I Think I Peed My Pants: A Tour Story
opening for nine inch nails in vegas. aka: the worst shows of my life.
Those who know me or are familiar with my musical history know I have this Kamikaze-like habit of opening for Nine Inch Nails every several years and completely bombing. It's like a curse that can't be reversed. Or, a private joke between me and my self-loathing.
In 2018, NIN did a 3-night stint at The Hard Rock in Las Vegas. The support slot was an easy, no-brainer task. No long haul flights. No venue changes. No crossing time zones. Comfortable and stress-free. Just a few nights in the same hotel we were performing at. Foolproof, right?
The band had one night off between shows, so naturally, we decided to self-sabotage. My bassist Drew and guitarist Elise bought a stash of Vegas-grade THC gummies—those souped-up, scientifically weaponized candies engineered to annihilate the human psyche. I'd never eaten one before, but it was blue raspberry flavored, so I figured: candy is candy.
I ate the whole thing.
We shuffled into the Buckethead concert inside the smaller venue at the casino. If you've never had the pleasure, Buckethead fans are mostly white men in cargo shorts wearing actual KFC buckets on their heads. We didn’t fit in, but fitting in obviously wasn’t the theme for the weekend. We had a night off and we were on the list.
Why we thought this would be a “fun” atmosphere to trip in? I don’t know. But it turned into a nightmare very quickly. The lights dimmed. The music started. And suddenly, everything slowed to a syrupy crawl. I looked around and all the bucketheads were multiplying. The buckets were trailing the bodies they sat atop. I turned to Drew to see several copies of…his face.
Why is everyone on delay?
What?
Your face. It’s on delay!
At first, it was hilarious (uncontrollable laughter). Then it was hell (uncontrollable crying)—the standard gummy trajectory.
Elise suggested food. Something greasy to line my stomach and maybe trick my body into thinking it wasn't melting. Since we were on a budget (this was indie-rock Vegas, not Celine Dion Vegas), we ate all of our meals gratis at the Hard Rock employee cafeteria buried in the bowels of the building. You know that scene in The Shining where Danny rides his tricycle through endless, identical hallways? That. But fluorescent-lit like a hospital.
Drew led us through this Kafkaesque labyrinth, probably walking in circles.
Are we there yet?
It felt like centuries had gone by. I was trailing further and further behind. Elise kept having to turn back, grab my arm, and ask if I could "make it."
I truly didn't know. I wasn't convinced I hadn't peed my pants.
Leave me. Save yourselves.
I kept feeling the crotch of my jeans and being surprised it wasn’t wet.
Eventually, somehow, we made it to the cafeteria. I piled my tray like it was the last supper. But then came a new horror: I couldn't figure out how to eat. I stared at the food. The food stared back. My hand refused to cooperate. The fork was too obscure, too heavy.
Elise, understandably losing her patience, finally cracked and addressed the elephant in the room.
What are we going to do about tomorrow's show, Carré?
An excellent question.
The night before had been the worst show of all of our lives. At least, the worst show of my entire life. And that bar is set very low.
The drummer (who shall remain nameless) crumbled under the pressure. He had never played in front of that big of an audience and I was naive to think his adrenaline would force him to rise to the occasion. His nerves took over, and instead of playing any actual Queen Kwong songs, he decided to perform an original piece he composed on the spot. He bowed his head and furiously drummed a song none of us had ever heard before. A song with a lot of drum fills. A song only a drummer would “appreciate.”
We called out to him during the set. Elise literally stopped playing mid-song, looked at me for guidance, and mouthed, What the fuck?
I tried to save us. I turned towards him and stood in front of his kick drum. I threw guitar picks at his head. I banged the headstock of my guitar against his cymbals in an attempt to get his attention. I yelled nicely, and I yelled not so nicely.
Are you okay?? What are you even playing?! Look at me, motherfucker!
But he never looked up. Not once.
