Tour 2018 - Brighton (Day 9)

Chuck at the Hope & Ruin - Photo by Lisa Walker

Snack of the Day: Nacho Cheese Flavored Bugles

They may have these in the States but none of us have ever had them. We have the Dorito dust and we have Bugles. How have the endless product innovation meetings not come up with this like 50 years ago? Doritos? Corn chip. Bugles? Corn cornucopia. “Seriously Jerry, why are you so afraid to try this idea?”
“Well the way I see it, if it was such a good idea someone else would have done it a long time ago”

Britishism: Winder

The turny handle thing for raising and lowering car windows. I looked it up to make sure I had heard correctly and the term window winder came up. When I first looked at it I thought it said widow winder. Ah ha! Now that’s a term I can work with. Could it be a gigolo who seduces ancient rich widows? Or more along the lines of a tool so dangerous it makes widows of those who use it. And then of course you have to wonder what sort of tool that would be. In my mind I see a very large, unstable spring. Flat like those in a watch. It gets wound to an exciting degree, so that the series of razor blades attached to the whip-end tremble with potential energy. Its use? If you calibrate it just right, it can perfectly peel, core, and slice an apple in one go. Of course if the calibrations are off then noses and toeses are surgically cut right off. When three men were maimed making one apple pie the foreman was heard to say, "If there’s a better way to peel an apple I’d like to hear it.”

The hotel we were staying in was delightful if the word delightful meant, “Are you fucking kidding me?” Joe, John, and I walked into the room and Joe said, “It smells like someone puked in here.” And it really did. We looked around but didn’t find any pieces of corn or other damning evidence. I walked into the bathroom and there was a human pubic hair dangling off the soap dispenser. We asked nicely if we could move rooms but they were inevitably full. In lieu of that a very nice employee came into the room and sprayed so much orchid and passion flower scent I could barely see Joe though the fog. She then sprayed the carpet with a different bottle and said, “It’s safe to walk on.” I asked if she could leave the spray in case the smell came back. She gave me a look and then reluctantly agreed. John sat down on his bed, sniffed and said, “Now it smells like a woman’s armpit in here.” I looked at the can and sure enough, she had fumigated the room with deodorant spray. Chuck and Lisa, by sheer coincidence were being housed in a disabled room. This means the shower is in the main room and has no door, walls, or edge to the shower floor. The success of this is predicated entirely on the slope of the floor and the efficiency of the drain. Sadly, the mucous and hair eating drain troll had not yet returned from holiday and their room flooded. A lot. A hotel in a big city is not necessarily better than one in a small town.

We landed in Brighton with an hour to spare before load in. Brighton was one of our favorite places on the last tour and we were excited to get back there. It’s such a wonderful windy* beach town and appeared unchanged since our last visit. I came across a wonderful antique bookstore where you had to descend a spiral staircase to get to the idiosyncratic selection in the basement. Had a coffee, a chocolate, exchanged some money and wandered over to the club.

The Hope and Ruin is an amazing venue. Right up there with the Musician in Leicester. Run by sensationally nice people, vegetarian food on site, and one of the best sound people in the world. Leon makes every band sound like the way they wished they did on record. We soundchecked, bickered, and everyone went their separate ways.** And this next sentence will be henceforth known as the whole reason this blog exists. Go to Foodilic. It’s a small restaurant that serves buffet style some of the freshest, cleanest, yummiest food I’ve had. Perfect for someone whose body is tired of processed, too rich, road food diets. And for only seven pounds! We’re talking rocket salad, couscous, lentil salad, and citrusy green beans to die for. Joe made vaguely obscene noises while eating the meat, so I have to assume it was equally good. Oh and did you know that Brits go through buffet lines backwards? The correct way is left to right. Especially when the salads are on the left as they were here. Joe and I spawned our way against the current and were gently admonished by Shaun for this faux pas.***

Feeling physically better than I had in days I walked down to the beach to work on the mental side. The fog was so thick you could just see a fuzzy indication of where the end of the pier might be. I spent a happy hour looking for rocks that were trying just a little harder than the others, so that I might lift them from their obscurity and carry them around in my pocket for awhile. I watched the surf and tried to let the timelessness of the sea put all the petty and transient worries in their proper place.**** I was pleased to note that small clots of insular and surly teens squatted in the out of way corners of the beach. The spirit of Quadrophenia being kept alive.

I’m not going to complain about the difficulties that with clockwork precision disrupted our set. Instead I’m going to say that I am proud of us. We had technical issues, broken strings, and voice troubles. All serving to force us to shout out whatever song could be played at that moment with what was available. And we did it. And I think put on a fairly entertaining show. I always tell my students that the essence of live performing is dealing with the unexpected. The ability to roll with the nightly challenges is kind of a big deal for bands. The crowd was generous with their patience and enthusiasm. What a great, little, weird city. It feels like Austin in a way. I get the sense that it’s a very artist/freak friendly. We need more spaces like that.

Tomorrow we cross the Channel!

* windy not windy
** Air keyboard go!
*** We said, "Whatever man."
**** It didn't. Stupid shelfish sea.

Tour 2018 - London (Day 8)

Photo from kram srednuas’s Youtube video of Wussy at 100 Club

SoTD: Discos Cheese and Onion Crisps - These suck. I mean I wouldn’t kick ‘em out of bed for eating a woman, but I’m not going to pay money for them. Again. They’re of the reconstituted dried potatoes variety of chip. Like a Pringle, but thicker and faker tasting. Meh.

Britishism: Pulling Mussels from a Shell: Shaun says that the phrase from the classic Squeeze song is about the kissing with tongues. Who knew?

I’m so far behind I have to look at my pictures to reconstruct the events. Like “Memento” with more bowel issues. Lisa continues to struggle with the Dengue Fever.* Her characteristic rash eerily playing out the Stations of the Cross. When she had made it to where Jesus falls down for the second time it was decided she should experience the NHS and visit a doctor. The non-lead singers would do the laundry. As is our lot in life. Folding the lead singer’s underwear being the ritual act of submission for the rhythm section going back to Mesopotamian times**

Lisa got meds, and haphazardly folded clothes, (poorly folded clothes being the ritual act of passive aggression from the rhythm section going back to Mesopotamian times) and we lit out for London Town.***

Upon arrival Shaun decided to surprise us by driving by Abbey Roads. When we got to the iconic zebra stripes he said, “OK, you all jump out and I’ll pull up and snap a picture!” Chuck said, “No.” Shaun said, “C’mon!” Chuck said, “I’m not doing it.” Shaun said, genuine puzzlement rising from his voice, “You’re saying no?” “ I leaned in and said, “We don’t really do cute.” Still, it was cool to see the building and all that.

We got to The 100 Club, which I knew had been the site of a legendary early punk festival, but hadn’t looked into it much beyond that. We load in and start looking at the photos on the walls. The place has existed as a club since the 1940’s and in a different configuration had Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman hanging and/or playing. The current family owners bought it in the 1960’s and it hasn’t changed much since. Muddy Waters played there, every punk band you can name played on that stage. The Rolling Stones and Paul McCartney have played shows there. It’s pretty fucking cool. Also, and I think it’s because I’m dead inside, I wasn’t freaked out by it. I remember playing in Seattle where Nirvana had held a CD release and feeling overwhelmed by the ghosts, but I was mostly feeling like I was going to work. To a job I love granted, but even though there were pictures of Pete Townshend on that very stage I didn’t feel his spirit exhorting me to climb climb climb to those heady heights of “It’s hard. It’s very, very, very, very, hard. So very hard.”

Joe and I went and had a pint at The Blue Post, I went record shopping and scored a sweet Iron Maiden picture disc for my son, ate dinner and took a circuitous route back to the club. I was in the Carnaby Street area and alternated between being amused by the high fashion and ostentation I saw, and feeling cranky that all this wealth should be concentrated in one little area while entire regions are piss poor. I mean there’s nothing wrong with fashion; David Bowie and Paul Weller always looked fucking cool. And they aged in ways I barely dare dream of. But there was also a vibe that maybe the excesses mocked with the Capital City’s citizen’s in “The Hunger Games****” are dangerously close to reality. I’m not judging. The Trump administration has rendered satire moot. America was just ripped by the U.N. for having whole regions in abject poverty. Also, I can be moody.

Back to the club and the band before us, Hurtling, were fucking great. Keep an eye out for them. We had easily the biggest crowd we’ve had in the U.K. and were playing arguably the most historic venue we’ve ever played. So how did we do? Ok. Pretty good. I remember our first big New York shows feeling the same way. Everyone pushing so hard for the magic to happen that it never goes from five disparate elements into one cohesive whole. If we’re lucky enough to come back we’ll probably get closer to that say anything, play anything, ride the wave of whatever that particular night is bringing thing that is us when we’re at our best. I know some bands can achieve a Broadway***** levels of consistency, but the rock I love needs to feel like it could fall apart or catch fire at any moment. Please God don’t let rock get codified and safe.

So in the end, I can’t believe we got to play the 100 Club. I can’t believe that many people showed up to see us in a whole different country. And I’m just really grateful for it.

Tomorrow is Brighton

*Or a sinus infection.
** You think They Might Be Giants have lost it? Check that one out.
*** Some are calling “What Heaven Is Like” our "London Town", but I’ve never heard it.
**** Fuck off - the first book was good.
***** I love Broadway. “Wicked” is the tits.

Tour 2018 - Leicester (Day 7)

Wussy at The Musician in Leicester - Photo by Blue Straggler

SoTD: Tunnock’s Milk Chocolate Tea Cakes - Oh my God, I would kill kittens for one. I’d horde them with a vehemence that would make Mammon blush. Like a Keebler Pinwheel in the States but better in every way. Firstly, instead of marshmallow on top of the cookie it’s Italian meringue. And there’s actual non-waxy chocolate covering it. Or as we like to say in the van, enrobing it. Given to us by a fan at the Brighton show I did not have a chance to thank them. So a big thanks to you!!

Britishism: Trimming Both Sides of the Hedge - Shaun told me what it means but I feel you’ll have more fun making up your own!

The morning in Cardiff I went for a walk along a stream, and through a bridge under the motorway that looked just like the one in "Les Revenants" where Serge ate people’s livers. I noticed that everything in this part of Wales was either rusting or growing moss. It was of course raining so I decided to compare annual rainfalls. Mawsynram in India has the most with 11, 871 mm. In Britain, Swansea gets the most rain with 1,360.8 mm. Cardiff comes in 5th with 980.8 mm. For comparison, in the United States, Seattle gets 965 mm per year. So wetter than a group of spinsters at a Ewan McGregor convention.

Before leaving Wales Shaun took us to the transporter bridge in Newport. It was a little more downtrodden than the other one but still a delight. We have now ridden two out of the three transporter bridges in the UK. There are only eight of these still working throughout the world.

