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So the tour then......
Well, at this early stage, short of a full analysis, (including a comprehensive investigation into the actual meanings of specific imagery etc) I can tell you this.........
Tuesday -
Thus it started in Stirling. Early to rise, into the van. Morning air, crisp sunlight and a feeling somewhere between anticipation and drowsiness. A circuit of respective houses snowballing all the while with sleeping bags, amps and degenerates until we departed one full band heavier.
As learning from one's past mistakes is a cornerstone of life, important ingredients this time included one football, one neon light, one mirrorball (soon to become dislodged) and a fully carpeted interior husk for the van to more perfectly seal inside the heat and mien of our particular touring ensemble.
Flett was there. God knows, he often is.
Like footsteps in the snow we followed the trodden route south. The rotten grey ambivalence of the M6 lured us beyond the border and before anyone realised, we were too far gone and found ourselves in the midst of some damned tour. Resignation set in and, being a positive minded bunch of fellowes, we celebrated at a service station with a game of football in the car park. One point for evolution was duly noted.
Many white lines passed beneath our fair ship's hull that day. Hours were burned.
Contrary to popular physics, large diesel molecules apparently slipped between those of the fuel tank at a quite remarkable rate, though those that remained for combustion eventually propelled us sufficiently to our destination.
Tonight's target - The Attik in Leicester - though briefly elusive, was eventually tracked and cornered down some godforsaken alley amidst a gaggle of hookers and broken glass. Our intention was to approach it frontally and execute our duties with extreme prejudice. It transpires that no such thing took place.
Persons from the modern rock combos Mercury Tilt Switch and Alamos (both borne of Dundee) were in attendance. Outside squated their vessel of choice; an oblique maroon and cream behemoth - an ex-ambulance by trade I'm informed, though such a noble trade seemed far from the mind of this malignant beast. This dirty bastard would later feature more in our tale and, in retrospect, we should have guessed as much upon first sight.
Like the label said, the "Attik" was a darkened and sparsely populated hovel atop some most precarious stairs. Sound engineer Sam plugged is into the appropriate sockets and we set to work. Short of the usual "audience", our notes rattled round the heads of the other gathered musicians then back up the wires of our instruments causing some kind of destructive interference betwixt the very components. The effect of this was the simultaneous and untimely death of many a musical utensil.
Wrestling with this unseen technical foe, we were at times drowned out by the verbal intercourse of those spare civilians who had found their way into the venue. As such, highlights of the night include being present at the naming of Britain's next big emo act "For Crying Out Loud".
So. Having prematurely concluded our musical infraction we retired for the evening. Very little of note happened in Leicester, it should be said. We left without shedding a tear and made our collective way to Rushden (not the nearby and easily confused Rushton) in the dead of night. Thereupon we were warmly welcomed into the corporate abode of a man known only to us as "Kettles". For this we owe him a debt of thanks. Though the others had a brief flirtation with a feature film prior to sleep, alcohol soon overcame this narrator.
I awoke the next morning face down on a black leather couch and remebered very little of a night of which their was very little to remember.
Wednesday -
Morning had happened while we slept. And brightly too.
Showered. Dressed. People were hustled and the party was once again on its feet. We took in some music television in an attempt to steel ourselves for the road ahead yet it largely served only to irritate. Some popular fruits were consumed.
Wednesday meant "probably Oxford" according to memory (NOTE: This tour featured the spectacular oversight of not bringing the names, addresses or directions to any of the venues. Perhaps we shall never repeat this error, but it certainly coloured these journeys somewhat.)
We made for Oxford. Hazily recollected past experiences suggested some sort of pedestrianised modern Eden. A land of musical milk and honey. An aromatic scattering of basketed and scarved cyclists engaged in perpetual and mutual understanding.
Initial contact was encouraging, such as the excellent food and wide streets. The locals were certainly pedigree.
Upon enquiring about the whereabouts of tonight's probable venue, Rich was warmly hailed by perhaps Oxford's only ned (though you'll be glad to learn that the aformentioned rascal's parents hailed from Kirkintilloch and Port Glasgow). Thus, we made our way to the Bullingdon.
(Details are sketchy, but its around this point I understand the mirrorball became dislodged.)
Arrival was surprisingly swift. The barman - a Scot we believe - was gregarious and accommodating. The indispensable Peter Flett, utilising his infamous wile, procured the promise of a Burns' Night Feast from said gent, much to our collective delight.
After ensuring the instruments were no longer in rebellion (a mishap put down to Leicester itself and perhaps some kind of inferior or contaminated mains supply) we settled into a period of rest before that evening's performance. Though none of us can quite say why, we have seemingly mastered the art of punctuality (at least as a collective) and our relatively early arrival at each of the venues not only made for surprised looks of admiration from staff, but led to long periods of conversation and meditation on our part. It is fair to say, given this time to dwell, apprehension crept in as we recalled the previous night's public indifference.
Yet Oxford is not Leicester. This point should be stressed. Upon commencement of the show, bodies massed within the venue. Once there, they watched attentively. Applause lashed against our musical shore (though I'm perhaps reflecting upon things rather generously). We completed the task at hand and applied the remainder of the evening towards the imbibing of alcohol. This was successful. Merryment was had, culminating in loud friendly exchanges, the shaking of many hands and a cheerful Andy McGarry shambling from the premises amidst some hilarious Irish verbal thuggery.
