A locker room // Photo via Wikimedia Commons

The following was originally written by Rob Morgan for The GROWLER Magazine.

---

I’M TOLD your sense of smell is linked more closely with your memory than any other sense, and I’ve never wished that that wasn’t true more than I do right now.

I’m sitting backstage in Yokohama, Japan, listening to the muted sounds of the opening band finish their set before we go on, and my eyes and nose are telling me two different things. Although we’re surrounded by sloppily hung curtains concealing the true identity of the room we’re currently in, I can tell by the lingering smell of dried sweat and used jockstraps, like most arenas’ makeshift band green rooms, this is normally a basketball locker room.

As I joke with my friend Jasper about the memories and crippling insecurity triggered by the smell, he laughs and tells me I’m not alone. He goes on to tell me that his lack of athleticism in junior high was finally overpowered by such a strong desire to fit in and join his friends playing sports that he actually checked out a book from his local library titled, “How To Play Football.” It might as well have been called “How To Understand Normal Body Movement” as it included an explanation of the sport on the level of a 5 year old and even included step-by-step workouts that most boys apparently learned before their parents were allowed to take them home from the maternity ward.

Apparently, just like me, the doctors must have forgotten to administer the “athletic impotence vaccine” to Jasper, and after three days of studying and a pulled muscle from sit-ups, he resolved that sports weren’t in the cards for him and replaced his football instruction manual with a subscription to Guitar Player Magazine, where the only risk of physical repercussions would be a few blisters and possibly an ingrown nail.

The fact of the matter is, I would have given anything to trade places with Jasper. As it was, my own personal defeat in the battle of proving my masculinity through organized sports as an adolescence was much more… public. I can still hear the ridicule from my teammates during my first week of practice.

“Nice pink cutoff Morgan! It’s called ‘two-a-days’ not ‘two-a-gays.’”

My parents and school advisors had thought the best way for me to assimilate back into the structure of normal society after five years of home schooling was to sign up for extracurricular activities. I’m not sure how it is now, but as a boy growing up in Nebraska in the early nineties, your masculinity and any hopes of fitting in was inadvertently tied to your participation in organized sports. So, against my better judgement, I reluctantly agreed to try out for the football team. To my horror, I found out that this meant showing up two weeks before classes started for twice-daily experimentation on the physical limits of adolescent human males with special focus on determining overall testosterone level. Or, in my case, lack thereof on all accounts. To my credit, the shirt I had (for some godforsaken reason) decided to show up wearing on the first day was more of a “salmon” than “pink,” but within 10 seconds of our first lap around the field I was too focused on not passing out to explain the subtle difference to my teammates.

What followed was a two-week-long confirmation of what I’m sure the coaches knew instantly while watching my duck-footed prance of an attempt to run around the field during “conditioning.” Looking back, the only thing sports “conditioned” within me was an Olympic level of creativity in coming up with previously unheard-of ailments in the hopes of persuading my coaches to let me sit out the next running drill.

Exaggerated dry-heaving, counterfeit blackouts, explanations that corns run in the elderly side of my family and that my pinky toe was showing early onset signs of developing one: these were just a few of the theatrics at my disposal when I couldn’t come up with anything better. What does kidney failure feel like? Can a 15-year-old get arthritis? If neither of us know, it’s probably best if I play it safe and not try to force anything.

What I soon realized about high school sports is that they are never-ending. What looked like an end to the season (and an end to my evening brainstorming sessions coming up with more excesses to avoid the panic-inducing practices) was actually just a two week gap between sports. Sure, the scoring methods were different, but to me, it was simply more of the same. What did it matter if I was getting lapped by testosterone around a football field or wheezing behind my peers up and down a basketball court?

My humiliation finally peaked in the basement of a Valentino’s Pizzeria at a year-end sports banquet. Jasper’s “Sports-ball For Dummies” book would have described the ritual of receiving a varsity letter as an end-of-season award normally reserved for a school’s athletic elite, but due to the small size of mine, “lettering” was treated more like a participation award.

As I sat there, hiding behind a slice of pizza and listening to our athletic director read off the achievements of students I had previously only been able to recognize by the back of their heads after spending a year running behind them, I wondered what sort of creativity it would take on her end to come up with something even remotely close to an achievement when it came to calling my name.

