About a Boy

Chicago's North Shore hardly seems the crucible for edgy punk-pop. But with a new CD that's already gone gold, and jam-packed concert crowds, Fall Out Boy has burst out of the suburbs (even though most of the band members still live with their parents).

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Photo: Paul Natkin

After the Cincinnati show, Trohman, dank with sweat, wanders off to take his first shower in three days (there're no showers on the bus, so bathing requires a special trip to each venue's administrative offices, and often the band members don't bother: "You get used to not showering," Wentz says). He first stops to sign an autograph for Leigha, who threw up halfway through her first rock concert and is resting dejectedly on a patch of lawn behind the stage.

The rest of the band exit to their tour bus and its cranked-up cooling system. Wentz pours himself a bowl of frosted cereal, a staple of the Fall Out Boy diet, and deals with a lack of spoons by using an unopened Slim Jim package to scoop up his food. "You are surviving in the wild. That's awesome," Stump tells him.

Life in a rock band often features long periods of tedium between bursts of adrenaline-charged action, and this afternoon is no exception. The band sits around watching MTV. "I hate MTV," Hurley complains to Stump. "I like Discovery and the History Channel." No one changes the station.

Stump's girlfriend has been visiting with the band for a few days, and the pair retreat to the tiny lounge in the back of the bus. Hurley takes a walk. As José Canseco and Bronson Pinchot compete with a team of developmentally disabled bowlers on The Surreal Life, Wentz lies on the couch punching the keys of his cell phone.

The members of Fall Out Boy spend an inordinate amount of time on the bus text messaging people. It's another way to communicate with fans-Fall Out Boy could become the definitive band of Generation Text.

"Maintaining relationships is impossible," laments Wentz, who's been vexed by the uncertain status of his relationship with a female friend in Chicago. "No, starting them is impossible. Maintaining them is hard. Bands are the ultimate relationship killer."

More and more, the band has become all-consuming. The day of the Warped Tour's Chicago show, their first chance to see hometown friends and family in weeks, begins with an autograph session, followed by a two-hour interview for a magazine (not this one), photo shoots for two other magazines (including this one), two radio station interviews, and a promotional appearance at one of the festival vendor booths.

Photo: Paul Natkin

Except for Joe Trohman, who has a Chicago apartment, the members of Fall Out Boy still live with their parents during the few days out of the year when they're not on tour (the band played more than 200 shows last year and is on pace to do about the same in 2005). Their families are feeling the effects of the band's success. As the Trohmans and Wentzes hang out on the bus before the show, the conversations revolve around long-lost relatives suddenly calling up looking for concert tickets, co-workers wanting autographed CDs-"What am I, the free merch supplier?" Dr. Trohman asks-and fan mail piling up in the Wentz household and phone calls at 2 a.m. "Our stock answer is, Peter doesn't take calls at this number," Dale Wentz says.

Richard Trohman's spectacles, gray hair, and bushy mustache give him the look of an archetypal kindly doctor, and he has the touchy-feely demeanor to match. He stops Wentz, who has been bounding in and out of the vehicle, to ask how he's doing-"Lots of drama," Wentz reports-and gives him a reassuring hug. He and his wife, Catherine, also both hug their son backstage just before he goes off to perform, looking like parents about to leave their kid at college for the first time.