Introduction by Ariel Hyatt of Cyber PR
Most independent artists build their careers the same way. Tour. Record. Repeat.
Bobbo Byrnes has done all of that. Decades of relentless touring across the U.S. and Europe. House concerts. Festivals. A loyal audience built one real connection at a time. He is the definition of sustainable, independent, and deeply connected to his fans.
But something shifted when he released his memoir, Too Many Miles: On the Road with an Unofficial Rock & Roll Goodwill Ambassador.
This is not a piece of content to support an album cycle. It is an entirely new door. Book signings. Reading events. Media coverage outside of traditional music press. And most importantly, fans who are no longer just listening. They are invested in the story behind the songs.
Here's the thing: we talk constantly about diversification, fan engagement, and building connections that go deeper than streaming platforms. Bobbo's memoir is a masterclass in all three. It creates new entry points, new revenue streams, and a way to stand out that most artists never consider.
Writing a book is not the path for everyone. But for artists willing to go there, it adds a layer to both storytelling and marketing that an album simply cannot. Bobbo needs no help in storytelling practice, and I think that's clear in the chapter we share below.
Please enjoy this exclusive excerpt from Too Many Miles.
Are All These Stories True?
October 3, 2024 - Mechelen, Belgium
This last week has been full of stressful travel. Multiple trains were canceled between Vienna and Brussels; I was forced to sleep upright on overnight trains; and then I got stranded in the beautiful Liège station for a while. The miles and lack of sleep are catching up with me. Tonight is the last show of this tour and I’m looking at train and plane schedules to get home to California. I had hoped to be home by my birthday but suddenly that’s in two days. Right now, I don't even know what country I’ll be in that day.
Despite the week of delays, I arrive in Mechelen early. I sit down across from the train station at Eetcafé Friends for a cup of tea and something sweet with apples. Zennegat 13 is less than 5 miles away. I could walk it in about an hour and a half but I don’t have that much energy. My guitar is heavy and while my backpack with merch is growing lighter, it still has some weight to it.
“Waar ga je heen?” the cab driver asks.
“English, bedankt?”
“Where are you goin’?”
“Zennegat 13.”
“Where?”
“I can show you. It’s on the canal.”
I direct this cab driver down a windy road that ends up alongside the Leuven Canal. I show him where to park, then I exit and cross the small pedestrian bridge to the other side.
Jan is outside Zennegat 13 and sees me coming.
“Good to see you again!” He smiles and welcomes me with a hug.
Jan cooks the food, serves the drinks, cleans up, books the music – he does it all here.
“You know I love coming back to Mechelen,” I tell him. “Am I too early for some spaghetti?”
“For you, I will make some.”
It’s a little overcast and autumn is falling here in Belgium. It feels nice and like it might rain.
“Will you be staying in my boat tonight?” Jan asks.
“Oh, man. I already have a room back in Brussels.”
“Ah, maybe next time.”
Jan lives in a boat on the canal. I think Ben Riddle has stayed there before. Either Ben or Nico and Emily. I forget – it could’ve been all of them.
A big bowl of spaghetti Bolognese appears in front of me with a can of sparkling iced tea.
Jan used to work in the movies as a cameraman and associate producer. He lived in Costa Rica for a while. Once, he drove to Death Valley, California, in a Mustang and could feel the change in altitude in his head. Similarly, he can tell when a ship is going through the canal in front of Zennegat – he can feel their radar hitting his head. He’s tuned in to his surroundings.
I'm booking tomorrow’s train, enjoying the cool air and spaghetti, when Katrien and Ruud sit down next to me. Train schedules can wait. It’s good to see returning fans who are now friends. Talking to them, with their son and Ruud’s best friend, is the beginning of the energy I need. More folks keep showing up. I eat as much spaghetti as I can before it’s time to set up to start singing.
My “set-up” involves sliding one table to the side and creating a space for me to stand. By the time I start, the room is full, and everyone has spun around to face me. I have no PA system. No microphone. No stage. I’m just in the corner of this little bar. It is all projection and dynamics to a fully attentive room.
As I’m playing, I can see Ruud singing along in parts and Katrien is capturing some video. Inside is full, as is the outside patio, and it stays that way throughout my show. Zennegat 13 is a small room and this busker style set up – that used to be so odd to me – is now my favorite way to perform. When I sing the line about Elvis Costello in Massachusetts, I can see a couple in the back raise their hands in agreement.
The stories and songs flow like the water down the canal just outside the door.
“Are all these stories true?” the guy in front of me asks.
“Yeah, I can’t make them up. That would take forever.”
He sits back.
“You live an incredible life. You made the decision to do this, and it is the best decision. I made the wrong decision years ago, and now it is too late. Your life and your stories…” he fades off.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Luc.”
“Luc, you are now part of my story.”
At the end of my first set, we all take a breather, refresh beverages, and get some air. I stand outside in the light drizzle and catch my breath. A Belgian couple has joined me, and we are chatting about their recent trip to California when I hear people chanting, “Bob-BO Bob-BO Bob-BO!”
I open the door and look in.
“Bob-BO Bob-BO!!!”
They are chanting my name. I must be doing something right.
I hear a voice say, “Told you it would work!”