We were playing the Musician and were looking forward to it. It’s got to be one of the best small venues in the country. It’s a roomy stage, has an amazing sound person, good sightlines, awesome staff, and a weird little green room tucked behind the stage. It’s located in a grey corner of the city and I had learned last time not to judge the whole city by this part. Walking around looking for dinner I couldn’t help but feel like things in Leicester are maybe not going as well as when we were here last. There were few people out and about and more beggars. I hope I’m wrong and it was just gray mid-week evening. And please be assured I’m not slagging Leicester. We’ve had two of our best shows there and goodness are the fans lovely. We played our best show of the tour so far. When I say best show, I’m talking about how well we played, not the crowd reaction or how much fun we had. Some nights the parts all come together and we become a singular thing. Most nights we get close. Some nights we play like the empathy booth at an NRA convention. i.e. depressed and depressing. It’s a funny thing, living out of your comfort zone, spending way too much time in very close proximity with the same group of people and hoping that sleep deprivation, screwed up dietary schedules, barely contained resentments, and fussy equipment all slip away for an hour and a half of shared catharsis and noisy joy. It does often enough to keep us hoping and trying though.

The last two nights came together in a delightful, sustaining way. Thanks!!

Tomorrow is London.

Tour 2018 - Cardiff (Day 6)

SoTD: Cheesy Wiggles from ASDA - These are standard cheese doodles. Nothing notable once you put it in your mouth. The reason I’m reviewing at all is the smell. If someone made fists with their feet in a vat of blue cheese, put on thick wool socks and then walked a fortnight through the desert you’d be there. The flavor is so disappointing after the smell emanating from the bag. Shaun hated the stench and banned it from the van.
Britishism: It’s a bit blowy out there - i.e. windy

I don’t remember much from the drive into Cardiff. I saw a Vespa with Mod stickers. Honestly we were all in pretty pissy moods for one reason or another.

Well actually one of them was obvious. When we played Edinborough on the last tour the six of us were booked into a single room of a youth hostel across the street from the club. The useless lift, the communal bathrooms, the partying eurotrashpackers, bunk beds, a night of snoring soaring farting sleeplessness. We said never again. We are truly not a fussy band. Our rider is water and a few beers if you can spare them. But we’re also too damn old for that shit. It takes days to come back from a night like that. So when we pulled up to a place I think was called Nomads, with a picture of a backpack on the sign, we were dubious. When we walked in Lisa looked around, asked the desk clerk if the bathrooms were shared. He replied, “Yes.” Lisa shook her head and said, “Fuck this, I’m out.” We trudged back to the van and set about finding pretty much any place else to sleep.

So it was grey and pissing rain when we got there, but we were able to pull right up to the club. We were to be playing the Moon, where we played our previous visit. If you’ll recall there was an enormous rugby match happening at the nearby stadium last time, necessitating us to carry/drag our equipment for half a mile because they had closed all the surrounding roads. Not this time mister. Other things had changed as well. This time we went down stairs to a different room and stage. The Moon is a rock club, all stickers on the walls and a drawing of Lemmy behind the bar admonishing us all to not be dicks. The stage was contained by a wooden railing creating a bandfold as it were. The ceiling was maybe 6.5 ft high, which is why my guitar has several new dings in it. While the soundman was working Joe and I went in search of a nearby beer. The place next door, a blues/jazzy type whiskey bar was open and we climbed the stairs to realize that was where we had played last time. The owner took us on a tour, “Remember the bathrooms? (legendary for their piquancy) No more!” and flung the ladies door open. They smelled like Hera’s morning breathe. It was a miracle. Everything was different and practically posh.

Back at the Moon we loaded our gear onto the stage. It was clearly Whovian in that I didn’t see how we could fit us all on it, but somehow not only did we fit but it was quite comfortable. After soundcheck I had very little time to eat and explore. I ate a veggie burger with a disc of honey-glazed goat cheese, which needs to happen again in this life, and tried to find an area that was maybe a little more where people lived and less big fuck-off buildings. I walked by what seemed to be a university area, the theater district, and wound up back by the castle. I went into the park and spied the keeper of the keys standing resolutely by the gate, giving me a dispassionate glance as if to say, “Yar, I’ve locked you in once and I’ll do it again.” Each park bench contained a pair of entwined young people snogging as if life giving proteins could be extracted from each others uvulas. Tired and still somewhat dispirited I made my way back to the club. And then the tour miracle happened. The crowd was magnificent and we finally played in a way that felt like we were getting our legs back. It’s really important that that happens on a tour. If you feel like you’re never quite getting it then the frustrations grow and you don’t get that release of “Oh right, that’s why we do this!”

And the hotel we ended up in felt luxurious in its amenities. By which I mean it was the first hotel we’d been in with air conditioning. We’ll discuss air conditioning in the UK at a later date. We may have to agree to disagree.

Tomorrow is Leicester

Tour 2018 - Glasgow & the Lake District (Day 5)

SotD: Sweet Chili and Sour Cream by Deluxe
Finally a winner! Deluxe appears to be the store brand for the Lidl supermarket chain. We were in Cardiff and they were quite inexpensive. Seriously, it’s about the perfect crisp. Tastes like real sour cream and is just a bit spicy. Chuck says it tastes like Play-D’oh but his palette leans more towards wagon train cuisine.

Britishism: tosser - jerk, idiot.
It just doesn’t work with the American accent. But to hear Shaun fling it at an incompetent driver is a thing of beauty. “You bloody tosser!”

The wonderful thing about bandmates who rouse themselves with the alacrity of a grizzly bear in January getting up to let the cat out, is the opportunity to explore. My disappointment at seeing so little of Glasgow disappeared when I realized I could squeeze in about 2.5 hours. We were staying practically under the highway across the River Clyde from the city proper. It feels anticlimactic to call such an important body of water Clyde. I read the history, I know why it’s named Clyde, but there is nothing that says it can’t be given a more noble designation. Would it be OK if the Mississippi was called Kevin? Or the Nile named Gary? No it would not. I will not presume to offer suggestions to such a deep and wonderful culture, but if one were to press me, I might think the River Gillan has a nice ring to it.

I crossed a footbridge on my way to Georges Square and picked up a greasy and gritty Glaswegian glazed gourmet doughnut and coffee. Coffee was good though. The square itself is typical of the form with statues scattered about, including an 80 ft high anatomically correct column erected in honor of Walter Scott, and a stubbier statue dedicated to Robert Burns. Proving there was a time when statues were being built for poets and authors. Fancy that. The City Chambers is gorgeous and the World War I monument appropriately large and touching. That said, there wasn’t much shaking and the people watching slow going, so I scampered off to the Gallery of Modern Art. The gallery resides in a neoclassical building built in 1778. Museums and libraries are my happy places and this one was a cracker. (to use the regional colloquialism) An aspect I would like to see all other museums adopt was a huge library open to the public for free, with 48,000 books on art and other less important things. I loved everything about it. The juxtaposition between the old architecture and the modern art did both a favor, the exhibits were top notch, and my mood was transformed. I was pleased to see the iconic statue called the Duke, (i.e. the Duke of Wellington) with his traffic cone hat. It’s a delightful bit of Glasgow pride that for over 30 years whenever the government removed the cone hat, within days a new one would appear. After an ill-advised plan to raise the plinth* in order to discourage the be-hatting, a worldwide movement rose up and finally forced the government to concede that it’s pretty fucking funny.

On the way out I saw a brochure for something called the Lighthouse that looked cool and was on the way. The Lighthouse is Scotland’s Center for Design and Architecture. And while I have an idea what that means for the average person I’m not quite interested enough to figure it out. However! The thing that was super cool was that the tower itself was Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s first public commision to be built, and one can climb a shit-ton of spiral stairs to end up at the top with a fresh air view of the city. Lovely.

I quite liked Glasgow although I really just dealt it a glancing blow. I love the massive, timeless architecture. I felt a humor and energy there that made me instantly feel like this was a place I could work and spend time. And of course the people of the north are God’s people.**

I got back to the hotel just in time for us to leave for Kendal in the Lake District. We were driving part of the way to Cardiff so this was a day off of sorts. Shaun and I were excited because of the sheepfolds. Sheepfolds were the pens shepherds used to minister to the sheep, trims hooves, etc. They harken back to an older time (or is it a younger time?) and have either disappeared or fallen into disrepair. In the Cumbria County they commissioned Andy Goldsworthy to celebrate “this perfect republic of shepherds.” Andy Goldsworthy is an artist I’ve loved for years but because of the natural nature of his art it’s not something you find in museums. (there is a really cool piece in the Glasgow Gallery of Modern Art - proving that everything I say is a lie) Goldsworthy produces, to quote the internet, “site-specific sculptures in natural and urban setting using natural materials and the passage of time.” He’s brilliant. His creativity, skill and what would appear to be the patience of Sisyphus, creates art that sometimes lasts only minutes, or melts as the sun rises. Or these revived sheepfolds could last a hundred years. Here’s a link to the project if you’re interested. http://www.edenbenchmarks.org.uk/sheepfolds.htm

These were the directions we had to follow to find just two of them.

near Kendal (SD 460 931 & SD 460 932)
DIRECTIONS: The site has two folds each containing a large boulder into which a mountain ash tree has been planted. At Underbarrow, between Kendal and Crossthwaite, take the road toward Crook for about 1 mile. The folds are south of Mountjoy Farm through a gate on the opposite side of the road. Walking up the slope, one fold is diagonally to the left, one to the right. The original tree growing in a rock is on the fell above.

This lead us deep into some of the prettiest farm country I’ve ever seen. Everything the cliche of British countryside evokes in you exists right here. The beautiful stone walls spider-webbed over rolling hills, dividing up emerald green fields dotted with fuzzy, white, bleating, shit machines and their deceptively innocent looking offspring.*** The roads were windy and narrow for a large band van and we had to drive a mile down the road before finding a narrow space to tuck it away. We walked under tunnels of trees, passed a cat sitting on an ancient stone wall, staring at us balefully while waiting in vain to hear the words that would prove our worth and admit us entrance to the magical realm currently under siege from the soulless clan know cryptically as “The Developers.” Once admitted we would be tasked to battle them in many small local committee meetings held at inconvenient times in airless city hall basements. Oh, and we saw a pheasant!

We walked through fields assailed by the angry baa-ing of spoiled lambies and stumbled upon the folds. They don’t look like a piece of art any more than the walls that surround them do. Which is to say they do. These two were reconstructed in such a way as to seamlessly integrate into the landscape. When you look closer you notice the details that turn them into something new. What a delightful few hours.

We got back, after barely squeezing through the increasingly narrow labyrinthian country lanes to pick up everyone else, get some dinner, and to decide that we would try to race the sunset to Windermere lake, lying about a half an hour away. Dinner did not agree with me so I held on as we wound through the darkening landscape with what I’d like to think was the grim stoicism of say, Percy Fawcett?

