Tour 2018 - Manchester (Day 1)

All right, time to start this trifle properly. By request the daily reviews of snacks unavailable in the States will be continued, but will be by necessity not confined only to the salty. Also, Britishisms (or whatever geographical ism is pertinent) will continue as long as they fall easily into my lap with a minimum of effort.

Snack of the Day:(SoTD)
Rockys: There was an unopened bag of fun-size* candy bars called Rockys in the van. Chuck and I eagerly opened, and with the lie on the wrapper creating expectations of a Clark bar type experience, we bit into what at best guess was the damp leavings from a nest of termites bathed in the not quite chocolate elegance of carob. They are so bad neither of us finished the usually disappointingly portioned fun-size. After two full days in the van only one has been eaten. By me, with the level of regret usually associated with sleeping with your ex and having your children walk in.

Britishism: Gone for an Eartha - From Shaun. I was talking about a friend of mine who did the monitors for Barry White and Eartha Kitt among others. Shaun then taught us this lovely phrase. It’s a fine example of rhyming slang of which the British are the champions. It goes like this: Where’s Joe? He’s gone for a shit. Change shit to to the rhyming Kitt. Kitt to Eartha. Then end up with, “Gone for an Eartha.”

We slept the sleep of which corpses do not dare dream, and then went off to the BBC to record a session for Marc Riley’s show, and a song for Gideon Coe’s program as well. Typically the Marc Riley sessions are done live, but since he was at a festival we did a pre-tape. And thank all the Gods for that. We’ve played exactly once in the last year and our first performance of the tour is to be broadcast to the nation? Fuck. Thankfully, because it was a recording session we could start over when we fucked up. We started over a lot. Kath, who was tasked to mind us, is an angel and made frequent encouraging noises, fetched tea, and generally made us feel like we belonged there. It’s such an honor to get to dip our toes in this grand tradition. But it was also our second time so there was less open mouth gee willikers mom - look where we are going on. It’s a funny feeling; less rush of the new but more appreciative of the gifts of such rare experiences. Needless to say I went for a walk. I fucked up though. I hadn’t figured out how to use my phone in this international setting so my text to the band asking them to let me know when it was time to soundcheck went undelivered. I had been drawn siren-like to the World War Museum that is across a footbridge from the BBC and was gazing at dirigibles when the understandably put-out messages from the band reached me that they were starting. I felt like a shit heel but really enjoyed playing. Still, we felt rusty.

Went through miserable traffic to the same venue we played last time, the Castle Hotel. Postage stamp stage, ancient room and bar, beautifully British to its timbers. Had no time before soundcheck and about two hours after. I wanted to see Afflecks, the apparently hip indoor market all the internet was raving about. Shops seem to close much earlier than in the States and even though it was barely 6:00 it was shut down. This area, called the Northern Quarter, has a million cool record stores, vintage clothing shops etc. but none were open. There was a sign in front of Afflecks saying only people who had tickets to the play could enter, and when I looked at the smaller print saw the play was entitled “We Apologize For The Inconvenience - A Highly Improbable Play about Douglas Adams.”** For the tragic among you still unawares, Adams wrote " The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” series amongst many others and is one of my heroes. He’s dead of course. Living heroes are too inconvenient, what with their still saying things and shaky later works. Neil Gaman is alive and renders the previous sentence moot. So far. Regardless, I saw Gaiman speak mere months ago in Cincinnati and he told the story of Adam's publisher becoming so frustrated with his ignoring of deadlines that he locked him into the suite of a hotel, sat on the other side of the door and wouldn’t let him out until he had finished the book. So in an instance of serendipity almost beyond the Heart of Gold’s*** capabilities this one act play takes place entirely in that very hotel suite right where Adams, as played by the wonderful Adam Gardiner, after having taken another three hour bath, spends the next 50 minutes railing against forced creativity, doubts about his talent, and resenting beloved characters. All interspersed with many amusing discursions and fanboy references. I would be remiss however not to mention the personified rubber duck who appears part way through as a kind of sparring partner, scold, and creative goad. It was just wonderful and the beauty of travel, particularly of the vaguely planned sort, once again made me giddy. I couldn’t have asked for a better happenstance and you know how I do love legitimate theater.