“Next up is Jake Hoffman. This year, he’s lettering in football, baseball, and track. Jake took home first place in long jump at this year’s state track meet and led our varsity basketball team to the finals.” I involuntarily joined in the applause as a teenager with the muscle structure of a Timberwolves player walked to the front of the room and our athletic director handed him a blue chenille letter ‘P’ littered with what reminded me of pins reserved for military officers.

As Jake took his seat, I watched as a furtive smile made its way onto my coach’s face as she recognized my name next on the list.

“Give it up for Rob Morgan who’s lettering in football, basketball, and track. He’s tall, he’s lanky, but at least he’s uncoordinated. Might as well come on up, Rob.”

Mortified, I made my way forward, past students and parents, amidst laughter and applause obviously much too loud to be genuine. I did my best to put on a fake “it’s funny ’cuz it’s true” smile and resolved then and there to never step foot onto a field or court for the sake of sports ever again. Like my friend Jasper, from that day on, I turned all of my extracurricular time and attention solely to music.

It’s a fascinating thing, being on the opposite side of the world for the first time, and recognizing smells that remind you of growing up in the Midwest. Apparently, no matter where you are, a locker room is a locker room and they all smell the same.

With only a couple minutes left before taking the stage, I couldn’t help but realize that over the past few months of being on tour, a smell that once reminded me of failure and my own lack of athletic ability was slowly being replaced with memories of some of the greatest moments of my life. Here I am, about to step onto center court of a sports arena, and for the first time, I’m not trying to come up with excuses on why I need to sit this one out. I’m not worried about looking like an idiot or getting made fun of by my peers. I’ve got nothing to prove. I’ve never felt more accepted in my life, and I’ve never appreciated the smell of a locker room more than I do right now.

---

For The Curious…

Rob Morgan is an internationally touring bassist and music director best known for his work with multi-platinum recording artist, Owl City. (Whom he was on tour with in this story) He can be found online at www.therobmorgan.com

Shibuya Crossing // Photo by Landry Miguel

The following was originally written by Rob Morgan for The GROWLER Magazine.

---

MY BUZZ HAS completely worn off.

Throwing back Asahi, Japan’s rice beer equivalent to Budweiser, the entire 12-hour flight over seemed like a good idea at the time, but now, standing in line at Japanese customs, I was beginning to rethink my decision to make friendly with the flight staff.

When you’re flying with a band that’s hauling enough electronic equipment and musical gear to power a small military base, making your way through international customs is enough to sober up even the most comatose of frequent flyers. Not to mention that handing over your passport to a customs agent somehow puts a person in a constant state of feeling like you’re only moments away from being asked to step out of your vehicle to perform a roadside sobriety test.

Just as I’m about to voluntarily extend my arms out to offer up a finger to nose test proving my clear-headedness, my passport is stamped and passed back through what reminds me of the bulletproof glass window at the SuperAmerica three blocks from my home in South Minneapolis. With a wave of a hand and a “Yokoso,” the international state trooper has declared his verdict. The entirety of Japan has pronounced me worthy of entrance.

Soon after leaving Narita International Airport, I check into Shibuya Excel Hotel, a “hoteru” whose charm lies almost entirely in the fact that it’s located in the heart of the city overlooking what someone told me was Tokyo’s version of Times Square, Shibuya Crossing. Having just left New York City’s ‘Great White Way’ performing on one of their many garden variety morning shows broadcasting out of Rockefeller Center, just off Times Square, I was skeptical Shibuya Crossing would be my speed.

But when I surveyed the sweeping expanse of the city from my window on the 20th floor, I was completely surprised by mesmerizing views of rooftop soccer fields and throngs of people filling the enormous intersection. Looking directly below me, I felt like I was looking into the largest aquarium I’d ever seen filled with pedestrians eerily resembling schools of fish swimming their choreographed dance, waiting their turn to join 2,500 of their peers in crossing the intersection in one fluid movement. There was order among the masses. It had a heartbeat, a pulse, a rhythm, an unspoken code amid the chaos that everyone seemed to understand and adhere to. This was not Times Square and the only thing pulling me away from this newfound discovery outside this window was my empty stomach.