Windemere is obviously a major vacation spot. It was bright, full of lakeside shops and hotels. Very charming. Like Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman,” or a classy Myrtle Beach. It’s the largest natural lake in Britain and is home to the World of Beatrix Potter. I guess she lived or wrote around here. Did you know that when she died they found the bones of literally thousands of bunny rabbits in her basement? Apparently she dissected them in order to try to get to their essence and portray them more accurately. Benjamin Bouncer and Peter Piper became sadistic overlords and are still whispered about during story time at fuzzy baby bunny sleepovers. It’s true.

We enjoyed the sun setting over the mountains and called it a day. Tomorrow is Cardiff.

*”Raise the plinth” makes me giggle.
** I’m not religious. I spent ten minutes trying to come up with a better description and couldn’t. I love how no one seems to get overly fussed about anything, look as if they’re gauging exactly what level of idiot you are, but then everyone when you actually meet them is as open, kind, helpful, and inclined towards laughter as you could ever imagine.
*** Don’t turn your back - they’ll cut a bitch.

Tour 2018 - Glasgow (Day 4)

SoTD: Hippeas - organic chickpea puffs, Far Out Fajita Flavor.
I’m sorry. In my attempt to bring you unique salty snacks I’ve gone too far afield. I mean there was no way these were going to be good. It’s fucking powdered chickpeas reconstituted into a cheese doodle shape and sprinkled with store bought fajita seasoning. Now if they had called it astronaut hummus then I’d have been excited. Pretend you’re on the Apollo missions and pop some dried hummus in your mouth, add saliva and it turns into a dip-like paste in your mouth. Wow!

Britishism: Fox Rain - Brought to you today by the band Say Sue Me. They’re labelmates on Damnably Records and hail from South Korea. Shaun toured with them immediately preceding us. One day a rain shower popped up and the band said, “Oh look, fox rain!” Shaun of course asked what that meant and they told him this wonderful legend: The rain cloud sees the fox and falls hopelessly in love. It pursues the fox endlessly hoping for just another glance. The fox wants merely to lie in the sun and is unaware of the cloud’s desire. So whenever the cloud catches up to the fox, bringing with it the rain, the fox jumps up and runs away until it is in the sun again. So the next time a brief rain shower pops up know that the cloud briefly found the fox again.

Our hotel was just off the highway and I feared for my perambulations. I walked on a grassy patch next to the road and came on a small road with a few horsey farms. The first field I came to contained a single horse who upon seeing me ambled straight over, let me pet it, and began to graze right there. I said “I will name you Steve and I will hug you and pet you and squeeze you.” I walked for several miles along fields and through small wooded areas. Nothing much happened. I saw a lapwing and gloried in the sunny British countryside.

It made no difference at all

We were late leaving the hotel (not my fault I swear) and Shaun said we wouldn’t be able to stop at the Angel of the North. But at the last minute he said, “Fuck It- I’ve never not stopped with a band here,” pulled off the exit and said “ 5 minutes tops.” The Angel of the North is a huge metal sculpture created by Antony Gormley. It’s 66 ft tall and has a wingspan of 177 ft across. It’s right next to the A1 motorway so according to the BBC it’s seen by one person every second. People were having picnics on it’s lee side and children were running up and tumbling gleefully down the hill leading up to its base. I tapped one of the ribs of steel that give it its distinctive look, expecting a gonging sound, but it was solid steel. So substantial and wonderful, draped in a rusty brown color so distinctive a flower has been named after it. I saw a small memento mori with a sign that said, “you are loved.” I scoffed and said loudly to the happy people around me, “Love is an artificial construct designed to subjugate the weak-minded.” Then I kicked the sign over and stomped on it.*

I’ve never been to Glasgow before and the prospect of a new grand city is especially exciting. Lisa was feeling poorly with a bad cold or allergies and the energy of the band was at a bit of a low ebb. We went straight to the Centre for Contemporary Arts, which is where we were playing. The CCA is a beautiful facility with a cafe’ serving tons of vegetarian food, an exhibit space, and a performance space, all done up in modern clean interiors and full of beautifully cool people who occasionally stop in mid-stride, put the earpiece of their glasses into their mouths and mutter, “How is a crow like a MacBook Pro?” and then shake their heads and move on.

We set up and soundchecked. The space was incredible. Sounds barely echoed at all. Thus the sound on stage was the best I’ve ever had. I could hear everything but it didn’t seem loud at all. It was a big room and I was trying not to worry as to whether anyone would show. One of my favorite bands of all time is Superchunk. They don’t tour a bunch anymore and haven’t been to Glasgow in 17 years. The best time to remedy that would of course be the same night we made our debut. Several people had come to see us in Durham the night before because the were going to see them. I didn’t blame them. I would too. There’s only so many fans of MAWGR (Middle-Aged White Guitar Rock) left and soon we will find ourselves in the position of classical orchestras, playing to an audience of bald and blue-haired old dears suffering attrition during the intermission due to death, leaky bladders and full colostomy bags. We heard through the grapevine that they were having a time of it. Apparently the airline had misplaced their instruments coming over from Ireland, and then the hotel had sold their rooms. Proof there’s no such thing as a free ride even if you’ve put out one of the best albums of your career. Their new record “What a Time To Be Alive” is that most rare of things; a record with smart lyrics that rocks from beginning to end, with songs you can sing after it’s done. Anyway, Godspeed and all that.

By the time I finished the best veggie reuben I’ve ever had (by a long shot) I had to accept I wasn’t going to see much of Glasgow. Interestingly, we were opening for ourselves again this night and I was to join Chuck and Lisa onstage and play a few of my songs. I was unprepared and my voice was croaking like an underwater cow’s fart, but I didn’t care because the world is descending into fire and a few songs with pedestrian verses** won’t make much of a ripple either way. I played Conversation Lags and Chuck and Lisa sang. It was fun.

We had a nice audience. Somewhere in size between my fears and best hopes. They were of course the most discerning and clever people this side of Hadrian’s Wall. We’re playing a little better every night, and when Lisa’s voice gave out on “Beautiful,” our last song of the night, and Chuck jumped in to sing with her it was ragged and moving in the best way.

Tomorrow will be a driving day.

*none of that’s true
**Scott Hutchison being on my mind all day.

Tour 2018 - Durham (Day 3)

SoTD: Captain Tiptoes presents Lapsnack Habas Picante - Described as Incredibly British Spicy & Crunchy Broad Beans. Before I discuss the foodstuffs let me relay the pithyness written on the back of the sack. “That snipped, clipped stiff upper lipped, erect and square to the front Captain Tiptoes (assisted by Monica Cheesewax, the strangely beautiful daughter of Mr. Heritage Parsnip) bring you these perfectly shock resistant little beanies…” I’m not British and maybe this is a culturally acceptable level of cuteness, but ye gods does it piss me off. These are not snacks for children, that being the only possible excuse. Children wouldn’t eat them because they have more sense than the unshaven pork pie hat wearing aging hipsters these are meant for. As a snack what they’ve got going for them is that they’re not too greasy and don’t upset my stomach. When you bite into them they dissolve into a chalkiness that is almost not unpleasant. Their spiciness is wildly overstated - like the health benefits of having your ductwork professionally vacuumed, or the sexiness of skin tags. I don’t know, they stave off peckishness I guess.

Britishism: Screw Face - Stink Eye

Shaun quite kindly offered to drive Joe back into York (we were half an hour away) so he could spend the morning with his family and then take a train to Durham. That left us an hour before we had to get back and pick up the slugabeds at the hotel. I, quite triumphantly decided to go to the National Train Museum, devoted entirely to the works of Pat Monahan. They fucking love him there. Kind of like the Germans and Hasselhoff. In the much smaller section though there were a number of magnificent steam engines. One shed contained several of the Royal Carriages, including Queen Victoria’s train. Apparently she was the first Queen to ride by train, the chugging rhythm tickling her nethers in a way that was morally acceptable. The other shed was just massive, akin to the hangars in the Dayton Air Force Museum. And it was glorious. Huge, shiny, intricate machines with lots of valves, huge levers, and innumerable important looking dials. There’s a working turntable, a bullet train, and ummm…. a nice green one and oh hell, I don’t know shit about trains. They were just beautiful machines. You should go.

We left for Durham and with Joe gone we were able to indulge in our favorite pastime - discussing how cute he is when he sleeps. It’s breathtaking.

The drive held some nice treats. We passed the White Horse of Thirsk. It was designed and financed by Thomas Taylor, around 1857. He had seen the chalk horses in the south of England and wanted one too. It’s a 314 ft long and 228 ft high horse carved into a hillside. The seemingly difficult obstacle of the rock in the north being limestone and not chalk was overcome by dumping six tons of limestone to change it from grey to white. It still needs the occasional touch up. I just read that during WWII it had to be covered because it made too good of a target for German bombers.

We stopped for lunch at Middlesbrough. We were introduced to a place called Union Jacks that sold Pieminister pies. These are savory, pretty much what we’d called pot pies, and we’re told an outstanding version of them they are. They were fantastic of course but the thing that made me happy was something you could buy called Parmo or Teesside Parmesan. I’ll just let the internet describe it: “Whereas Chicken Parmesan is a flattened slab of chicken, pan-fried while coated with breadcrumbs and then grilled with Parmesan cheese, a Parmo involves deep-frying the chicken in an egg and breadcrumb batter, then smothering it in Bechamel sauce, before finally grilling with cheese.” Chuck and Lisa had it and said it was, if not life changing, at least pretty damn good. The reason I was pleased even though I’m a vegetarian is I’m always thrilled to find local or regional customs that survive the globalization of culture. You don’t have to like Cincinnati chili to be pleased that there is something made and massively consumed in our region of southern Ohio that is almost unique to it.

The next bit was something Shaun was quite excited about. The food took longer than expected to come out and Shaun began driving with purpose whilst muttering under his breath. We were hurtling through an industrial type area and after going round a curve in the road saw a large blue structure traversing the River Tees. It was the Tees Transporter Bridge and a relatively rare type of bridge it is. Basically you drive onto a platform which is an open air gondola that can cross the river in 90 seconds. It was built in this manner because of a 1907 Parliament decree stating that river traffic must remain unaffected. We pulled up just as they were loading for the last crossing of the day. Mind you, it was only 3:00 in the afternoon and apparently closes for an hour at lunch as well, but Shaun said it’s volunteers run it so this relaxed approach to river crossings is better than none I guess. We crossed satisfyingly and then sat on the far bank and ate our pies, trying to ignore the discarded couches, refrigerators, and clothing.All the while hoping to avoid the bodies undoubtedly strewn about like eggs at a blind kids house on Easter morning.