Back to the venue, which tiny size notwithstanding, we had sold out! I went upstairs to the green room to wait and enjoy the penises. A grouping of penises is somewhat unexpectedly referred to as a plentitude of penises. Although I would suggest a murder of penises would be more accurate. The walls are covered in band posters and the posters are covered in penises. Only one vagina though, reasonably accurately portrayed, with knowledge undoubtably gleaned from the internet and not actual experience. My favorite sub-genre was the penis nose. I’ll post the best example later. And then of course the one we coined Rodin’s the Penis. The opening band, Good Grief, posited that the original could be found in the Vatican.

The show and crowd were amazing. The room was Finnish sauna hot. Even the walls were sweating. Then they were bleeding and everyone’s eyes went black. And just as suddenly it went back to normal. Except of course for the pale boy in the back of the room who hadn’t been there before and stared unblinking at me for the rest of the night.

After the show there had been an old boy of the grizzled alcoholic variety lurking in the hallway. Joe, carrying something heavy bade him to make way and he took offense. He then stood on the sidewalk for the whole load-out cursing us at the top of his lungs with the most wonderfully diverse colloquial English phrases. Our favorite was when he called us a bunch of fucking knobs.

Then back to the hotel where we watched a 1980’s Top of the Pops and puzzled as to how Jagger and Bowie were ever forgiven “Dancing in the Streets.”

Tomorrow is York

*Fuck you size really. “Hello Oliver, here’s your fun-size dollop of gruel.” “Thank you sir - may I have another?” “ARE YOU NOT HAVING FUN?” “Oh yes sir, it’s just that the outmoded reliance on an economic system based upon profit over humanity has created such suffering that the boys and I are planning on smothering you in your sleep!”
**I told you to wait for it
*** I’m sorry - it’s an obvious and not clever reference, but indulge me will you? I’m quite excited.

Tour 2016 - Manchester (Day 3)

Salty Snack of the Day: Mr. Trotter’s Proper Potato Crisps -original seasoning style (Maybe the perfect chip. Screw you – I’m in complete control of my hyperbole)

Britishisms Heard Uttered: Ticketyboo – The word uttered by the delightful Michelle, producer of Marc Riley’s show, before she took our picture. Knocks saying cheese into a cocked hat.

Birds: Starling (the bastards)

It was around a three-hour drive to Manchester. We’ve gotten into the habit of stopping at the rest stops that have Marks & Spencer shops. The food there is amazing, fresh, and way better than even like a Panera back home. I had a Wensleydale and carrot chutney sandwich today and a Ploughman’s yesterday. Chuck and Lisa had brought back such horror stories of eating from their duo tour I was quite prepared to live on the bits of moss I could forage with the occasional rind of cheese thrown in. There’s been a Costa coffee place at every stop and it’s as good as Starbucks. Which isn’t saying much, but it’s highway coffee so expectations managed and such.

Everyone in the band is still in good spirits, (that should last another 2-3 days!* ) jet lag is manifesting itself mostly in not being able to fall asleep easily. However our van is so comfy everyone but me has been napping quite easily. (sleep is for the weak) Enough of that. Now on to Manchester.

We pulled up to the Castle Hotel once again greeted by cold wintry rain. The Castle looks exactly how one imagines a British pub should look. The Pogues were on the jukebox, the pull taps of really good cask beer all lined up, and the room where we were playing looking like a barn with a stage. The two people tending bar said the building was three hundred years old and had been a pub for good portion of it. The bar, with beautiful Rookwood-esque tiles was even older having been salvaged from the old town hall when it was torn down.

