Julie Duffy

Julie Duffy knows how to rock. (Really, she’s a tour manager for rock bands!) Her job is to manage operations, when she fell into a coma, her friends and the bands stepped in to manage her.

Our conversation starts here:

Julie: I do a lot of “pre-Julie’s” and “post-Julie’s.” Pre-Julie this and pre-what-happened-to-me. I was already deep in the ocean. I was already up on Mars. Post-Julie is a little more trepidatious. Post-Julie is a little bit more non-skydiver. More “Let’s go up in the plane, but I’m not going to jump this time.” More “I’ll go in the ocean, but I’m not going to surf.” I just have to be a little more careful. I think all of this—all of what happened to me—taught me to be less  “Fuck it let’s go, let’s do this.”

Editor’s Note: We spoke to Julie again before print and she says she’s feeling better and will actually “jump out of that fucking plane again.”

Living Crue: You were a tour manager?

I am a tour manager.

Sorry, you’re right! And you’ve toured with?

John Mellancamp, Christina Aguilera, Van Halen, Roger Waters, Aerosmith, El Divo, Maroon 5, Kelly Clarkson, Brad Paisley, Counting Crows, Stone Temple Pilots, Linkin Park, Peppa Pig. Who am I missing? I am also a tour accountant and assistant tour manager. But it all started when I was 18 at WBCN [radio]. At BCN, my mentors, Oedipus, Carter and Steven, treated me as if I were an equal. I was never just an intern and because of that internship I got an interview with Collins Management, who handle Aerosmith. I got that Assistant position in 1993 working with Tim, Keith, and incredible support staff. Aerosmith was the biggest game in town. Biggest game in the world at that point. It was good for me to see how a big machine like Aerosmith rolled. It was good to be working for men of power.

I was also in the Boston music scene then. In the hardcore scene, which was a big family community. I just knew from a young age that I was going to be in the music business, there was no Plan B. While I was working for Collins/Aerosmith I got to know Marcia Hrichison who ran the entertainment division of Westwood One. She was my first real influential woman in power that I looked up too. She offered me a position interviewing artists for syndicated radio shows, and it was time for a change so I said, “Hell ya,” even though I had never interviewed anyone in my life! I moved out to Hollywood and while I was working at WW1, I realized I really wasn’t very good at interviewing, I didn’t like asking the questions that really needed to be asked that made the artist uncomfortable, and there were many people there that were so much better. But Marcia took me under her wing and I actually got promoted to director of talent where I was responsible for booking the interviews, something I was much better at. I stayed there for 8 years and just lived the LA life. I was a punk rock girl, never the beautiful blonde. I had blue hair and wasn’t a size 0. Then it was time for a change, I moved to Manhattan and started working at Columbia Records with Paul Rappaport as the director of broadcasting. When Napster hit, all the labels were like, “Yeah, don’t even worry about it; it’s not a problem.” And it was a problem. And I got laid off.

But before that happened, I had done a session with John Mellencamp, and part of my job was to record acoustic versions of songs for the morning commute shows ... We were recording an acoustic version of “Jack and Diane” with John and the whole crew was there. Somehow the tour manager, Harry Sandler, another mentor of mine, called me. “We think you’ll be great on the road. Wanna go?” I’m broke. I can’t afford my apartment. So I went on the road. I thought I’d be back in 2 weeks. It’s been 20 years and I never looked back.

What does it feel like to be out there on the road? What’s the draw?

I love the road. You work your ass off all day, and then the next morning is the next round. You load in and 15 hours later there’s another show. There’s this high to the process and it’s just amazing energy. You’re on the bus, and you’re drinking your Solo cup of wine, eating Oreos. Maybe you’d have a PB&J or pizza that’s been sitting around for 3 hours—so glamorous! But you think, “We fucking did that!”

I don’t touch the stage. I know where I belong. It’s important to know your place. Touring is the high, it’s the energy. I’m still like a little kid. I get my tour schedule and I’m so excited. The Crows are doing Tel Aviv and Europe this fall. Next year is Australia, South Africa, more Europe, and the U.S. And I’m so excited, even though I’ve already done it 10 times. Every single time the vibe is different.