On to Durham. I was quite excited because Durham possesses a world class cathedral and castle perched on the bluff above the River Tyne. If I lived there I would visit the Tyne daily.* We were playing the Old Cinema Launderette and as we pulled up I noticed we were nowhere near a river, stream, brook, creek or cathedral. Just a stretch of suburban looking street that could be anywhere. So be it. The Laundrette is a tiny space that functions as a small laundromat, bar, and music venue. It was super cute and hipstery. We had been told we would have to be very quiet and this turned about to be very true. There was no opener so Chuck and Lisa would do a duo set and then the band would try to create a set that didn’t rise above the level of a living room stereo. We set-up in front of the dryers, soundchecked, and busted out for the hour available to us for dinner. Shaun is Celiacs and he had been told there was a fish and chip shop in the city center that could make gluten free fish. This is where those of us with dietary restrictions come in handy. Because of this shop we were forced to leave the neighborhood and I got to at least see in passing the cathedral. We walked through narrow ancient streets and ended up eating in the town square, surrounded by awesome people watching. The women of the north in particular once again proving their imperviousness to the cold and their wizard-like ability to walk with startling rapidity on cobblestones wearing towering high heels. There was statue of Neptune that’s 270 years old, and a timeline tracing the history of the city back to AD 995 when it was founded by an instance of divine intervention.** Would love to visit again and do this lovely city justice.***

On the way to dinner we came up with a list of songs we thought could be played quiet enough to not incense the person living above the laundrette. Exciting and terrifying. I love playing a varied set but we had not played a bunch of these songs in years. We’re not the E Street Band. We can’t play a whole catalog at the drop of a hat. Well, we can, just not well. Like tonight! Here’s a sampling of some of the songs we attempted this cozy night: Motorcycle Song, Little Paper Birds, Don’t Leave Just Now, and Acetylene. I can’t remember what else, but it was definitely “A Very Special Needs Evening with Wussy.” It was fun though, the audience absolutely dear, and Joe even played the piano on “Beautiful.”

Tomorrow is Glasgow.

*Everytime I come upon the Tyne I’m struck by how moist and wet it is...
(Fuck - Durham is on the River Wear. Well that’s a pretty big thing to get wrong but I’m not ready to let go of my joke just yet.)(or ever it seems)
** Matthew Sweet’s best song? Perhaps.

*** Or Claire's. Or Forever 21. Whichever.

Tour 2018 - York (Day 2)

SoTD: Onion Rings by Sainsbury’s - Similar in flavor to Funyuns but described as onion flavored maize and wheat semolina snacks. I’m ambivalent. After a drink they’re better than a fevered wank,* but when you eat them you get a feeling as if your body is rejecting them. Not forcibly, but a gentle wave of sweet nausea passes through you similarly, if on a much smaller scale, to that first prick of morphine you recieve after a mortar attack on your trench has removed your shin. Or not. Salty, very slightly spicy, with a definite tear the roof off of your mouth texture.

Britishism: Absolute Cack - piece of shit. Kath apologized for the directions to the load-in at the BBC. “Oh you got the old directions didn’t you? Sorry, those are absolute cack. The new ones are superlative.”

Holiday weekend traffic sucked so we didn’t get into York until 3:00 with load-in being at 4:00. We bopped down to the Shambles, the open air market and twisty narrow road-ed shopping area in the old town center area. Think Diagon Alley, and with three shops devoted to Harry Potter within 100 feet of each other you’re clearly meant to, and you’ll have an idea.

We were playing at the Crescent, as we did last time here. The show was put on by, what one person with the necessary knowledge described as one of the only honest promoters in the business, the fabulous Joe Coates. He’s just a kind, endlessly amusing man. Both shows he promoted had full houses so obviously good at his job as well. We loaded in at 4:00 but due to a sound ordinance could make no noise until 6:00. By the time soundcheck was over we had maybe an hour and a half before showtime. Alas, exploration of the magical city of York would largely have to be relinquished. Shaun and I had an amazing meal at a place in the Shambles called El Piano. Everything is vegetarian and gluten free so we were set. We ate sitting on a bench facing the Minster Cathedral. We passed the birthplace of Guy Fawkes and tipped our hats to the failed hairy plotter. If you’re not familiar with Guy Fawkes look him and the gunpowder revolution up. The failure of the plot to blow up the King is now yearly celebrated with the burning of effigies and dispensing of fireworks. His goal was to restore Catholicism to England via blood and fire, which is rather hard to get behind. Let’s see, I’ll take “More Murder for God” Alex. We have in the states our own failed, possibly batshit revolutionary, by the name of John Brown. His suicidal attack on Harper’s Ferry is barely talked about much less celebrated with fireworks. His goal was to light the flame that would free the slaves. And some say in that at least he succeeded. Violence is abhorrent but I’d rather celebrate a bonkers man who thought he could systematically take down slavery rather than that mass-murdering fuckhead Christopher Columbus. Oh, and did you know that using the word guy to refer to a man comes directly from Guy Fawkes' name. Initially it meant a poorly or oddly dressed man, but by the time it travelled across the ocean it just meant male. Now you know…..

Joe’s family, containing a grandmother, two babies, and three adults were travelling up from North Cumberbatch, or wherever, and got stuck in six hours of traffic. There was vomiting, crying, Ted Talks, and desperation. Joe was stressed and worried, Chuck was frustrated trying to play on a series of borrowed guitars, and I, while walking back to the venue had looked down into some medieval storm drain and heard the abyss yell, ”Tag!!” Great. I had hoped it would take longer to find me seeing as I had put an ocean between us, but now it was once again my turn to look back into it. So we were in tender shape considering it was only our second show. The audience was attentive but quiet enough to make us wonder if we were going over. When the show was done though they erupted into gleeful shouting and showered us with enough praise so as to make us feel like we had found a long lost family.

I love love love this city.
Tomorrow is Durham

*I’m in England. It’s fun. Leave me alone.

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 2018 – Departure Day

I’ve been looking forward to this tour and getting back to writing the blog for months, but now it’s arrived and I’m just sitting at the Costa watching traffic whoosh by like a deadline* thinking I can wait another day before starting and I won’t be so far behind I can’t get caught up. But needs must so back to the beginning I guess.

Starting the day in Cincinnati going in to work of course, then getting a cup of coffee with a friend before the van comes to pick me up. Which sounds like a lovely euphemism for death if I’ve ever heard one. “Well, I sure would’ve liked to play tiddlywinks with the Queen once before the van comes to pick me up, but it’s been a good life.” Or something like that. As my friend and I were walking through the town square there was a local insane person laying (lying?) on a bench with her eyes closed and her top leg jerking back and forth. As we passed by she said, without opening her eyes, “Don’t ride on Air Force One today, I’m not fixing the engines.” I thought that was wonderful. The demented are truly the spice** of life. Then I realized I was flying quite a long way that day and maybe she was assuming Norwegian Air was Air Force One and maybe her insanity was brought on by her prophetic visions. Fuck. Omen #1. I go to the bank, receive the typical bad news because it’s been far too long since we’ve eaten the rich, glance at my watch, and it’s exactly 9:11 a.m. Fuck. Omen #2

Joe is already in England with family so it’s Lisa, John, and Chuck picking me up. We saw a truck carrying a recently dismembered tree and Chuck immediately launched into a story about a childhood friend who one night was also in a truck carrying logs. Something went amiss and the two log men ended up having an accident which left the truck half in a ditch. They had gotten out of the truck and begun the customary walk around the vehicle to check for damage, when the ropes gave way and the logs broke free crushing one of the men. Chuck’s friend watched the man die. Horrible. Good story though. Unexpectedly Chuck then went on. “You know, about 6 months before that (the he shall remain nameless man) was working in a grain silo when something went wrong there as well and the guy he was working with was suffocated by the falling grain. He was considered something of the town schleprock after that.” Indeed. The fact that this man is a fucking murderer seems to have been swept under the rug and I for one will not have it. Look for the in-depth investigation on the “Matlock presents the Wussy Murder Hour” program when we get back. Chuck then finished with, “I remember once the (aforementioned death merchant) and another guy were having a hock war on my back porch.*** The (then future killer) was leaning back to prepare the Big Bertha of loogies when the other guy spit one directly into his mouth.” Thoughtful pause. “I wonder if that’s when it all started to go wrong for him?”

We made it to Chicago and endured the typical air traveller indignities. When we got to the gate our plane was already parked or whatever it is planes do, and what to my wandering eye should appear but god-damned Ernest Shackleton’s face on the tail of the plane. Because I want to be reminded of a journey where the primary vessel ends up smashed to pieces and a year of deprivations is required to return home. Omen #3. Jesus, was Amelia Earhart too busy to model?

Our flight was delayed about 15 minutes due to the conveyor belt breaking down and forcing the porters to hand carry all the luggage to the plane.**** We arrived at Gatwick, entered England with our privates unmolested, and found Chuck’s guitar had been smashed enroute. It was split where the neck joins the body and the case looked like it had thrown itself on a grenade to save the platoon. It turns out on the Chicago end there had been an accident with the conveyor belt and somehow or other the inhabited spirit of Charles Cleaver had left the guitar and gummed up the entire mechanical system devoted to other people’s convenience. It was the only bright spot in an otherwise shitty situation. We met Shaun, our driver/tour manager/merch salesman for this tour, drove to London for gear, drove to RoyalLemonSqueasy or some such, to pick up Joe, drove to Manchester, went to the wrong hotel, and approximately 30 hours after leaving fell insensible into bed. Fuck.

*Douglas Adams – wait for it
**Logically then the insane control the universe
***Whereupon you hock (energetically spit) loogies (mucous laden saliva) at each other.
****wait for it

Tour 2016 - London (Days 14-16)

Salty Snack of the Day: Howdah Onion Bhaji – Kind of the shape and texture of sesame sticks but a rice based snack. Delicious but spicy as all get out.

Britishisms Heard Uttered: Bloody – I didn’t hear it once. Has this most British of institutions fallen by the wayside? Is it what the biddies mutter under their breath when the price of porridge goes up by two pence? Is it the consarnit or balderdash of England? I really fucking hope not.

Birds: Robin – I really wanted to see one and I did it! Oddly the robin is part of the chat family here but the blackbird is part of the thrush family.

(Seen in the Royal Gardens) Pochard, Barnacle Goose, Goldeneye, Pelicans (introduced in 1664 as a gift from the Russian ambassador)

These are not show days and Joe and his “wife” are already in Bath for the duration. Monday was very simply driving, going to George and Jan’s place, returning rented gear, figuring out paperwork, then heading to the hotel. We were out by some airport with nothing to walk to, so we ended up staying in for the evening, drinking beer in the hotel café and hanging out with Olie for the last time this tour.