When the set ended, he vanished. He didn't come back to the hotel room. He didn't respond to calls or texts. For all we knew, he got on a plane and left the state. Elise was in tears. She begged me not to make her go through that again. I promised I'd talk to him.
But I never found him.
And now I was high out of my mind, lost in an underground maze, trying to process how to play the next night with or without a drummer, and which scenario would be worse.
Could you call on an emergency drummer? Like a...pro?
Oh, Drew. No one in rock music is a pro. Even when they are.
If he doesn't show up, I'll play the show alone. I nearly gagged after spitting out the words.
You mean, like…just you and your guitar?
Mmhmm. Like singer-songwriter style. Open mic night.
To a Nine Inch Nails audience?
That's how I did it the first time I opened for Nails.
And how did that go? (Drew can be a real smart ass)
Well, not worse than last night. I shrugged.
Elise suddenly perked up. At least she wouldn't have to share the stage with our drum-wielding saboteur.
I'm pretty sure I peed my pants. I need to go to bed now.
It took about an hour to find our way back to the Earth’s surface. Elise tucked me into bed, and I spent the rest of the night watching CNN's live coverage of a raccoon climbing the side of a skyscraper in St. Paul, Minnesota. The building’s windows didn't open. There was no way down. She kept going up, one paw at a time. Stopping on ledges to see if anyone would let her in. But people only took pictures on their phones as she held on for her life. I cried for her. Wailed, despaired, panicked. I couldn't look away. Couldn't stop thinking: Is that me? Am I the raccoon?
Still no word from the drummer by morning. So I made two setlists: one with the full band if he showed up, and one for just me and a guitar if he didn’t. I threw in "Sucker," a very old, slow ballad of mine that would pad the time and get us close to our 30-minute set length so we'd at least fulfill our contractual obligation.
We went to Kinko's to print off cat-themed flyers Drew designed to hawk at the merch table. They sold out instantly. It was the only part of the tour that felt successful.
Then, ten minutes before we were supposed to go on, the drummer waltzed into the dressing room. Smug. No apology. No eye contact. Just: Where's my setlist?
I downed a shot of whiskey and an entire pack of Keebler Fudge Shoppe cookies. The show must go on...
It wasn't a good set, by any means. But we endured. When the drummer boy started playing the wrong parts, we followed him. He couldn’t play any better so we had to play…worse? You know, meet him on his level. I closed the set with "Sucker," finger-picking alone in front of a confused NIN crowd who probably thought they were watching me have (yet another) nervous breakdown onstage.
Back in the dressing room, I told the drummer we were done. He lay down on the floor, pulled a towel over his sweaty head, and sighed deeply like he was at the spa.
You’re impossible. HE said to ME.
I asked him to leave. He wouldn't. So Drew, Elise and I left instead.
Later that night, Ilan Rubin (the drummer for Nails) told me security had to remove my drummer from the room. He was still lying there, towel and all.
The next day, I left Vegas saying what I say every time I leave Vegas: I'm never coming back here again.
Hold on, there is a happy ending to this story: The raccoon made it to the roof where she was rescued. I hope she’s living somewhere beautiful now with all the trash she can eat.
As for us, Elise, Drew, and I went on to play many more shows across continents. We toured with a rotating cast of drummers who did not give us heart attacks. Some even made eye contact, and some were really good. As cursed as it was, Vegas ended up being a kind of perverse rite of passage. It bonded us. Drew and Elise remain two of my strongest lifelines—on stage and off.
If you’re in London, come see me play a show on June 14th supporting The Duke Spirit. Let’s hope it goes more smoothly than Vegas. I’m playing with a drum machine, so chances are more in my favor. Get tickets here.
c u next tuesday.
XX CARRÉ
ps: as usual, like, comment, share, etc. only you can make my Substack dreams come true.
I'm so glad the raccoon was okay!!
That. Is. A story. Thanks for sharing