As I pick up my guitar, Jan starts talking:
“If you know of another place in Mechelen or Belgium that you think would be a good place for Bobbo to play, please come write it down. We have to get him to stay in our country longer next time.”
I strap on my guitar and play for another hour and a half.
Sing-alongs, foot stomping, and clapping. One woman even educates the whole room about Nudie Cohn after I ask if anyone knows about Nudie suits. She pipes right up and knows her sequined shit. I meet a couple who own a bar in Antwerp and want me to come play next year.
I put Luc’s name in APB, and everyone sings along while Luc sits back with an ear-to-ear grin plastered on his face.
At the end of the night, Jan hands me a bar coaster with contacts of a half-dozen other places to book. Some are local and some in Brussels and the surrounding areas.
“Tell them I sent you,” he says.
I sit down by the door to catch some cool night air. A woman starts talking to me in perfect English.
“Where are you from?” I ask.
“We are from South Africa but live here. My husband and I planned to move to Europe for about six months – that was in 1997.”
They enjoyed the music but really want to talk to an American.
“Can you explain ‘gerrymandering’ to us?” he asks.
“The simplest way I can explain it is this: take these three napkins. Imagine each one is a voting district. One group, say Republicans, don’t like how napkin number two keeps voting for a Democrat, so they change it from three voting districts to two and cut up napkin number two in half and absorb those voters into the other two districts that are mostly Republican so the Democrat cannot win and that district loses their representation.”
“So that’s how they dilute the vote?”
“Yes.”
It’s simplification, I know, but they understand.
He wants to discuss U.S. politics more and travel around the U.S., asking people how they can possibly support Trump.
“I just want to sit in an outdoor café and ask how they can believe his lies.”
“Finding an outdoor café will be your first challenge.”
The conversation is spirited and intense. The big questions remain a mystery to both of us – how can someone still support Trump and how is it possible he may win again? To see someone rise to the highest office in our country by undermining all that is good in the world feels like a betrayal to my existence. He truly is the ugliest American.
I am not an official Goodwill Ambassador for the U.S., but there are times when I am absolutely put on the spot and have to answer for my country. I don’t make any grand political statements at my shows but the fact that I am in a foreign country performing tells them a lot about who I am politically before I even open my mouth. Audiences want to know who they are supporting. They want to connect and understand. There was a time when an artist could make music and not give a shit about the rest, but those days are over.
I’ve spent my time abroad trying to be the best version of me and my country, sharing hope and love with everyone I meet.
I can’t help but smile while I’m talking to them. They are good people. They understand history. And they know that I, too, am good people and understand history.
“I hope for the world’s sake he doesn’t win again,” he says to me.
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid of it happening.”
We all hug and share some global love.
I call out to the room and ask if anyone can drive me back to the train station. Erwin and Ingrid volunteer with their Fiat 500. This car is so small that the three of us barely fit with me and my guitar. Erwin tells me he is a big fan of Elvis Costello which is why he loved the lyrics in Massachusetts and gave the air a fist pump when I was singing it. They drop me at Mechelen Central Station and I float onto my train.
The doors close on the train. I sit down in a seat and put my feet up on my guitar case. A text comes in from my mother.
“What country are you in?”
“I’m on a midnight train to Brussels.” I sing along as I type.
“Is all this touring still worth it?” she asks.
It's a heavy question. If she had asked me that this morning, I probably would have answered differently. But I just played Zennegat 13, a 275-year-old, tiny bar on a canal in Mechelen, Belgium. A place that I have to show taxi drivers how to find. A place where I got everyone singing, stomping their feet, and clapping their hands. We were all in the sound tonight.
Because the truth is, 95% of this is a slog. The music business will beat you up try to make you quit every day.
Every. Day.
Whether it’s because I got rear ended by a police car in Hamburg, my new label folded before they could release my album, my CDs are printed with someone else’s music on them, Trump supporters are sending me death threats, my name is misspelled by my distribution company for my new album release, my best friend and guitar player in my band dies, I get robbed on tour – again, my new manager can’t come to gigs because he’s under house arrest, I'm in an active shooting situation on tour, or my publishing has just been sold to the fourth company in seven years... the list goes on and on.
Then I have a show like I had tonight at Zennegat, in this small room, with no PA, just me and my guitar, and it is magic.
In that room, we communicated in the most human of ways – we shared space and sang together. I’m not very woo-woo spiritual but we had transcendent moments.
Tonight, I was singing and saw someone overcome with emotions and crying. Someone else let out a “yeah” when they really felt a lyric. Someone else was singing along word for word when I know English isn’t their first or even second language. Then Jan told me that he’s seen tons of folks come in and play his place but none who plays guitar and holds a room like I do.
That’s when I know I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing. This is my purpose. I’m supposed to travel around, sing my songs, tell my stories, learn from the people I meet, have experiences in the world, and bring those stories back to the folks at my next show.
Success in the music business can be measured in many ways; the most common are Grammy awards, millions in a bank account, or sold-out stadiums. By those standards, I am not successful. I’m writing this from the middle seat of an airplane flying economy on a 12-hour flight from Amsterdam to Los Angeles. That’s not the rock star life that we see in the movies but it is my rock star life and I am successful. I get to bring my music around the world and connect with people one-on-one, person to person, song by song. Most songwriters never get to do what I do.
I take none of this for granted. It’s all gratitude.