This then would seem a good time to sing the praises of our man-crush Olie. His job is to drive us to and from gigs. The fact that he helped us load-in\out, set-up and tear down gear, sell merch, run and get food, and act as tour guide just shows how much he went above and beyond the call of duty. And in the grand tradition of British comedians he deployed a wide range of accents, voices, and silly walks to keep us pissing ourselves laughing. We lucked out.

As for the rest of the last two days I went full on tourist. I’m just going to list everything I saw and keep descriptions to a minimum. I’m already walking a thin line between Rick Steves and middle-aged man slide show.* I will say that London more than lived up to its reputation as one of the worlds great cities. There was a point where I’m pretty sure I didn’t hear the English language for an hour, but instead a steady flow of languages that were melodiously unfamiliar. It felt like a literal crossroads to the world and I loved it. John E. will hopefully post a recording he made when he was standing on the sidewalk listening to the sound of Indian music being performed in someone’s apartment above him. Some men walking up to the building asked if he liked music and of course John said yes. So then, at 2:00 in the morning no less, they invited him to come up and listen. He got to play a harmonium and talk with everyone.

Tuesday:
My cold was at its worse and I was probably hungover. London was as gloomy as a Death Eater’s mixer after the bridge mix has run out, and promised rain and humidity in spades all day.

• Navigated Tube successfully. (Thanks Harry Beck!)

• Trafalgar Square for coffee, writing, recovering, and realizing there were far too many tourist groups around to even fathom.

• Walking away from people took me to St. James Royal Gardens with all the Royal birds, Royal grass, Royal bird poop distributed with the enthusiasm, dedication, and equality of a Communist’s wet dream, Royal Cigarette butts, Royally brazen squirrels, etc.

• Churchill’s Bunker Museum. Really expensive. Good museum on the man’s life and visits to the map room and such are very cool. But really expensive.

• Buckingham Palace. There was long line of posh, white people in coattails and hats and frumpy dresses and hats holding invitations. Turns out it was a big tadoo for the Queen’s 90th I left the Princess Di latch-hook rug I made in 1997 against the gate and walked away feeling closure at last.

• Parliament House and Big Ben

• Tube to Picadilly Square

• The Royal Society!! Did I mention it was my birthday? Well here was my gift to myself. There was a talk open to the public that night. The Royal Society came into existence in 1660 and has done things like publish Newton’s ‘Principa Mathematica” and Hooke’s “Micrographia.” (there was a small exhibit on that as well) The talk this evening was by the 2015 Wilkins-Bernal-Medawar prize winner Professor Hasok Chang and was titled, “Who Cares About the History of Science?” It was a wonderful talk even when I didn’t understand it. So cool to be there.

• End of tour celebratory dinner with George and Jan in East London.

Wednesday

• Walked to the Rough Trade Record Store in the Brick Lane part of London, and then all around the neighborhood. East London reminds me of Brooklyn with its transitional areas and hipsters.

• Decided I would walk the two miles to The Tate Modern so as to see more of London. Was supposed to take 40 minutes but didn’t pay enough attention to maps and it took two very wet hours. Still, I saw what felt like the financial part of Manhattan, with lots of cool modern buildings and people looking smart and business-ey.

• I have to admit I was hurting by the time I got to the Tate. Throbbing feet, sweaty, wet, and just kind of spent. The rest of the day, however wonderful, would take on a slight Bataan sheen.

• The Tate was under renovation but the collection was lovely. Lots of classics but also a nice focus on the incredible power of protest and social commentary that the visual arts can achieve maybe better than the other fine arts. The building felt a little austere with mile after mile of white walls and black beams.

• Met John and Lisa at St. Paul’s Cathedral** for evening choir service. The choir was all male with voices ranging from pre-change to change the channel – that hippie David Attenborough is on. Those voices in that space was profoundly moving and deeply beautiful. We all three wiped tears away and I would’ve likely begun sobbing except for being mostly dead inside. Afterwards the only woman involved in the performance of the service was greeting people and I stopped to thank her. She then said an amazing thing to me. “Do you teach people to sing?” I was surprised at this leap of intuition and told her yes and who I taught. We then had a lovely talk about how the arts are being cut in England, just as in the States, and all the reasons why music is so profoundly important to our core humanity. She said they were sending out a choirmaster to the poorer communities to try and fill in a little of what is being lost. The older I get, the greater the import of service to others seems to be. Connections between people and peoples have to be forged, they don’t just happen without effort.

• Came across where Sherlock fell from St. Barts.

• Walked across Millenium Bridge on a day the Dementors held in thrall, and then peeped on the Globe Theater.

*I can’t define redundancy but I know it when I see it.

** I chose cake but they were out. Damn.

Tour 2016 - Bristol (Day 13)

Salty Snack of the Day: Pipers Wissington Tomato – It tastes like tomatoes. I love tomatoes. I hated these. Every time I tried to eat them it was like a crispy stone falling through the good parts of my soul and taking a little bit with it. I suddenly wanted to feed puppies chocolate and read Rod McKuen’s poetry to shut-ins. Did not finish.

Britishisms Heard Uttered: Birmingham Twat – Not a thing in and of itself I assume. However whenever one of us would say Birmingham Olie would affect a mocking nasal American accent and say “BermingHAM” making the ham sound like the salty meat. One is supposed to pronounce it as if the word is being swallowed as it’s being spoken. “Brmnhmm.” But if one said twat like hot he would say, “No. Twat like hat.” Honestly.

Birds: Swallow

This will be the shortest post of the tour as it took nine hours to get from Edingburgh to Bristol. We climbed back into the silver bullet of hate and set out.

In the U.S. if you want to stop and make, or get fuel and food, you just get off at an exit and avail yourself of whatever is there. In the U.K. they’re called Services and they were lifesavers. It’s set up closer to the way say the Pennsylvania Turnpike has their service plazas. Daily we lived off of good fresh sandwiches and readymade salads like Beets with Feta from M&S or Witherspoons. Olie, however had been telling us that there is one service stop that was the greatest in the whole country.

It’s somewhere in Cumbria and it’s magical. Plates of sweet, bakery treats great you. There’s a shop with good cheese and wine, and the café has vegetarian lasagna, sausages, fresh peas with mint. Is a big deal? No? Yes? * Ok, imagine you’re travelling for 9 hours on the highways of America and surviving off of gas station snacks or fast food. It’s horrible and you end up feeling like shit. Now imagine a Whole Foods with all the smugness sucked out like meat from Jack Klugman’s colon. That’s this place in a nutshell. But even the regular U.K services I mentioned before are packed with fresh food. No wonder the United States has eating problems. I’m writing this as we drive back to Cincinnati from NYC and the only kind of fresh food I can find is yogurt, boiled eggs in a bag, Cracker Barrel cheese rectangles and carrot sticks. It’s enraging. We’ve been trying to strategize how to eat healthy while touring this summer and all we can figure out is to bring a cooler, find grocery stores, and make our own breakfasts and lunches. Hell, even Starbucks, who I am no great fan of, has vastly more fresh options in the U.K.

Anyway, you can imagine how bedraggled** we looked as we pulled up to the Fleece in Bristol. Last show of the tour, hostel sleep the night before, fighting colds; we were a fright. We were ending the tour the way we began by opening up for Shonen Knife. It’s a fairly famous Bristol venue and bigger than we would play on our own. (for instance Icicle Works are playing there SOOON!***) Big box, older building, audibly sticky floors; classic club in other words. Leggy, the Cincinnati trio traveling the island the same time as us, opened the show and played such an energetic, awesomely rocking set I went out to the van and said we were in danger of getting blown off the stage. And thank God for it, because it was just the kick in the ass we needed to finish the tour strong. We had no soundcheck and limited time so we dispensed with our usual pleasantries and made as much noise as we could for 45 minutes. It was a bigger crowd than Gateshead and they were far more responsive. We did a run and gun; loading straight out and leaving right away, dead on our feet.

I went on a short walk and right near the club was an active archaeological dig of a site going back to mediaeval times. Of course it was happening so someone can build on top of it, but I’m guessing you can’t plant a tulip without coming across history in this country.

A block or two away from a picturesque bridge crossing what I think is the river Avon, I found the closed St. Nicholas Market, which was started in 1743, but that was all I really had time to see.

Tomorrow is back to London and taking care of business in the non-Elvis, more Colonel Tom Parker way.

*Written in an Italian accent. Go back and read it that way. It’s works better.

** Did you know draggled was a word? It means to soil by dragging over wet or dirty ground.

***When I wrote that in Word, I started the phrase at a font size of 8 and every word got bigger so it was just like a Whisper to a Scream. I can't figure out how to do that in WordPress but I just wanted you to know that I was trying.

Tour 2016 - Edinburgh (Day 12)

Salty Snack of the Day: Seabrook (Lovingly made in Yorkshire) Sea Salt and Vinegar – Handed to me as the van door opened in Edinborough. Salt and Vinegar in the UK are much less intense than at home. You can actually eat them without opening up sores in your mouth. This is an excellent chip.

 Britishisms Heard Uttered: Chuffed – “I’m right chuffed by that!”

 Birds: Black-Headed Gull, Little Tern, (I felt confident at the time at least) Red Kite, Pheasant (dead), Oystercatcher, Jackdaw

Today was to be our last headlining show and our only one in Scotland. But before that all sorts of epic, potentially dangerous, undoubtedly heroic things would have to happen. Like Olie getting up far too early to take the ailing van to the garage, then taking a cab back to the hotel to pick Chuck and I up, (because we’re just slightly less heroic- like that sycophantic Samwise Clamcheese from the Lord of the Flies) The upside to not remaining cozily enrobed in a Travelodge duvet like the lazy bastards who are everyone else, is that I got to see a little more of the actual city of Birmingham. We were staying in an industrial area with the Land Rover/Jaguar factory right next door. We never went through the city center but moved into an area that increasingly looked like an American city. It wasn’t just the litter and graffiti, or the barbwire and sketchy looking buildings, or even the palpable sense if diminished opportunities… Oh wait, yes it was. I am not saying Birmingham is like that. I’m just saying this street was. And of course this is where the rental place was. It was a dirty, piece of shit place and if I could remember the name I’d launch a flame war against them and their shoddy business. Even though we were paying 100 pounds a day and there were Transit vans onsite, they gave us an old LDV with an empty tank, no washer fluid, the engine check light on, and hard plastic city-bus like seats that wouldn’t fold down or adjust. So needless to say (he said) loading in gear was annoying as hell. We had to line the seats with pillows or parts of our bodies would begin to seize up within 15 minutes.

Anyway, enough of that. We had about a seven-hour drive to Edinburgh and we were of course late. Flash forward a few hours and we entered the region of Cumbria. From here until we arrived the scenery became more beautiful with every mile. Rolling hills, green green fields, cascading streams, stone walls containing regular sheep and the long hairy kind as well as long hairy Highland cattle. Plus, actual cool birds! By the time we got to Scotland the roads were too curvy to write and the buildings and villages looked hewn from a time so long past you expected to see broadswords and buboes. My father had told me Scotland was maybe the favorite place he’d visited in the world, with its unearthly beauty and decent, open people. I see what he means.