We loaded in and met our soundman Keiran and the promoter Jay. No one was in a hurry, whether by inclination or habit, and several lively conversations broke out in the front bar and in the hall (which is what I guess I’ll call the tiny room where we played) about politics. Unsurprisingly, everyone is curious about Donald Trump and what is really going on with him. It was actually fun to talk politics for once as a pursuit of knowledge and perspective instead of the thorny, angry shouting that passes for discourse in the states right now. We assured them that he was not going to be President, but it was interesting to hear their perspectives and how they related it to their outliers in British politics. They seemed very willing to give us (as a nation)the benefit of the doubt, assuming that the news only picked the most salacious bits to broadcast. Unfortunately the examples of bad behavior and shenanigans they quoted barely touched the tip of the iceberg as far as what we hear about ourselves back home. And of course the conversation went to guns. Fortunately I am just as perplexed and dismayed by the ridiculous cultural identification with a machine. Lisa noted as we drove through the countryside how the British live in villages and don’t litter houses on every spot that might sustain wildlife or provide greenspace. It’s as if we in the states want to get as far away from each other as possible but don’t like to travel for amenities, so we fill in the spaces with chain stores. The thought was that maybe, by living in groups, people maintain a connection with each other and are not so inclined to fear and shoot them.

I had a half pint of Black Jesus and took the half hour I had to walk up the block. There were three record stores within three blocks, with the Piccadily being particularly outstanding, multiple vintage clothing stores, and lovely little café’s with vegetarian brekkie’s. I bought an Iron Maiden 12” for my son, went back, soundchecked, and took off for the BBC.

We were scheduled to appear on Marc Riley’s radio show on BBC 6. This is kind of a big deal. It was Marc agreeing to have us on his show that removed the final nail from the coffin preventing us from coming. George, our label man and poor soul tasked with getting us over said that with this appearance we would have enough cachet to get the bookings we needed. Plus, Marc’s show is really good. Add in that he has played in legendary bands and we were genuinely excited.

It was of course raining when we pulled up to a call box outside the BBC. Ollie pressed the button and said who we were. “You’re on the wrong side of the building mate. Pull around.” So we did and went up to the next set of stripy road blockers, pressed the button and once again said who we were. The same man says, without acknowledging he just talked to us, “You’re at the wrong one. You’ll need to back up go to the next one up.” Ollie reverses the van the wrong way up a one-way street and we steer towards the next box. Once again we announce ourselves and the very same disembodied voice says someone will right down to open the door. Nothing. It was as if we’d never spoken. I think he was embarrassed for us and was hoping we wouldn’t notice the whole affair and thus spare us our shame.

The BBC building was modern looking and seemed somewhat shiny. Of course we were offered tea and then piled into the studio to set up. I can’t tell you how pleasant and professional the engineers have been so far. And when I opened up the case for the Rickenbacker, Marc and the engineer’s assistant gathered around and made appreciative noises. Which made me feel a bit puffed up.

After soundcheck we recorded a version of “Ceremony” for a different program and went to wait in the sitting area where the tea was. We were chatting with Marc when he brought up a certain musician in the past who had been caught being illicit in the BBC bathrooms. He didn’t tell us the name but began giving clues. Chuck, with his encyclopedic knowledge of records and bands ran through the obvious choices and didn’t guess it. If you know Chuck you’ll know it killed him to the point of obsession. Marc was tickled by the whole thing and it was delightful to watch these two just shy of brilliant men talk and jape about rocknroll.

I got to pose in front of a TARDIS, had my cheese monged by a Canadian, and then we performed live on the show. What a wonderful experience.

Quickly back to the Castle where we piled onto a stage the size of a commemorative postage stamp. Joe was placed facing sideways, I was with my back against the amps and could not move in any direction save up and down without smacking someone. It was a sold out show in a room the size of a generous living room but it was also our first show with people who come to see us. After a very sweaty, very fun show, the emotions people brought to our conversations was almost overwhelming. Several stories of how our songs had gotten them through rough patches, or how they had found us in some obscure corner of the internet and couldn’t believe we’d come to their town. We were all very moved by the whole day.

Tomorrow is York.

*Remember people, optimism is a choice!