A friend of mine recommended a restaurant near the hotel called Matsuya, describing it as Japan’s equivalent of a Denny’s. I’m not one to frequent chain restaurants while visiting a new city, preferring to seek out the lesser known local haunts, but all decisiveness was long gone by this point. I needed the closest resemblance to something edible, and although disappointed by the fact that this was going to be my first meal in Tokyo, I knew the first course to choke down would need to be my pride.

Matsuya Gyūdon restaurant // Photo by Teifgarage

In a daze, I joined the throng on the street and made my way towards the well lit diner — its yellow sign a beacon of welcome for all those equally worn and hungry. I took a seat on one of the stationary stools, squeezed my legs between myself and the bar style counter and patiently waited for a menu. As the seconds turned to minutes, I gazed around the bar to see sideways glances cast in my direction as if I had stumbled into a small town dive bar somewhere in the Midwest wearing a tuxedo. A few minutes later, and the majority of the kitchen staff had stopped what they were doing and were shamelessly staring at me as though I had walked in completely naked and started rubbing my bare ass on their once squeaky clean retro vinyl stool.

One of the staff , who couldn’t be older than 16, approached me hesitantly. After mumbling something in Japanese, he quickly realized that any amount of verbal communication was not likely going to happen and pointed at the exit. I didn’t need an undergrad in international communications to recognize this as sign language for “don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

Confused, starving, and completely deflated, I stood up to leave when I realized that he was actually pointing to a kiosk I had passed on the way in. He followed me over to the eight foot tall ordering apparatus and pointed out the now obvious procedure. Simply insert your yen and press the button corresponding to your meal of choice. My suspicion of everyone watching me place my order was confirmed when it printed out my meal ticket and the entire restaurant, filled with nearly 15 customers and staff began clapping. My embarrassment was eclipsed only by my relief that I had finally figured it out and I high-fived my teenaged tutor without thinking. Within seconds of returning to my seat I was delivered my order, a frosted glass of Asahi accompanying a steaming bowl of ramen.

As I sat alone and enjoyed my meal, I looked around the restaurant. Sure, there were a few similarities, but this was nothing like a diner back home that I had envisioned it to be.

I took a sip of my beer. Crisp, malty and sweet, it tasted nothing like a Budweiser.

And Shibuya Crossing, in all it’s brilliance and excitement, was nothing like Times Square.

---

For The Curious…

Rob Morgan is an internationally touring bassist and music director best known for his work with multi-platinum recording artist, Owl City. (Whom he was on tour with in this story) He can be found online at www.therobmorgan.com

View fullsize

📍 Catching the train from Cologne to Munich

The following was originally written by Rob Morgan for The GROWLER Magazine.

---

WHAT BEERS do you have on tap?”

I’ve always been a firm believer in the overused cliche “There’s no such thing as a stupid question,” but at that moment, sitting at a bar in Munich with the question I’d just asked echoing in my head, I was considering amending it slightly to: “There’s no such thing as a stupid question, just a stupid American traveler not having the mind to be aware of his environment and the local customs enough to formulate a more appropriate question.”

I could tell by the look the bartender was giving me that the question I had just habitually regurgitated due to years spent ordering beers in the United States was not one he was accustomed to hearing.

In reality, I should probably cut myself some slack. Anyone who regularly meanders into a bar in the U.S. in search of a malty libation knows the drill. “What’ll you have?” the bartender asks, followed by, “Would you like to see a tap encyclopedia? We proudly pour beer from all over the country. Unfortunately, half of our taps are down at the moment so we’re currently limited to 60 beers from 54 different breweries. Our cellar takes up an entire city block.” When it comes to beer here, the more options the better.

I’d only been in Munich a few hours and had spent my time lazily meandering around the city in order to adhere to my third-most important rule for battling jet lag: “STAY AWAKE!” After tracking down my go-to European greasy-spoon meal — doner kebab, aka Turkey’s gift to the world: roasted lamb perfection that’s probably been mounted onto its open-air rotisserie for longer than I’ll allow myself to guess, and shaved to order — I was ready for a beer.

I ducked into Paulaner im Tal, a quiet bar just off the Marienplatz central square, in the hopes of avoiding the congealing mobs of tourists in town for Oktoberfest. I sat down at the polished brass bar in front of a basket of oversized pretzels and had begun contemplating the sacred decision of what my first beer in Deutschland would be as the bartender approached to take my order. And that’s when it happened.