As we approached our venue in Edinburgh, The Electric Circus, the architecture made the inhabitants of the van sound like slack-jawed yocals watching a fireworks display.

After a quick load-in Olie, Lisa, and I went for our usual one-hour to see a town walk. We walked by the Gothic tower created as a tribute to Robert Shaw,* and began walking up the hill towards the Edinburgh Castle. There was a long set of stairs and it was satisfying to see everyone walking up on the left. It’s a chicken and egg thing isn’t it? Does the side of the street you drive upon influence the side of a walkway or staircase you walk down, or the other way around? (Potential doctoral thesis anyone?)

Anyway, Lisa and I bought tartan scarves because Scotland, and as we re-entered the street we heard the sound of bagpipes coming from the direction of the Castle. Lisa took off running. I didn’t because my cool, dispassionate demeanor simply does not allow it. We never figure out why, but in front of the Castle was not just a group of piping baggers but local bugle and drum corps. They played music that alternated between triumphant and plaintive while executing parade maneuvers that would have made Dr. Heimlich faint with pleasure. Arguable highlight of the tour.

The Electric Circus is an interesting mix of intended audiences. They have private karaoke rooms, which seemed to be the focus of many hen-dos. These were different from the Cardiff hen-dos, which were patently silly and involved props and costumes. These parties were executed by fiercely intense women dressed to the nines, wearing high heels that would make Isachar Zacharie roll over in his grave,** and woe to those who would stand in their way. Like me for instance as I was standing in front of a door looking through the small window into a mysterious hallway with glowing doors on either side. “All right, let us through,” commanded a voice that surely in a past life conjured up sand storms with which to bury invading armies. I found myself inexplicably bowing and scraping in obsequious retreat. I am not mocking these women. They are awesome. At the end of the evening as they left the club with relaxed smiles and arms around each others shoulders, obviously heroically drunk, they were still gliding over the cobblestones in those impossible heels as if they were wearing slippers on Sunday morning.

And then we get on stage and the audience begins to cheer us with the vigor of most crowds when they hear the harmonica at a Billy Joel concert and they’re like “Oh my God – he’s playing Piano Man! I didn’t think he was going to do it and then bam – first encore!” This was our 13th show in 12 days. We’ve never done that before. We usually have a day off tucked in there somewhere and we were on fumes.*** So it was purely the energy of the audience that turned this into one of the best, most memorable shows of the tour. People arm in arm singing along, a roar of cheers after every song. In general, the British audiences are unsurprisingly a little more reserved than in the States (as well as not talking loudly through every song by every performer) but the Scottish threw that all out the window. It was a joyous experience. About halfway through the set Lisa said, “Ah, so this is where our people come from. This is like playing at home.”

After the set we ate Nandos (3rd time) in the apartment/green room a few doors down from the club.**** The night before I’d woken up several times with a sore throat and it was now apparent that it was here to stay. Also, and wait for this, the entire band, Olie, and Joe’s “wife” were sleeping in bunk beds in one room at the hostel across the street. I had vowed I would drink good single malt scotch while in Scotland and a stiff bit of courage before the hostile seemed appropriate. And while I’m not a whiskey drinker I could get used to that.

View from a Hostel. (Second best Kim Wilde song)

The hostel experience can be summed up in this one interaction. As Chuck, John and I were bringing guitars up to the room, we went through yet another door (there was one every five feet I swear) into another narrow hallway, when a beautiful young women steps out of the showers in a towel. Us three middle-aged men immediately averted our eyes and begin shuffling to try to get out of her way. Of course we’d completely jammed up the space like Michael Jordan and realized the only way out was forward. As we went through at least two more doors she resignedly followed us while we issued forth mumbled, “sorrys and almost theres.” We felt like oafs. The night passed in a chorus of snores and bunk bed head smashed curses. It was ridiculous and hilarious and thank God the only one on the tour. 

Tomorrow is Bristol.

*Sir Walter Scott in truth, but I accidentally wrote Robert Shaw. Don’t you love him? Of course Jaws, but Force 10 from Navarone, Taking of Pelham 1,2,3 (everything I do is funky like Lee Dorsey) Anyway, at 200 feet 6 inches it’s the largest monument to a writer in the world. It was supposed to only be 200 feet but his wife asked for just six inches more.

**President Lincoln’s foot doctor. I just spent the last 15 minutes reading about him. Cool story.

*** Not literally. We don’t advocate or partake in huffing.

**** Quick aside. In the van John typically sat up front with Olie and they got on like a house on fire. One day we heard the sound of goats screaming from Olie’s phone and those two almost crying from laughing. Jump back to the green room. Bands are given one key and when you enter you climb a winding set of stairs. As it turns out the doorbell wasn’t working. So as some of us are sitting up there, most likely in a stupor, we hear the surprisingly loud sound of a goat screaming. I run down the stairs and there is Olie summoning us through the mail slot while everyone else is doubled over on the very pubic sidewalk laughing. Maybe one of those you had to be there moments but definitely an entry into the band pantheon.

Tour 2016 - Birmingham (Day 11)

Salty Snack of the Day: M&S Prawn Cocktail – I had to try at least one prawn snack right? I wasn’t looking forward it but was told by a concerned local that the Marks and Spencer brand was the best. Just very slightly fishy with a little tomato in there. Not that notable either way really.

Britishism of the Day: Bollocks "It's like putting clean underwear over dirty bollocks."

Birds: Grey Heron and probable Buzzard flying over.

I don’t remember much of the drive to Birmingham. Days are starting to run together. I met a motoring enthusiast with a broken down 40-year old Morgan who was ever so happy to tell me the entire history of the company and the various models of Morgans then and now. (always accompanied by the liter size of the engine) They still create 200 cars a year largely by hand. He was still talking as I backed away, lost in his reverie, waiting for the break calipers to cool down enough so he could drive home and tinker some more.

We were set to play the Hare and Hounds in Birmingham, but it was actually in an area called King’s Heath, a suburb about 5 miles from the city center. We were running late because of repeated bouts of horrific traffic. In order to stave off my usual soundcheck crash I order my first typical English breakfast.* Yesterday a pasty, today an English Breakfast. Is there anything I’m missing that is classically English, but also potentially vegetarian? Ooh, crumpets! I should have one of those. Wouldn't mind some clotted cream too. Mmmm....clots.

We walked into the venue’s room and were engulfed in smothering fog machine smoke. Since we were late we flew through the soundcheck and began to look around. The H&H was a very old, maze-like, gorgeous pub and venue. The walls were covered in stunning art deco tiles, and I found a courtyard that felt like a secret hidden in the middle of the building.

I ate my breakfast for dinner, (baked beans with a hash brown floating in them, toast, egg, tomatoes, and grilled haloumi cheese) and looked up the history of the place. And it was haunted! Here’s an excerpt describing the events in question:

In the 1990's barmaid, Marion Powell, had an experience she will never forget! She went down to the cellar to get the cleaning products she needed at the start of her shift when she spotted an overwhelming blackness come rushing down the stairs towards her and engulfed her! Marion describes it as pure evil.  But that wasn't the worst of it! She then heard "GET OUT!!!" screamed at her and she needed no further incentive to run out of the pub!

Sometime earlier the landlord noticed a foul smell coming from the sewage system and it had become blocked by a black gunge coming through the walls of the cellar.  It seems that the building next door was the site of the city gallows.  The bodies of the executed criminals were pushed into a trough which now forms part of the cellar wall of the pub!! It's ok though, they have built a new wall now between the cellar and the old building.

Today we often meet Harey Harold, our friendly ghost, who occasionally plays with the lighting and music systems as well as knocking the odd thing off the shelves. 

Except I just found out this story came from a different Hare and Hounds. Piss. Oh well, it’s a good story.

Anyway, The H&H we were at had a plaque stating UB40 had made their debut there, and it’s legitimately considered one of the best small venues in the UK. As has become the habit we were treated well, provided tea, coffee, water and beer, and of course the sound was excellent. We played an abbreviated set because there was a DJ up after us. The crowd was kind of far away from us and mostly hidden by the rock fog, but it was a good night.

Olie had spent a good portion of the evening under the van trying to fix what now seemed like an exhaust issue. After the show he reported that it hadn’t worked and was getting steadily worse. With a long drive to our last headlining show in Scotland the next day, he said he was going to try a 24 hour Mercedes Benz garage, but that we were probably going to have to attempt to rent a van the next morning. Olie was obviously displeased and left for the garage around midnight with the plan to plead our situation using many dire adjectives and puppy dog eyes. He returned shortly after with the place being locked down and inaccessible. So tomorrow at the crack of dawn we shall sally forth,** deposit his van, rent a different one, and still try to make soundcheck. Will we make it? Prospects look dim as the dim prospectors settle in for an uneasy night of fitful sleep.***

*With Linda McCartney sausage. I can’t believe there’s enough left of her after all this time but she was delicious.

**Sally Worth. Whatever.

***How’s that for a cliffhanger? It’s a pretty shit one isn’t it? Dammit.

Tomorrow is Edinburgh

Tour 2016 - Brighton (Day 10)

Salty Snack of the Day: Leighton Brown Sweet Potato and Cheese and Jalapeno Crisps – Not a very common brand I gather but ridiculously delicious. Oh and before the show a couple of audience members who have reading the blog provided an entertaining and educational discussion  about the merits of regional salty snacks. And when people began shouting out different snacks during our set I was tickled beyond belief.

Britishisms Heard Uttered: Wee – As in pee. In the Windmill’s men’s room, one peed against a ceramic wall where the collective urine was collected in a gutter-sized trough and sent steaming to the right. During the second afternoon, when the festival was still going on, a little boy said to his father, “Daddy, I’ve never had a wee in one of these before!” He was so innocent and excited he didn’t realize it was actually barbaric.

 Birds: I saw one species of bird in Brighton. The Herring Gull – large, noisy, and ubiquitous; they are the American tourists of the bird world.

Signs That Sound Naughty: All three of these were spotted on the way to the hotel after playing Brighton. Will likely not be a regular feature.
Sussex Tent Show
Arlington Upper Dicker
Polegate Willingdom

 We got up and hustled out of Leicester as every one was excited to get to Brighton, a seashore town made famous to me by the Who’s “Quadrophenia.” We had about an hour and a half to see the sights before soundcheck so Olie, who lives there, played tour guide and took us around. It was a stunning, perfectly sunny day as Olie parked the van at the beach by the huge Ferris Wheel. The beach at Brighton is composed of rocks. Some as big as a steak bone, some patches of small pebbles, but most the size of a small rubber bouncing ball. A bit difficult to walk in but the child in me, as well as Chuck, (our inner children are conjoined and named Bo and Percival) began selecting the most interesting examples until we had a pocketful of rocks.