At one point after being out on Aersomith, I realized that I wanted to learn the money side of touring … I trained as a Live Nation tour accountant and there were all these tours heading out in 2006 and I was allowed to pick which one I wanted. I glanced at all of them and I saw Counting Crows with Goo Goo Dolls. When I lived in Hollywood, one of my roommates was Mike, the drummer in Goo Goos so I said, “Heck ya, I’ll take that!” Once that tour was over, Crows tour manager Tom Mullally asked me to join their team as their tour accountant /assistant tour manager … ummm YES!  And I’ve been with this incredible band/crew ever since. The minute I was in the hospital, the band, Tom and the crew rallied. I am beyond grateful for all of them.

This is not a job to do when you hate it. It’s a lifestyle. You are living on a bus. With 9 guys. It’s gotten better and better with more women out there touring. When I first started, it seemed like most women did catering, wardrobe, and production assistance and there’s nothing wrong with that, super important jobs but I always wondered, why aren’t there [women in] audio? Why aren’t there [women in] video? Now there are more women tour managers,  tour accountants, audio, lighting, video … and I think it’s awesome.

Do you feel like you opened the door for that?

I absolutely didn’t….there were incredible women out there way before me. When I started there were [women like] Liz Mahon. Liz Mahon was on John Mellencamp and is now with Billy Joel. When I first came to Mellencamp, I didn’t know shit. I was put out as an assistant tour manager. I felt that people automatically resented me. I didn’t know what the inside of a bus looked like; I didn’t know where to put my luggage. I didn’t pay my “road” dues. But eventually people realized I’m not a bitch. They helped me out and I think Liz opened the door for me to see that this is a great way to make a living and I also had an incredible tour manager, Bob Quandt, who was very patient with me. Women, we’re a different breed out there, you know? I love it when women come out [on the road]. I try to hire women, because if they really want to be on the road, they’re special. They’re kick ass.

COVID hits. We all go back inside. And then one day you have a sore throat.

It was March 13th. I was flying out to Peppa [Pig] and my boyfriend, Scott, was flying out to Miranda [Lambert]. Our schedules weren’t going to mix again for another 7, 8 months. Then COVID hit. We immediately went into lockdown and I stayed in Tennessee. I went back to my home in Massachusetts in July and started volunteering at our local food bank, Wheat Community Cafe in Clinton. I needed to do something. We made 200 lunches a day and dinner for 60 every night. Normally, you would just volunteer for one day, but I love to cook, and my friend Shelley McClellan manages the food department. I was doing that from August to December. December 18th, it was a Tuesday, I had a wicked headache. I had to stop volunteering that day—I didn’t realize that feeling ill meant shutting down and 200 people didn’t get lunch because we didn’t know if I had COVID. I felt horrible. I immediately went and got a COVID test that day. But then I got a sore throat. But I’m prone to sore throats. I’m prone to pneumonia. I’m prone to lung stuff, throat stuff. I had thyroid cancer. So I didn’t think anything of it. So I got a COVID test and a strep test. The strep came back negative.

The next morning I lost my voice, but again, that’s not unusual for me. I hadn’t gotten my COVID test back yet, so I just kind of laid low. That Thursday, a friend brought me to Clinton hospital. The doctors gave me steroid shots and sent me back home. Next morning, I have an appointment with my primary [doctor], the incredible Dr. Valerie Moreland. She took one look at me—gray and hunched over—and she said, “This (pointing at my entire body) is not good, you’re going to the emergency room.” And I debated with her about what emergency room because at this point, I’m still not overly concerned. Suzanne Frisch, my lifelong best friend and ironically my health care proxy, drove me to the Clinton Hospital and it’s all a blur. I don’t remember much. Clinton sent me to Worcester hospital immediately in an ambulance. Suzanne wasn’t allowed to see me even though she is my Health Care Proxy; no one knows what’s going on. I have no memory of that ambulance ride or being placed in my room at SICU/Umass Memorial Hospital.

I do remember a doctor came in and said, “You have a hole in your esophagus. Are you in an abusive relationship? No one just gets a hole in their esophagus. So, are you in an abusive relationship? Do you do a lot of drugs?” And I said “No, and I don’t do drugs.” I found out later that he called Suzanne and asked her if I was lying.  I’m sure there was more, but I don’t remember. I went back and traced my steps on my texts from the morning of December 19th. The last text I sent was at 9:18 a.m. to Scott and Suzanne, and I said “I’m scared. I’m going in for surgery.” Then I remember [being wheeled onto] the elevator. I looked up and I asked the doctors and nurses, “Am I going to die?”

And, um, 10 minutes later, I died.

