Cowbells, Honey Drops, and Other Things You Won't Find in a Road Case

Every time I fly to the States for a run of shows, the TSA agent asks the same question.

"What's in the bag?"

They're not talking about the laptop or the pedals. They're talking about the small canvas duffel I carry on — the one that sets off just enough curiosity to warrant a second look. And honestly, I get it. What's inside doesn't make sense to anyone who hasn't spent their life between Bern and a stage.

So here it is. The full list. What a Bernese artist actually packs for an American tour — and what it reveals about the two places I keep living between.

The Cowbell (Yes, Really)

Let's address it immediately, because you're already thinking it: the cliché is real, sort of. I carry a small hand-forged cowbell, made by a family workshop in the Emmental. It's not a joke prop. It's a percussion instrument, and it's been on every record I've made since 2016.

But here's what nobody tells you: in Switzerland, that bell is a sound from your childhood. It's the background hum of every hike, every village, every summer. When I play it in Portland or Nashville, audiences hear "novelty." When I play it, I hear home. That gap is the whole point. I'm not bringing a prop across the ocean — I'm bringing a frequency.

Grandmother's Honey Drops

Two tins, always two. Sugar-free herbal drops from a pharmacy in the old town of Bern, the kind my grandmother kept in her coat pocket her entire life.

Any singer will tell you: your throat is your business. American backstage culture runs on throat spray, lemon-ginger shots, and increasingly elaborate wellness routines. Mine is a tin of drops that cost three francs. They work. They've always worked. And every time I open one backstage in Chicago, I'm eight years old again, being told to hush and sing properly.

There's a Swiss stubbornness in this choice that I've stopped apologizing for.

One Warm Coat, No Matter the Forecast

American touring culture is optimized around the car. You leave a venue at midnight, load into a van, drive four hours, sleep at a Motel 6, soundcheck by noon. You pack for the climate of the next city.

I pack for the climate of me. One good coat. Because in Switzerland, I move by train, and train stations at 6 a.m. in winter are cold whether Zurich is or not. The coat isn't about the weather. It's about the rhythm of travel — and American touring rhythms, built entirely around highways and parking lots, still catch me off guard every single trip.

A Notebook, Not a Laptop

I write on paper. Always have. On tour in the US, I watch bands hunched over laptops in green rooms, tweaking stems at midnight. Nothing wrong with it — but my best ideas come when I'm moving, watching landscape change out a train window, pen in hand.

So I pack notebooks. Cheap ones. The American leg of a tour fills at least two.

What the List Actually Says

Strip it all down and here's the difference: American touring is built around scale. Bigger rooms, longer drives, more merch, more everything. Swiss touring — and honestly, a lot of European touring — is built around proximity. Everything is close. You take the train, you sleep in your own bed, you carry less because you can come back.

Neither is better. But they make different artists. The van teaches you endurance. The train teaches you patience. The cowbell teaches you that the most ordinary sound from home can be the strangest, most beautiful thing in the room — if you're brave enough to pack it.

So if you see me at the airport, canvas duffel over one shoulder, getting gently interrogated by security: yes, it's a cowbell. No, I'm not explaining further. Come to the show.