc’s escape route. All the windows were shattered and the canary yellow paint job was unrecognizable through what was surely Marc’s crimson blood.

I knew Marc was dead.

I was the band leader. I was the guy who had the vision, the guy who gave the Vince Lombardi-esque motivational speeches in the locker room, the guy who kept us on track. But I was also the realist. I was our toughest critic. I spent every night studying what other bands did and comparing ourselves to them. I knew we had plenty to prove and even more to improve. I was in touch with reality.

So, it wasn’t hard for me to recognize the reality that Marc was dead. But it was impossible for me to say it. How could I tell Adam that his best friend was dead? I felt somewhat responsible, even guilty. After all, I was the one that had convinced them to quit their jobs and go on tour full-time.

Adam rushed to my side and helped me steady my wobbly legs.

He shouted for Marc again. Same dead air.

By now, Adam had to have seen the blood draped across the side of the van. He had to have pieced it together to reach the same conclusion I had. He had to know.

But Adam was the idealist in the band. He was the one who wanted everybody to win. He would work tirelessly on a riff or a song until it was perfect because he knew there was always a better solution. Tall, trim and handsome, he had a smile that could light up a room, a quick wit that could defuse any situation and a childlike charm that made you take his side. He believed in the good in people and treated strangers and new fans like they were long lost friends. He was the guy you wanted working the merch table at the end of the night.

Maybe it was his naivety or good-natured attitude that made Adam call out for Marc again and again with more and more urgency as we stumbled toward the van like the last-place team in a three-legged race.

“Marc? … Marc?” But still nothing.

As we drew closer we could see Marc’s head propped on the edge of a broken window.

Adam called again, “Marc… are you okay buddy?” This time you could hear the desperation in Adam’s voice. Even the idealist was facing reality.

Marc was the “talented one” in the band. He made everything look easy but never rested on his laurels. He worked his butt off at being the best, but you would never know it. He was never cocky or boastful. I genuinely believed he had no idea how good he was.

Marc was also the oldest in the band but people would assume he was the baby. In many ways he was, he had a playful spirit and routinely partied the hardest and stayed up the latest, but he’d get cranky without his coffee and cigarettes.

People would come to shows just to see Marc. He was a very intelligent songwriter, and unlike most incredibly talented musicians, he would write for the song and not for himself. When the song called for a huge drum solo he would channel Jon Bonham’s power and open the heavens with his thunderous strikes, but if the song called for silence or a straight beat, he wasn’t above pulling back and laying down a simple but solid rhythm. He was a true musician.

Then we heard it. Marc’s lifeless body struggled to draw one long, gravelly breath.

Adam reached out. “DON’T TOUCH HIM!” I yelled. “He could have a broken neck!”

At this point, good samaritans who witnessed the accident were coming down the hill to help. “The ambulance is on its way. Are you guys okay?”

I took my shirt off and pushed it hard against the gash across my head and greeted the newcomers. While my back was turned, Adam moved Marc and sat him up. Marc slowly came to and Adam calmly explained everything to him.

Marc would nod and wince. “You say the ambulance is on its way?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m gonna have a cigarette real quick.”

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