Months later, I was speaking with the anesthesiologist whose job it was to prep me for surgery, and he told me that he looked up to God and asked, “Am I bringing this person back to life?” He told me, “I felt it in my heart to save you. We fought and we brought you back and we stabilized you. And then we put you in surgery.” And during surgery is when they discovered this descending necrotizing mediastinitis. I don’t know a lot about it, to be quite honest. I know it’s extremely rare. I’m sure there’s more to it, I just don’t know. All I know is what the nurses told me: That they did everything they could during surgery to save me. They put me in a coma and said goodbye to me. And they told me it was up to me after that.

Then, the medication they gave to save my life caused sepsis shock. That infected my fingers and my toes. When I came out of the coma, [my fingers and toes] were black. Everything was hard as a rock.

They gave me drugs to erase my memory. I didn’t know it was a thing. That’s superman shit. It was so traumatic and so horrible they gave me drugs so I wouldn’t remember anything. I was in a coma for almost a month.

Suzanne found a loophole—because she’s a fucking badass lawyer—to let me have a visitor. Nobody else is allowed to have visitors in the SICU. So they chose Scott. He would work all day and then come in every day for hours. He played all my favorite music. He had everybody call me and he would hold the phone up to my ear. He read books to me. It’s winter and the boy is in shorts and flip-flops.

I came out of the coma weighing over 200 pounds, because of organ failure. I remember having dreams—and now I think they weren’t dreams—that I couldn’t lift my arms and legs. And I had dreams of people holding me down. I woke up, I had Suzanne to my left, Scott to my right, and I remember seeing such joy and relief in their expressions. Suzanne asked me if I knew what the date was, and I said “March 2020.” I don’t know why I said March 2020. It was 2021. And I was just like, “What the fuck?” but I couldn’t talk. Trach in my throat, tubes everywhere. It was all fluid from my kidneys failing. And I remember thinking. “What the fuck, God?

I was told there was this one doctor who sat down with Scott and Suzanne and said, “She’s going to be in a nursing home. She’s never going to eat. She might not ever speak.” They told him that I was a fighter. He also came in and told me I’d be on dialysis for the rest of my life. And I just remember looking at him and being like, “Fuck you. You don’t know me. You’ve no idea who I am.” And I think being a roadie—and I know a lot of roadies hate that term, “roadie.” I like the term … I just dug deep. And I was like. “All right, let’s go, let’s go.”

Scott would come to my room every single day. I couldn’t communicate. You know, no one can read lips. And I had a catheter and I had a sponge bath every day for 5 1/2 months. Talk about letting your humility, your ego, go. I mean you gotta let it go. But I think it’s being a roadie. You dig deep. There was no, “woe is me.” There was never the moment of “Why did this happen to me?” But what was really important to me was to know I didn’t cause it. Still to this day, I question it. They assured me 100% I didn’t do this. The infectious disease team felt that it was in my body for a long time and it was just growing. No one was healthier than I was. Like, I was a smoothie, wheat grass, boring girl. No carbs. A little bit of wine [laughing].

This group of girls that I surround myself with in Clinton, I mean, I’ve known Suzanne since I was 2. This is an amazing group of girls who, to this day, still support each other. And listen, when I left to go to college, I could’ve never looked back. But there’s something about these women, this town. I always came back, and I always kept in touch. I work really hard to cultivate these friendships, and I have them all over the world. Because even when I’m on the road, part of my excitement is that I get to see so-and-so in New Zealand or I get to see GB in Australia, etc. I don’t know a lot of people like us that have the core of like 10 girls. And my touring girls. And my LA girls. Tennessee girls.

And I knew I wasn’t going to have a normal relationship. I mean it takes a really strong man to be like, “Oh, ok, you’re going to be gone for 9 months, and you’re going to be on a bus with 10 guys? Ok, have fun.” But Scott gets it, because he does it, and you either trust or you don’t. Period. But these women! You have to have your girls.

I’m going to single out Suzanne. She is your health care proxy?

