#21 Vending Machine

Stream or buy this album here: https://davidl.lnk.to/FSB

In the spring of 2005, the recently reunited Camper Van Beethoven went on tour with Modest Mouse. This was more or less in support of our album “New Roman Times.” We were invited because Isaac Brock, the driving force behind Modest Mouse, was a big fan and supporter of Camper Van Beethoven. Even though we were from different generations, he saw our band as part of the same musical lineage and figured his fans would probably appreciate us, too. At the time, Modest Mouse’s fourth album, “Good News for People Who Love Bad News”—propelled by the single “Float On”—was breaking into the mainstream. While their early fanbase had a lot in common with ours, they were now playing to a much wider audience, and sometimes it wasn’t the best fit for Camper Van Beethoven. Still, we enjoyed the tour and spent a lot of time hanging out with the members of Modest Mouse and their crew. There was plenty of downtime, which sometimes meant some pretty serious drinking and drugs. At the end-of-tour after-party—somehow held in the offices of Spin Magazine in New York—I woke up in the early hours of the morning, sleeping under the publisher’s desk. I’d just been looking for a cool, dark place to sleep off whatever I’d gotten into that night. I woke up when one of the photographers tried to discreetly snap a photo and ended up kicking over a couple of beer bottles on the floor. I was 44 at the time, and it hit me that I had kids who might one day see that photo. I was embarrassed.

On the drive back to Richmond, I decided I needed to clean up and get sober. At the time, I was one of the owners of Sound of Music Studios in Richmond, Virginia. The studio was housed in a four-story, turn-of-the-century building on Broad Street in downtown Richmond. It also served as a rehearsal space and office for the bands. I spent a lot of time in that building. At the back was a kind of atrium, with a wall of enormous sash windows rising nearly thirty feet above the alley. Miguel Rodrigues-Urbiztondo had set up the atrium as a sort of coffeehouse lounge for the studio. It was decorated with cast-off furniture and paintings we’d found in the alley, as that part of Richmond was quickly transforming from run-down offices and apartments to shiny new restaurants and lofts. Miguel had a green thumb and had filled the space with tropical plants and climbing vines in pots. He also had a manual coffee grinder and would buy 50-pound bags of beans to grind himself. The place always smelled of fresh coffee and flowers.

Informally, the atrium had become a clubhouse for much of the Richmond music scene, largely because house engineer and producer John Morand seemed to know everyone in town. John was always welcoming, and there were people hanging out in the lounge day and night, whether they were recording or not.

I spent a lot of time there. Even when I didn’t have work at the studio, I’d often go down to do emails or make phone calls. The atrium looked out onto the back alley, and directly across was a run-down apartment building that was basically a trap house. There were always sketchy people hanging around and drug deals going on. It seemed odd, because just a couple doors down on our side of the alley was a very busy AA/NA meeting place—probably hosting four meetings a day, and on weekends it seemed to run all night. John used to joke that the meeting place was conveniently located next to its supply of substance abusers.

Before and after meetings, many of the attendees would stand out in the alley, smoking, chatting, and catching up. By 2005, the studio had been there for ten years, and I recognized a lot of the regulars. So, after we finished loading Camper Van Beethoven’s gear into the studio basement, I slipped out the back and went looking for that crowd in the alley. As expected, they’d just finished their 5:30–6:30 meeting, and there was quite a crowd. There was one Black man who was always friendly to me, and we’d learned each other’s names. Instead of just nodding hello, I walked up to him and stood there, a bit sheepish, while he joked with his friends. He immediately understood, excused himself, and pulled me down the alley, where we ducked into the mostly empty meeting room.

“What’s going on?”

“Uh, just curious. How do I get started?”

“Starting what?”

“You know, getting myself sober.”

There was a short pause.

“Well, let’s start with that. *You* are not gonna do anything.”

This confused me.

“You have to surrender.”

I must have still looked confused. He started down the sort of standard AA checklist. “Are you sick and tired of being sick and tired? Have you tried to quit and failed?”

As he was about to move along to explaining what I know now as the second and third steps—the steps that involve God, or to some, ‘a Power greater than ourselves’—he stopped and looked at me as if he were sizing me up.

“Do you believe in God?”

“Uh... Well, I do go to church on occas—”

He cut me off.

“See that vending machine there?”

“Yes.”

“That’s your higher power. Whenever we pray to God, you’re gonna pray to that vending machine. You’re gonna say everything we say, but if you can’t sincerely say you believe in God, that vending machine is your higher power for now.”