“What beers do you have on tap?”

After giving me a look that I can only assume was a manifestation of trying to figure out if I was being serious or not, the bartender lazily pointed to one of the multiple Paulaner signs adorning the walls and stated, “Ve have Paulaner,” before turning his back to deliver a plate of weisswurst to a customer at the other end of the bar.

“First time in Germany?”

I turned to see an expat sitting a few stools down from me, smiling. A “Retired United States Air Force” cap covered his white hair and he gave me a knowing expression. Sensing my embarrassment of my accidental display of amateur tourism, he began to explain the patron relationship common between German bars and breweries.

Most German bars are loyal to a single brewery, located nearby, and serve only their beer. Often, the bars go so far as to incorporate the brewery’s name into their own. The tap options offered typically reflect whatever the brewery deems to be the region’s most popular styles. My new friend informed me that, because of this, ordering would be simple at just about any bar I visited during my journey through Bavaria. My options would typically consist of: hefeweizen (or weissbier), helles, Pils, dunkelweizen, doppelbock, and the ever elusive, rarely found in America kellerbier (or “cellar beer,” due to it’s being cask conditioned in cool, dark cellars).

“You’ll be hard-pressed to find Kölsh outside of Cologne or an altbier while not in Düsseldorf,” he said. “Beer drinking in Germany is surprisingly regional and even sometimes political.”

Disappointed, I ordered a kellerbier, thinking about how my entire time in Germany would consist of such limited options. All gloom disappeared, however, as soon as I took my first sip. I’d never tasted anything like it. Light and refreshing, yet a combustion of flavor, it was as if the beer were a sensory cheat code, unlocking taste buds in the center of my palate I’d never used before. My second beer, a Paulaner dunkelweizen, proved even more intriguing. I’d written off it’s lighter cousin, the hefeweizen, years ago, but the way the roasted malts balanced in perfect harmony with the banana and clove notes from the yeast made me realize I’d found a new favorite beer. If these were my options, I’d be happy to never return home.

After finishing my drinks, I made my way to the nearest U-bahn entrance, Munich’s subway system, and headed to the Oktoberfest festival where I was to meet up with local friends who had saved me a seat at one of their coveted table reservations.

As I walked through the heavily guarded entrance, I felt as though I had stepped back in time to 1810. Surrounded by horse-drawn carts carrying wooden kegs, I quickly realized that, of the seven million people that would be walking through those gates over the next month, I was in the vast minority of men not wearing lederhosen.

I made my way through the double-wide streets lined with German-themed carnival attractions separated intermittently by 14 massive brewery “tents” looking for the one containing my friends. As I entered the football field-sized building labeled Hacker-Pschorr, I instantly understood why I had been sent a map of the inside of this temporary superstructure in order to find our table.

Saving myself from ascertainable embarrassment a second time, I discreetly asked my friend as soon as I arrived what beers they served in the tent. Instead of answering me, he made eye contact with a server in a blue dirndl and gestured with his index finger, shouting, “Ein mass, bitte!” (Literally “a measure” in English, but basically meaning, “One more, please!”) With that, she disappeared into the sea of guests standing atop their tables singing John Denver tunes at the top of their lungs.

Of course! It suddenly became obvious that, just like the bars in Germany, each tent at Oktoberfest represented a different brewery, and that the only option being served during the festival was that brewery’s märzen-style Oktoberfest.

Within moments, the waitress emerged from the mass of people carrying eight liters of copper-red lager. She set them down on a nearby bench and handed one to me. As I took a massive quaff that seemed to not even make a dent in my third-of-a-gallon glass stein, I looked around to see 8,000 other guests all holding the same amber hue.

It seemed my already limited options had now been distilled down even further, and, to my surprise, I couldn’t have been more content. What I’d been given in return was a liquid passport — my ticket to being accepted into not just a festival, but a culture I might have missed out on by worrying about holding tightly to my own personal preferences.

The realization made me consider how often the last few sips of a beer back home were spent thinking about what I wanted to order next instead of enjoying the moment I was in, with the beer I was drinking. Happy to not have that problem now, I enjoyed my märzen to the very last drop. I already knew what I’d be ordering next.

“Ein mass, bitte!”

---

For The Curious…

Rob Morgan is an internationally touring bassist and music director. He can be found online at www.therobmorgan.com