Here’s a woman who has 4 kids, she’s a lawyer, an amazing wife, she’s a volunteer, an incredible person. When I made her my healthcare proxy, we took it seriously but we also joked about it—we thought we’d be 80 in rocking chairs. I didn’t want a family member to be [health care proxy] because I truly thought it wouldn’t be needed until we were so much older and Suzanne would be there as my friend. I understood it was a huge issue with my family in the beginning because they didn’t know Suzanne was in that position, They didn’t understand why she was. Everybody in my family knows her, but I can only imagine how hard it was for my parents to not be in total control and I get that … again, this was a decision made by me when I was a very healthy 49 year old. But Suzanne did, continues to do, an incredible job. Soon my family realized the situation was in control. She was in touch with the hospital every day. Every night she would send out an email and assign the core girls each to send out emails so nobody was left wondering what was going on ... so, yeah, she’s a fucking rock star. Not only did she take care of all my medical stuff, she and my friend Square hacked all my accounts, took over all my finances, and paid all my bills. Because who’s going to pay my mortgage? Who’s going to pay my HOA? The girls also formed “Duff Inc.” which was Suzanne, Square, Jacqueline and Patt. All lifelong Clinton friends. They spent endless hours speaking to friends from Boston, touring, LA, everywhere, keeping people updated. They’d get together every 2 weeks. I think, a lot of alcohol was consumed and they would just support Suz and be her sounding board, and I’ll be forever grateful for that. They also set up an [online fundraiser] for me to cover my medical bills.

My family’s issues I know from the beginning came from me being an extremely private person. And also, in my business, you don’t want people to know you’re sick. When I had cancer, I never told anybody in my business, except obviously I was on tour with Stone Temple Pilots when I got diagnosed, so clearly they knew. But I didn’t put anything on [social media]. I didn’t put it out there because you don’t want people to think you’re sick. Our business is small. So I completely understand why my family at first didn’t want the fundraiser, but thank God my friends did it!

As I became clearer, I started to really worry. I was worrying about work. I have to work. I’m a worker. I’ve been working since I was a kid. And I’ve got Scott brushing my hair and being like, “Babe, just live. Now, stop worrying.” ... I’ve never asked anyone for help. I’m very proud. So, I was honored and thankful. Without help with my medical bills, I could probably have lost my home.

You were all of a sudden on the receiving end.

It was incredible. I’m still thanking people. I am still sending notes. I mean, there were over 1,000 people who donated! My friend Bill Bracken did a live Facebook concert! Then my friends Sean Mcnally and Michael Creamer organized a benefit concert at the Paradise in Boston. Oh my God, that was probably one of the most incredible nights in my life. Incredible to have all these artists fly from all over the U.S. and Europe and get together. It was overwhelming. I’m still blown away and I just feel sometimes, like, I don’t know … that I don’t deserve it. I don’t know where that comes from. I really didn’t do anything. It’s not like I’ve cured cancer.

But you obviously did something for these people.

I was just a part of the Boston music scene. Being part of it is making dinner for someone because they didn’t have money or having the band guys over because they got paid in beer. I mean, it’s just what we do for each other.

Not everyone thinks that.

But they should.

How many operations did you have?

Over 20 operations, most of them I don’t remember. I remember the amputations and I remember the follow-up amputations when I got home from the hospital. But I don’t remember half of it. All I know is that I’ve got permanent scars all over and I can’t feel parts of my body anymore.

I couldn’t talk, eat, drink, anything for 4 1/2 months. I remember looking at people who had water and I’d be so jealous. Let me tell you something: don’t ever take water for granted ever in your life. I had to learn how to walk. I had to learn how to go to the bathroom. I had to learn how to dress myself. I had to learn how to write. I had no muscle memory. I worked out obsessively before I got sick. I started as if I was a baby. I couldn’t sit up. I couldn’t roll over. I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything. I remember thinking “Jesus Christ if I had known this was going to happen, I would’ve eaten all the pizza.” Just to sit up took a month. ... This one nurse, Barbara, was hard on me but in a good way, and I’ll never forget her. When I was being transferred to Spaulding after 3 months in SICU she leaned in—I thought she was going to give me a big hug—but she said, “Get the fuck up or you’re going die.” And she was right.

Because of COVID, we weren’t allowed to be out of our rooms. We were locked down. I never left my room unless I was having surgery or Barbara snuck me out for a little escape! I was surrounded by COVID cases. The nurses would come in crying because they just lost a patient. Nurses are incredible. CNA’s? Hello! The most unsung heroes of the world. They would come hang out ... So, every day I’d think to myself get up or you’re gonna die. I threw up every single day for probably 9 months, 3 or 4 times a day. They couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Walking was hard because I was so weak. I went from 200 pounds to 124. I didn’t even weighed 124 pounds in junior high. I was fragile and I was weak and I was bony. I wouldn’t look in the mirror. It was horrible.

