Tour of duty

I’d never seen anything like it. The sky was a thick and ominous orange as far as you could see, and that wasn’t much distance at all. It was obvious that no one was coming or going for the rest of the day from this ragtag army base somewhere in the middle of a war-ravaged Iraq, least of all a New Orleans-based rock band in for a quick show and an even quicker planned getaway. We were stuck there for the night, take it or leave it.

Sleeping on an army cot was a new experience. Not as uncomfortable as one might be led to believe, although my life as a touring musician had brought me thus far from sleeping on shag carpet floors and snow-covered sidewalks to tour bus bunks and lush, opulent hotel suites with a heavenly array of mattresses and pillows. Tonight was not to be one of the more comfortable nights.

We each got a sheet and blanket for our cots and were given one room for everyone, except our bass player, who got her own room—the benefits of being female in a rock band. I was just getting past a severe bout of food poisoning—or “Iraq poisoning,” as the medic called it—that left me exhausted and feeling punched out from the inside. Nevertheless, in my job as drummer and lead singer for Cowboy Mouth, there was no time to rest or pull myself together. We came to Iraq to do a job, and I wasn’t going to be the one who stood in the way of that. Never had been, never will be. Tough it out. Suck it up. Sleep when you’re dead.

All of the shows were pretty much the same. The first couple of songs were greeted with soldiers hanging back a bit, looking at each other with that “what-the-hell-is-this” look on their faces. By the end of every show, they’d all be up front jumping, cheering, and letting it all go. That’s what this band has always done, no matter where we have been or who has been in it. Cowboy Mouth has always reminded people of the joy and passion of life through purebred Louisiana rock ’n’ roll. Not a bad way to make a living, even in a war zone.

The troops seemed to be enjoying the music in a big way, from our old classics like “Jenny Says” and “Everybody Loves Jill” to songs from our new album Fearless. The soldiers scooped up our CDs and shared the music, we heard later, with their friends and family back home.

In the states we tour in one of those fancy-shmancy tour buses like Bret Michaels uses in Rock of Love, minus the skanks. This may sound a bit luxurious—and believe me, it beats the hell out of a van—but with the amount of touring we do it is actually the most cost-effective way for us to travel. But moving from gig to gig in a Black Hawk, while cool as hell, doesn’t offer the same amenities as our tour bus. Still, having two gunners on each side of the chopper is something that we could use every now and then back home.

Flying over Iraq offered a different perspective than what we’re used to seeing, too. It seems the official color of Baghdad is dirt brown. That same color defined post-Katrina New Orleans for a long time. The vibe there is similar, that kind of shocked stillness that we all remember too well.

When we actually started to see some green farmland from above, it took my eyes a moment to adjust. I hadn’t seen any color but brown for days. The farmlands of Iraq are not that plentiful, but the sense of weariness that plagues the country is in abundant supply.

The stories we heard about Saddam’s brutality were almost casually surreal, if they hadn’t been so bizarre, so cruel. For instance, the life-sized Flintstones village that he had built for his grandkids, which was designed after the only American TV show he would let be shown in Iraq, was also the place he’d left the kids after having his daughters’ husbands murdered. We took some pictures there, in the middle of that rundown circus from hell.

We spent most of our nights in a compound of a palace that Saddam had built and diverted the country’s water supply toward to create his own personal lake. That diversion stole the livelihood of many farmers.

Now, when I say “palace,” you’d think that these would be glorious, imposing structures. And they were, from a distance. But up close, even I could see the shoddy workmanship and Graceland-like gaucheness of the aesthetic forced upon the human eye. Apparently, Hussein would demand that palaces be built to his specs and on time. If they weren’t ready when he wanted them, he would have the entire construction crew killed. Nice, eh? The irony of the Victory Over America palace is not lost when you realize that it is the only structure there that remains unfinished, having been under construction during the U.S. invasion.

The troops seemed to be glad we were there. They don’t get much live entertainment. Spirits were optimistic but reserved. There was a positive air of accomplishment mixed with an underlying sense of caution about the future.

We made a lot of new fans and friends here in the Middle East. The shows were fun, and it was an experience I’ll never forget. I have newfound respect for the United States military and all they do, and a new sense of pride in being an American citizen.

We did a lot of cool things, like riding in military transport planes, scouring through tanks, and so on. But the best thing we did was bring a sense of Louisiana to Baghdad and beyond, hopefully providing a small glimmer of appreciation to the troops for all of the hard work and sacrifice these people go through every single day. If we can do that by singing some songs, playing our hearts out, and putting on one hell of a rock ’n’ roll show, then so be it. I can sleep on a cot for that.