The beach cuts towards the ocean in a steep terraced fashion and when the water was pulled back into the ocean as the bigger waves receded it made a hissing, bee-like sound I loved. There seemed to be a lot of what looks like flint in their composition, but regardless, the rocks make a glassine sound when knocked together either by us or the ocean. Just lovely.

Next we began moving into town via the South Lanes. Very narrow, twisty, pedestrian only roads going back to the city’s fishing town origins, but now full of unusual posh shops like the one that created these two-foot high edible chocolate eggs.

We walked by the Pavilion, described as a pleasure palace built for King George the IV. By the time it was done it had domes, minarets, and towers, reflecting a decidedly Indian flare. It’s quite stunning even if it was just built so a spoiled prince would have a place to party and shag.

Then into the North Laines, spelled differently for reasons I could look up, but I’ve already looked two things up and honestly it’s just below the threshold of fucks I give. The North Laines continued the trend of cool antique/vintage shops, bookstores and such. And here is where I’d like to state my favorite thing about Brighton. It’s a beach town, a longstanding tourist destination, but it is almost entirely bereft (bereft can be a good thing) of cheesy chain stores. Of course there are some sops to tourism. The world famous Pier, which had closed by the time I got to it, looks just packed with noxious family entertainments. But it has retained a certain elegance. Olie says it’s a town very accepting to artists and the odd. I could easily spend several happy days here I think.

We split up for about half an hour while Olie went back to fetch the van. I had a half pint, sat outside watching the world go by and eating my first Cornish Pasty. (rhymes with patsy or ummm…rhinoplasty) Like a large empanada but with dough more similar to that of a pie. I had the cheese and onion and it was like a Hot Pocket fit for a very kind, benevolent king.

On to the Hope and Ruin, our venue for the night. The downstairs pub and restaurant were super cool with all kinds of hipster shit on the wall. (Not literally – although I did contribute a little smackeral later on) They had fit a camper (caravan) into one corner and turned it into a vegan kitchen. I enjoyed their Krautwork vegan dog later. The windows were open to the sidewalk and we all sat there for a bit, reveling in the beautiful day and rather fetching populace.

The venue itself was a lovely clean version of the rock bar box. When the soundman, a fastidious and thorough man named Leon, spent a full five minutes just on the Joe’s kick drum sound, Lisa laid down on the stage to wait and we all drooped a little bit. But oh my God it was the David of kick drum sounds, and the rest of the band sounded just as good. It was like we were getting studio sound in a club.

After check everyone went off to get food but I was still engorged by my pasty. I headed towards a very thin, incredibly tall and modern looking structure that Pierced (2nd worst James Bond ever) the sky. When I reached it I saw it was not yet completed but would eventually have a clear glass restaurant or some such riding up and down it like a doughnut on a hot dog. When I asked Olie’s girlfriend (a thoroughly charming and delightful young lady far too good for Olie ) she had several choice words for that horrible, expensive monstrosity. I will say, the early days of the project appear to have nothing to do with the aesthetic of the town.

I walked up the beach from the twice burned pier to the presently popular and unburned pier, walked through town until my feet sent pings of pain up my legs with every step, like the Nerka being depth-charged by Bungo Pete.*

The show was fabulous. It’s amazing how much more you can bring to a performance with great sound. Someone explain to me the high level of ability the soundmen (unfortunately all men thus far) of this island possess? The sound has been consistently great night after night, the engineers and crew consistently cheerful and accommodating. One thing that is the same is the weird way some towns become aware and fall for a band. We had one of our top two biggest crowds and they were excited to see us. They demanded extra encores (“Majestic 12” and “Muscle Cars”) and gave us a night to fill us up enough to power through the last three shows. (Hopefully! We’re really tired)

Tomorrow is Birmingham.

*”Run Silent, Run Deep.” Read it. Watch it.

Tour 2016 - Derby (Day 9)

Salty Snack of the Day: Walker’s Worcester Sauce – Tastes as described. There’s no reason we shouldn’t have this flavor at home.

 Britishisms Heard Uttered: Squidgy Bits – Another one from Olie. We were sitting in the hotel watching a bit of Terminator 2 and the lovely Linda Hamilton evoked a reverie on the wonder that is the female form. “I like the squidgy bits” was a sentiment that brought much reverential murmuring. “Ah yes, the squidgy bits. They’re the best…”

 Birds: Nothing new, although I did see a rookery of rooks and did a little dance when I realized it.

Derby (pronounced Leh-nerd Skin-erd*) was only a short hour away so the inevitable staked its claim and we declared it laundry day. Olie dropped us off in Leicester’s West End and went to the garage to get a more thorough opinion on the van’s issues. Laundry is laundry, and there wasn’t even any weirdos to comment upon. However, the garage’s claims to be able to look at the van immediately, much like the Treaty of Versailles** were so many empty promises. The little strip containing the launderette was shabby and held only one promise of diversion. The Merry Monarch, number one in the city (runner up nationally) in places to go after life has lost any of its meaning, but just (by a single pensioner’s hair) before death. There were three scooters of the type we call Rascal’s *** parked in front.

Thus depressed and with news that the garage had not even looked at the van yet (we were miles from the hotel) I knew something heroic needed to be done or I’d go mental-er. The closest decent coffee was about a mile away according to my phone so I offered to go fetch some. Providing a service and getting to go on a quest? Perfect. Joe and I lit off for St. Martin’s Square, walking through the West End to get there. About halfway Joe said, looking around, “I could live here.” And I agreed. In some ways it seemed a little like Northside back home. Not fancy, enough Mom and Pop shops to feel unique, every day people going about their business. We walked through the University and into the square. It was full of windy (Sheryl Crow not fast moving air) (Oh, I’m supposed to use winding not windy? I think I shall not)(Screw you White and Strunk)****roads and vintage shops. Maybe our first full sunny day was influencing me but it fairly glowed. I put the tray of hot drinks into a paper bag, which Joe to his credit doubted the wisdom of, and began walking back. (St. Martin’s Tea and Coffee was delightful by the way) And then it happened. The real reason for the quest appeared. Not as a vision or burning shrubbery, but in the statue form of Richard the III performing the DAB. We were walking by the church where his bones were interred! Interred bones rule. Ruling bones interred rule harder. We were on a schedule so it was just a quick pop in where I saw the pall that had covered his coffin and his crown displayed above that. Not only is Richard III’s story worthy of a play, but the story of the re-discovery of his bones is amazing as well. Look it up! (I’ll wait)

Back on the sidewalk the drinks immediately broke through the bottom of the bag and plunged vengefully to the sidewalk, their contents of tea and coffee mixing all over the sidewalk like the blood of so many Lancastrians and Yorkists. Joe commented, “Well I guess that answers that question.” We got back to the laundrette just as Olie was pulling up in the van.

With clean clothes draped about ourselves we left for Derby.

We were playing a place called the Hairy Dog. The first impression from the outside was maybe a metal club, which is fine. The second impression, upon entering the pub portion, was kind of like the Comet back home. You know, a regular rock bar. The third impression made walking through the doors into the venue itself was, “Astroturf? Ok.” It’s a space that feels cavernous do to it’s super high ceilings, the stage is like a proper theater stage, not just an elevated portion of the floor, and the floor itself is covered completely in bright green Astroturf. We were immediately put at ease by the owner, wearing a Roky Erickson shirt, and another man wearing a Lowell George shirt, whose job, while undoubtedly of great importance was never immediately obvious. The soundman, with lightning speed, got sounds together and gave us some of the best sound of the tour.

The big problem in my life was that I was starving. I’ve not had any problem finding good food to eat. What I’ve struggled with is the timing. This has happened repeatedly, where I find myself crashing. This was the second day in a row where I felt just horrible by the end of soundcheck. This was also to be the second night in a row where we ate at Nandos. Olie says that some bands he’s driven for eat at Nandos every night on tour. It’s certainly Chuck’s favorite place. It’s primarily a chicken place with lots of sauce options and is about as good as chain food gets. However, I was feeling so awful I couldn’t just sit and wait 20 minutes for food to arrive, so I did what I do and went for a walk. Maybe two blocks away was the stunning Derby Cathedral glowing in the early evening sun. A few blocks up from that was St. Mary’s Cathedral, fetchingly framed by a walking bridge leading up to it. The streets were laid out in a seemingly circular fashion, with blocks of huge imposing buildings curving away from you into infinity. Whether true or not the streets gave the town an ancient air. At least in this part of town the ubiquitous grid plan was nowhere in sight.

The Derby show was booked last minute to fill a spot on the itinerary and our expectations for attendance were low. This was also our 8th show in a row and we were feeling it. I think we played well, but it was well lacking in inspiration. The crowd was probably the same number as Manchester but were so far away, and we were so high above them it was difficult to feed off their energy. Throughout the set a weight in my chest grew and grew until I was practically despondent. Kind of like that feeling you get when the person you’re with has begun cheating on you but the knowledge hasn’t made it up from your subconscious yet.

After the show I went to sit in the green room, which was two benches facing each other in a narrow room painted red, because I wasn’t ready to talk to anyone yet. After a minute the woman who played first, a lovely voiced singer-songwriter named Jo Lewis (no relation) came in and a lovely thing happened. The typical introductory niceties led to our occupations and it turns out she teaches music at a Derby community center. We talked briefly about education but quickly the conversation moved to the folk music of our respective countries. I launched into a long-winded and frankly tedious monologue about the African and European disaspora while her eyes began darting to the exits. She expressed surprise that the English folk traditions were as influential as the Irish. (I think so at least) I told the story Lisa had relayed about the end of our first night at the Windmill. A small party near the door were quite snockerd, (pissed) one of them had even fallen asleep on their bench. They began singing an Irish song slurrily out of tune. Lisa at the time was talking to a man who was either some sort of music scholar or just loves its history. He started taking notes to try to identify the song and began to bemoan England’s loss of the oral singing tradition. He said that since the heyday of Pentangle and Fairport Convention the British had become too cool to sing like that. Lisa said he seemed genuinely sad.

Anyway, with the passage of this lovely conversation I felt the weight lifting from chest. By the time I released Jo from the dull ring of purgatory I felt better. I’m genuinely curious about how songs travel throughout the world, and while rock is my first love, I didn’t expect to get to talk with someone still trafficking in those traditions.

It was a challenging night but the club put on a great event. The other opener, Liam Walker, was as good of a writer and singer as all those Mummineers bands out there now. The owner paid us double our guarantee for no reason other than he was a decent sort.

Tomorrow is Brighton.