This was shocking to me. I started to wonder if I had made a mistake. I think he could tell I was thinking this. He laughed.

“You’re gonna be alright. Meet me here in the morning. 7:00 AM.”

And I did. When I arrived at the meeting that morning, my new—though probably temporary—sponsor pulled me aside before things got started. “When they’re about to begin, go up and unplug the vending machine,” he said. I must have looked confused. “It’s too loud during the meeting.”

When the meeting was about to start, I got up and headed for the vending machine. Another guy got up too, beat me to it, and unplugged it. This became a regular thing—sometimes I’d get there first, sometimes it was someone I’d never seen before. I also noticed a few regulars always plugged it back in after the meeting.

After a few months, it clicked. Some meetings are more secular or non-religious in how they talk about God, but this wasn’t one of those rooms. Most people here were believers, and folks like me—white, and not so sure about the God stuff—were in the minority. I realized the vending machine routine wasn’t just about noise or a workaround for the prayers and steps; it was a quiet signal among the old-timers about who was struggling with the God part.

But from the perspective of many long-time AA members, there’s a deep conviction that it’s the very act of participating in these rituals and routines—whether it’s unplugging the vending machine, reading the steps aloud, or simply showing up week after week—that forms the backbone of staying sober. The repetition and structure of these practices are seen not just as traditions, but as essential tools for recovery, providing a sense of order, accountability, and connection that many believe is crucial to maintaining sobriety. For some, these rituals serve as daily reminders of commitment and community; for others, they become a source of meaning and stability, regardless of personal beliefs about God or spirituality.

From what I understand, this is similar to what some people refer to as orthopraxy in Jewish communities: the idea that one can (and should) continue to perform mitzvot (commandments and rituals) even if belief in God is absent or uncertain. While there is no formal doctrine that religious practice will inevitably lead to belief, Talmudic thought encourages continued observance, suggesting that sincere faith or spiritual connection may often follow from regular practice.

Regardless, practicing the rituals seemed to work for me.

There was, of course, the bizarre side effect that I started noticing every vending machine I came across and sometimes found myself having internal conversations with them. This included the snack vending machine that Greg Lisher (of Camper Van Beethoven) would seek out after shows when we got back to the hotel. Many people who are newly sober develop a sweet tooth, usually in the evenings—probably trying to replace the sugar we used to get from beer or cocktails. I noticed I needed something sweet and salty after shows. Since the early days of Camper Van Beethoven, Greg had a habit of searching out the hotel vending machine for a sweet snack after the gig. For him, it had nothing to do with being sober. After I quit drinking, I started joining him on these late-night vending machine runs.

One night, I think we were in a pretty humble motel in Northern Virginia. The vending machine was in a covered breezeway between two wings of the motel. Greg put his money in for some nuts, and the little spiral arm dutifully dropped the package down to the base of the machine, right behind the plastic door. You were supposed to push the door in and reach for your snack. Just as Greg was about to grab his, some movement inside the machine caught our eye. He instinctively pulled his hand back. From the shadows inside, a rat emerged, scurried forward, grabbed the package of nuts in its mouth, and disappeared back into the machine.

After we got over our shock, we laughed long and hard about it. I skipped my snack that night and headed back to my room. I realized this was what many AA people call a “God shot”—an unexpected and profoundly meaningful event. In that moment, I understood I didn’t need the vending machine anymore. I had a direct connection to God now. I wasn’t faking it anymore.

I passed out underneath of the desk of the

Publisher of Spin Magazine

It was the last night of the Modest Mouse

Camper Van Beethoven tour

I said I didn’t want to live this way anymore

Walked down the alley and I knocked on the door

How do I get started

Fixing myself

He said it don’t work that way

Do you believe in God

I’m really not sure

He said we’ll find a way

We’ll pray to God but your higher power

Will be that flickering

vending machine

We pray to God while your higher power

Is that flickering

Vending machine

I do the work I read the book

I volunteer each week
I focus on keeping clean my side of the street

But not that it matters

But this is a historically black AA room

I am accepted

I’m extended grace

This blows me away

Everyone but me prays to God I got this flickering

Vending machine

Everyone but me prays to God I got this flickering

Vending machine

Everyone I ever met on Madison Street

I got you back ‘cause you had mine

And if you are living well

even if you’re not

I hope that this will find you

And even if you feel irredeemable now

Well you should know that you’re not

Cause one good deed done

Or one moment of grace

Is greater than all the darkness in the world

cause what we don’t know

Is always greater than what we know

Including how this really works

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

David Lowery: vocals, guitars, bass guitar