I couldn’t look at my body ... I would see the clumps [of hair falling out] and I was like, “Great, God, now I’m going to lose my hair, too.” But it doesn’t matter ... I was just kinda like, “God, what’s next? I’ve lost my fingers, my toes, and my body, and now my hair. What’s next?”

Once I went to Spaulding, I could have more guests, but just one a day. My mom and dad came to visit once a week. At SICU, they were allowed in a couple times. No one wants to see their daughter like that, you know? I know they would have moved into my room if they could. And my family was incredible, talk about rallying! My Aunt Chris would come in and brush my hair and give me the most amazing massages. My Aunt Jeannie flew in from Dallas and just made me feel like everything is going to be ok. My cousin Kelly made me laugh. The list is endless. All of these moments meant everything to me.

Usually people came in 3:00 p.m. to 8:00 p.m. and I was lucky if I could last 45 minutes or an hour. And I always felt like I had to be “on.” I still couldn’t speak and I was still throwing up. Oh God, I threw up in front of so many guests. My friend was visiting and [my doctor], the amazing Dr. Nace, came in and he just started taking 60 stitches [out of] my hand while she was there.

The nurses at SICU kept telling me that I had to advocate for myself. How do you advocate when you don’t know what to advocate for? But I learned quickly and just like touring, you build the best team possible. And that’s what I did at Spaulding, starting with having Dr. Nace as my main doctor in charge. He was a pitbull and fought for me, daily.

Then one day this other doctor came in, Dr. Divo—his wedding ring was a skull—and I’m like, “Oh, we’re going to get along great.” We were waiting for Worcester to give approval to take the trach out. He said, “You know what? we’re taking the trach out on Monday. I’m tired of waiting because you deserve to speak.” So we didn’t know if I was going to have a voice. Can I sing like Adele? Hello? Can I be a rock star now? Please, God, let me be able to sing like Adele and please don’t give me a high squeaky voice. So, everybody rolled in and they did it right there. They took the trach out and I said, “Hi” and it was my voice! And it was clear! And the doctor was like “Say it again! Say it again!” and I was like “Hiiiiiiiii.” I never needed speech therapy.

What brought me great joy for the next week was [making everyone in] the room promise not to tell anyone that I could speak, so every time the nurse or CNA would come in, I would yell. And they would drop stuff and it would make me laugh! I spoke so much the first day, I lost my voice. I was calling people on the phone. For the longest time I wanted nothing to do with communication, and I know that upset Scott. He would show me videos and he would read [notes and emails], but I didn’t want anything to do with responding ... I was too exhausted. I was still trying to understand everything that was going on, and I couldn’t handle that. I couldn’t handle the fact that I ruined people’s Christmas. That I ruined people’s New Year. I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand. It overwhelms me ... It still does. I remember really not fully understanding until my girlfriend Jacqueline came to visit me. And I was like oh my God I’m so rude …  I haven’t asked anyone how their Christmas was ... I missed New Year’s Eve. I missed all these events, and I never asked anyone how their holidays were. I aked Jacqueline“How was your Christmas?” and she looked at me and said, “How the fuck do you think it was? It was fucking horrible, Julie, we thought you were going to die.” I was like, “Oh God, that’s terrible. Oh my God!”

Scott and my mom lived together for 7 months—in this house—and survived. My mom’s amazing, but honest to God, like, your girlfriend’s dying. Your daughter’s dying. Initially, you’re not allowed to go in and see her. So I know it was an incredibly stressful time, but they coexisted and made it work!

Helpless. Helpless. Helpless. I’ll tell you what. This has taught me how to ask for help. I never asked for help before. It was hard. And when I came home they put in those chair lifts … Scott redid the entire guest bathroom. They sent me home with a walker—which I never fucking used. Fuck you! And for my parents to see that it was so hard to walk … I was so weak. And my mom moved in to be there every day … helping me get clean, get dressed, feeding me. Dealing with me. She was incredible and I couldn’t have done it without her.

You went back to everything?

You know, listen, when you come home, and obviously I look different, you know? I had all my full amputations  ...I just didn’t want to go out. Plus, it was COVID. But then I thought, “Wait a minute this isn’t you. Since when did you give a shit what anyone thinks of you? What if people stare at me? Fine!” And we went out to dinner and people were staring at me but not in a bad way—it’s just a bit jarring to see someone with no full fingers. I remember  Suzanne’s little one, Ciaran asked, “Does it hurt?” The first question out of all children’s mouths: “Are you in pain? Does it hurt?” Nope. It doesn’t hurt.