*Darby actually

** It was a Mercedes Benz dealer.

*** Why Felix Cavaliere does not have an endorsement deal is beyond me.

**** “Screw you back you run on sentence blog writing hack.” – Strunk and White

Tour 2016 - Leicester (Day 8)

Salty Snack of the Day: Jacobs Mini Cheddars: Like cheesy Ritz crackers. A somewhat sophisticated Cheez-It. I want to eat these forever. The BBQ ones are crap.

 Britishisms Heard Uttered: SPAM! When the conversation turned to male pattern baldness, as it does, Olie said his hair was beginning to recede a bit. Then he patted his forehead and said, “I’ve always been a bit spammy though.” “Spammy?” “Well yes, when we were kids we would smack each other on the forehead and yell SPAM!”

 Birds: Ring-Necked Parakeet

We woke up, drove, checked into our hotel, Joe and I had a half pint in a lovely pub called the Red Cow, (with a really cool ‘70’s thatch roof) and drove into town.

The night previous our day’s destination had won the Premier League in football, which is the biggest deal thing you can win around here. They are a club that started in 1884 for Pete’s sake. They haven’t won a title in something like 120 years I heard someone say, but honestly can’t make heads or tails of their history. They had started the season as 5,000 to 1 against winning it all so at least a few dreamers made some money. While we played our last night at the Windmill, the City of Leicester was losing its mind in a chanting, beery, party in the streets. It would have been a bad night for a show but probably amazing to witness. By the time we arrived the city had settled into a bleery, hungover, haze.

We had been told by more than one person the Leicester can be a bit grim. And the first impression upon landing at our venue for the evening, which is located in an isolated industrial corner of the city, with the low hanging grey clouds sapping the color from the air, a concentration of Brutalist* architecture surrounding us, well I guess it could lend credence to this view. Shortly after arrival, with the club needing more time clean after the celebrations, we worked our way to the city center, which did feel little schizophrenic with the mish-mash of architectural styles. However, there were immense pedestrian walkways going off in every direction and an obviously vibrant modern city humming all around us. I could find no Leicester City swag to commemorate the historic victory as of course it was all bought up. The longer I spent in the city the more it all started to feel cohesive. I know that it is ultimately ridiculous to say anything of any depth with these glancing visits. It’s presumptuous to assume I can bring any insight to a place where we people actually invest themselves, their time, their futures. Take these missives for what they are: geographically limited impressions influenced by the need to find something to eat. Anyway, I noticed that Leicester seemed to be a very worldly city and when I looked up its stats I saw that it had experienced several significant waves of immigration. I’m always pleased when I find myself in a place where there is a polyglot of voices and a feeling of peaceful cohabitation.

The club was called the Musician and it was easily the Cadillac of venues on this tour. Beautiful room, excellent stage and sound system, and a veteran soundman named Malcom who continually chuckled as if life was a constant source of bemusement. The opening bands were flat out wonderful. (Luna Rosa and Echolocation) I’ve had this feeling that perhaps the UK still loves guitar rocknroll in a way that the States does not at the moment. I don’t know if I’m in a bubble and the general population has moved on from the electric guitar here as well, but the bands we keep hearing seem to be evolving the form in a way that has been reviving to hear. For instance the band Echolocation could have fit in any era from post-punk to obviously now. There was an angularity and artiness that was amazing to hear people still doing. Chuck compared them to the Fall, which seems pointlessly vague, but he can’t always be brilliant. I was kind of thinking maybe Pere Ubu with trumpet and a lighter touch. I mean how much fun is it to talk about bands like that? Anyway, after a small onstage bout of insecurity worrying that the reserve of the crowd indicated apathy, or even worse it’s second cousin antipathy, we recovered ourselves and played well. We were just being stupid as once again we were blessed with a generous and attentive audience.

Tomorrow is Darby.

*I’m no architecture expert. Feel free to correct me if I’ve got it wrong.

Tour 2016 - London (Days 6-7)

Salty Snack of the Day: Flame Grilled Spanish Chorizo with Roasted Onion – As a vegetarian I just want you to know what I’m willing to do to bring back the best in salty snack news. The question here is can a potato chip ever live up to such a grandiose name? These tasted like smoked paprika and onion powder. So no.

 Britishisms Heard Uttered: Mental – You hear this all the times on British shows and it’s my favorite. Overheard on a sidewalk, “That’s completely mental.” Yes.

 Birds: I saw a Great Tit! Looks like the world’s most badass chickadee. Moorhens with babies in the water and some still on the nest. A newly fledged wren. Finally! Good British birds.

We stayed just outside Cardiff in a hotel right up against the highway. I had about 45 minutes before the slowest among us would be ready, so even though it seemed as if we were surrounded by concrete I figured I’d look around. At the end of the street I saw a football field bearing the sign Albion Rovers Football Club. After reading the plaintive missive spray painted on the side of the club walls expressing that basic human longing for Hoes, Money, and Weed, I found myself on a trail with ridiculously cute families throwing sticks to their dogs. The trail ran along a shallow river and boom, freaking birds everywhere! It was wonderful. With a rolling Welsh field in the distance on the other side of the river, if you turned your back to the highway you were immersed in the countryside. A small distance down the trail, as the stream deepened, I came to a 200 year old lock and realized of course that the river was an old canal. The timbers used to open and close the lock were immense, and as the lock now functioned as a dam, the other side became more of a meandering river with trees arching over on each side. I couldn’t believe my luck. I could have spent my whole day walking this trail, but something possibly even better was waiting for me. Lisa, being her sweet self, had suggested in the van the night before that since we were staying so close to Cardiff why don’t we just go to the Dr. Who Museum in the morning? Interest ranged from none to keen but everyone agreed.

Your visit at the museum starts out with what I guess they would hope was an immersive experience. On the half hour a ticketed group files into a room with smoke and an ominous crack in the wall. Our guide, either an aspiring actress overmatched by the material or an actual tour guide under-endowed with charisma, suddenly began interacting with a videotaped Peter Capaldi, and before we knew it we were in mortal peril and tasked with finding three crystals to save something or other of vital importance. It was obviously designed for children even though there was not one amongst our group. It was as Olie put it, rather cringe-y, but I thought it was delightful nonetheless. We went inside the TARDIS, the floor shook, Daleks threatened us, all the things you’d want to see.

Then you got to enter the part of the museum containing all the props, monsters, and costumes from the entirety of the series. I love behind the scenes stuff. It’s so much fun to see everyday items spray painted and glued to some metal screen or plywood and knowing that through the camera it would look otherworldly. Plus, it meant the world to me to be able to bring back pictures and cool shit that you can only get there to my son.

But now we were late for London.

We were playing two nights at the Windmill in Brixton. Upon arrival the name became obvious as the park adjacent contained an actual enormous windmill like I’ve never seen in person before. It didn’t seem English so much as Dutchy. So of course I passed it on the left hand side. The next day there was a festival celebrating its 200th anniversary and the whole community came and hung out on the green, drinking some local beer I can’t remember now because the line was too long to get some. It was lovely seeing so many people sitting together with nothing other than a pretty awesome DJ and one tent selling beer. The Windmill (as venue) seemed ancient and gave me the vibe of a place that could host open mic poetry readings* as well as gobbing punk nights. Candles stuck in bottles, a huge wooden bar lit seemingly entirely from the refrigerators, and a tiny stage emerging out of the back corner. We were headlining the Walpurgis Night Festival, but to be honest spent several hours on the sidewalk in front enjoying a rare nice night, lax open container laws, and waiting for the dog to appear. The Windmill is famous for its dog on the roof.** There have been at least three through the years and the current resident is named Lucky. I don’t know breeds but he was a bear of a dog with enormous tan paws, and he lived on the flat roof above the bar, occasionally sticking his head over the side to gaze down. It looked as if there was probably an apartment up there too so hopefully he wasn’t outside all the time. From time to time he would drop a sad little fragment of a ball directly onto the sidewalk in front of the doorway. People would huck it back up and every single time Lucky would catch it in the air. Olie went on a two-day quest to get him a new ball but sadly, like Ponce De Leon, he failed.

And then I saw a grey fox! Just crossed the street like it was nothing and disappeared like a less shooty, more urban Rommel. So I guess nothing like Rommel at all really. Regardless, the only mammal I would be more excited to see would be a mongoose. And your mom.

The club was packed and what with there being something like 12 bands there was no time for niceties. We just jumped onstage, plugged things in, felt the collective sense of chaos hover just above panic and started playing. The soundman was on it though. Which is amazing considering he had mixed a million other bands already and we were all crammed into a dark sticky corner with detritus and cables everywhere. We could hear everything and by the second song it seemed like maybe it was going to be OK. Sitting in the hotel the night before we had watched a documentary on the rise of post-punk synth bands like Human League and Gary Numan. They had shown a brief clip of a very early Clash playing “White Riot” in a punk club with bodies flying everywhere and people losing their minds and I just tried to channel that spirit. And it worked. Mostly because of the good sound but whatever it takes. The audience was standing on benches in the back and at times singing along so loudly Lisa could hear them over her own vocals. That’s a magical feeling.

We were due to play the next night as well, performing “Forever Sounds” in its entirety. So off we went through nighttime London, driving across the Tower (London) Bridge and across the Thames to our home and hotel for the night.

The Windmill Day 2

We returned mid-afternoon having had a nice lie-in and I promptly went to a coffee shop called The Stir to write. While gazing out the window I saw a man walk into the middle of the side street gesticulating angrily and obviously shouting at someone off screen. It went on for a while and when John joined me he said there had to seemed to be some tiff at the chicken place up the street. It was unusual in that he was the first upset Briton I had seen. He left. Came back and yelled some more. Again left. About five minutes later he walked into view with a man sporting those ever so helpful neck tattoos, and they were facing each other and smiling. However the man was holding a knife. A nasty looking bugger too. I just started goggling at John saying “I think he has a knife!” The two men clapped each other on the shoulders and then the man, with a wide swing of his arm, hurled the knife into the trees. I still don’t know what I saw.

The rest of the afternoon is easy to summarize. It was a bank holiday so every veg. restaurant I walked to was closed, I got lost, it rained on me, and two hours after leaving the coffee shop I finally found a restaurant. Pizza, Spanish wine, and a nauseating number of couples in the obviously early delusional stage of infatuation.

Then I went back to the Windmill where everyone in the band was experiencing the first night of tour fatigue. Lisa didn’t wake up from her nap in the van until 15 minutes to show time, Joe was cranky, I was anxious and feeling far from home, Chuck was awake,*** and John was steady as always. Still, while the crowd was a bit smaller I was genuinely proud of us as I think we put on a pretty good show. A tour driver had just gotten off his own tour, driven 500 miles from Ireland to see us and only got there in time to see the last five songs. And he was thrilled to have seen it at all. Amazing.

Tomorrow is Leicester.

*At least before the Hague finally declared them inhumane and punishable under the war crimes act of 1996.

** They even have a beer brewed specially for them called “Dog on the Roof.” It was not notable.

*** Thus grumpy.