You just have to have a sense of humor about it. I forget that people haven’t seen me yet, And  they’re like, “We’re so happy you’re alive!” This whole town has been incredible. People I don’t know—I mean, that [fundraiser]. This is an amazing town.

That’s why I came home; that’s why I moved back here. Why wouldn’t I wanna be here? Yeah, you know, I did Hollywood. I did Manhattan. Yeah, I’d love to have a studio apartment in Manhattan, absafuckinglutely—I’m a city girl. But, why would you not wanna be surrounded [by this]? My dad lives down the street. My brother, my niece, all my girls, all my guys.

You saw all of the nurses again. What was that like?

There’s so many more [that helped me], but 4 just stood out to me in very different ways. One was the nurturer, one was the badass, [one] was just real, and [one] was the tough one who scared me. They would brush my hair. They would calm me. They would laugh at me. I knew all about their families and relationships. We went to Clintons Bar and Grille and I had never seen what they really look like. So I only knew their eyes, because of COVID. It was important for me to thank them. And I always said, “I just want to have a glass of wine with you.” Well, 1 turned into 4, but whatever. Lots of tears. Lots of laughter. I thanked each one of them for certain things I remembered.

But what else happened was they told me things I didn’t know.  … some memories just came flooding back. The next day, I kind of went down didn’t move for a couple days. A lot of it was overwhelming. I didn’t expect the spiral but that’s part of the process. I have a whole list left [of people to thank]. I decided that I want to go back in and volunteer once COVID is over because I wish there was a “me” there, you know? No one can relate. No one is ever really going to understand how I feel and what I’ve gone through, what I’m going through. And that’s OK. I hope no one does. I hope no one ever goes through what I’ve gone through. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.

I can’t button buttons. I got stuck in a shirt. I had to text the girls to come get me out of this shirt, and I was laughing hysterically! I can’t feel skin [on parts of my breasts] so sometimes my boob will fall out, so everybody’s on boob alert if we’re out for dinner. I remembered I just wanted to drive! My family and friends were incredible, giving me rides to all my appointments, but that’s such an important part of being independent. When I was 15, I would wake up wicked early in the morning, steal my mom’s car and drive around the neighborhood going 5 miles an hour. Duh, stupid ... But, I got in the car and I started driving 5 miles an hour and I was fine! I was like, “Fuck you, doctor who said I’d be in a nursing home, never be able to eat, and never be able to speak. Fuck you!”

I don’t really believe in a God-fearing God, but I always did believe in a higher power. But after this ... I now believe there is, wholeheartedly. I do have a friend who speaks to the dead, and of course, I talked with her, and she’s said I have a team down here and a team of angels up there. One was in charge of making sure Suzanne was OK, and one was in charge of making sure my parents were OK.

I do find, you know, when people say, “Oh, God had this happen for a reason.” Don’t ever say that to someone who is really ill. Don’t ever say that God had a reason or—here’s another one of my faves—“You were meant to come back to do greater things with your life.” The other question I get a lot is: “Since this happened, how are you changing your life? What did it make you change?” Nothing! Nothing! I was living my life! I was doing what I wanted to do. I am more than happy to go back to touring and living my life exactly how I left it.

What are you most excited about?

I just want to get on the bus. Last Fall, I went to go visit the Crows when they performed in Boston and 2 hours before the show, it got called because of COVID. So I never got to see my guys, who I consider brothers. I went backstage.  Square gave me a ride home and I cried from the minute I got in the car for an hour. I wanted to go on the bus. I wanted to leave with them. It’s where I belong. It’s where I’m meant to be. The stronger I got, I said, “I’m touring. I’m going back. I can still count money. Everything’s just going to take longer.”

Oh! Also, I’m writing a book! Pre-Julie always knew I had a book in me, but I thought it was probably going to be fiction, and I wasn’t going to do it till I retired. And then I remember coming out of my coma and I’m like, “I’ve got the book now.” It’s not going to be a “Go team!” It’s going to be sarcastic and cutting and honest and it’s going to be called “Get the Fuck Up or You’re Going to Die.”

It’s been 10 months since we spoke to Julie. Today, she is on tour with Counting Crows in Tel Aviv and Europe. She’ll take a short break at the end of 2022 to work on her book, and then she and Scott will get back on the road to continue the tour in Australia, South Africa, Europe, and then home to the U.S. at the end of 2023. Well fucking done, Julie Duffy!