Ferried to the van by the chemically neutral Flett, we were decanted once more to the house of the man "Kettles" who again received us warmly, despite the late hour and his impending early rise. For this we owe him no small favour.
Thank you "Kettles".
It was at this point that Wednesday concluded.
Thursday -
...Could scarcely have been better kicked off than by catching a "Dragon Force" video on MTV prior to our departure. Said band had been happened upon whilst rummaging through the dubious contents of Mr Flett's iPod in transit. The music had prompted a heady mixture of hilarity and admiration at the time. The video perpetuated these emotions and we left Rushden for the last time, buoyed by the virtuoso metallings of the young men in question.
Today's ground zero was probably Lincoln we thought. Past encounters with the Middle-to-North East of England had produced less than satisfactory locations, at least in terms of the sprawling industrial turd of Hull and the aesthetically pleasing but apparently totally unpopulated borough of Hartlepool. So we bit down and prepared for the worst.
Thus our arrival in the attractive and sloping city of Lincoln came as a shock. The city centre, resplendent with Jewish quarter, eased its way up an increasing incline, punctuated by castles and cathedrals and known by the locals, not cryptically, as “the Steep Hill”. Nearby shop windows promised genuine missile command units and WWII radar for affordable sums and the chance to catch a game from the African Nations Cup whilst eating secured a positive outlook.
Our alleged venue for that day, decked out in camouflage and packing a substantial PA, skulked above the Duke of Wellington public house, accessed via an indecent looking rear staircase. In charge of the festivities was Steve, the promoter and engineer, former tour manager for Dinosaur Jr and recently de-fingered by his own treacherous equipment (prompting his repeated requests for us to "give him five"). If professionalism were a fine wine, then his cup surely overfloweth. All seemed well.
...until the re-entry into the musical equation of Alamos' cantankerous transportation.
Word came through on the wires that a delay had occurred. A starter motor had failed. People were trapped on a motorway bearing guitars and awaiting appropriately qualified assistance. It was a waiting game. Eventually the sullen beast pulled up outside only to again fail before it could be reversed into the car park. Thus it was abandoned on the kerb as it lay.
Alamos ventured onto the premises too late for a soundcheck and their demeanour was one of exasperation. Backs were duly patted and soft words of condolence whispered into their youthful ears.
As regards the event…The official line runs like this: concern had been expressed over the uncertain crowd figures for tonight's show in what was generally a "Friday night" venue. We pressed on. Two local bands into the proceedings, the turnout was still less than that of some soundchecks.
Our backstage area found us in the house of the landlord, past the stairs and between discarded toys. Therein could be uncovered many bottles of gratuity beer, cans of soft drinks and unstruck sulphur tipped matches. It was in this room that concerns were voiced amongst the attendant musical fraternity about the size of the "crowd" (though this is perhaps a wholly inappropriate use of the word).
Our time came. We assumed our respective shapes upon the stage and opted not to look too far beyond the veil of lights. Passing steadily and unobstructed through the predetermined march of songs, the courteous applause between numbers betrayed the sparsity of the room's population. Undeterred or naively oblivious, we finished the set sweaty, exhausted and compared favourably to the band "Television". It was on dismounting the sheet glare of the stage that our establishment of a merchandise table began to seem like sarcasm.
Alamos went next. Their set began "Emm... Hello Dead or American".
This really sums the situation up pretty efficiently and to dwell too heavily on the negative aspects of the numbers of watching punters would probably read as morbid in the extreme. Instead, let us remember the evening for its highs, including some nimble, if dusty, break dancing by the nubile Flett and the eager Rich and a feeling of camaraderie between us hapless bards, unsurpassed since that eve.
Understandably, promoter Steve, having invested substantially in the event, was less eager to indulge in the hilarity. Though providing the best sound of the tour by far, he (and we) had met with apathy from his fellow Lincolnites. Some sober advice was dispensed later that evening by this same man to a now less than sober musical entourage. Nevertheless, the advice, of a pertinent nature, was understood by all. Warm farewells were exchanged and our expedition set off once more into the expectant unknown.
Adventures were to be had in Lincoln, of this we were sure. We had scouted out the area earlier that night, including being refused entry to a jazz bar because of our inappropriate shoes. Fortunately, this incident helped to more clearly illustrate that what Lincoln means by "jazz" is a yawning pride of white businessmen on their way home from work awaiting their secretary’s arrival to facilitate some dry, whimpering extra-curricular intercourse whilst clicking thumbs to some sub-winebar hack molesting a piano.
We moved on.
Our ship docked at Walkabout. An uncharismatic chain affair offering straw beer hats as proof of their rich Australian heritage. Sticking about here was a formality as most other places has closed their doors. The music was shit, of this there is no doubt. Yet we persevered and ultimately left, some hours later, a little the worse for wear and one member short. The relevant arrangements had been made. We would rendezvous tomorrow.
Pizza was obtained from a late night pizza outlet and, again automobilised, we sped towards Scunthorpe where the powers that be had readied a Travel Lodge for our sunken shells. Unconsciousness hastened us into our rooms and sealed our fates shortly after.
Friday -
Started. Travel Lodge had decreed that we be nothing but a bad smelling memory by 12 noon so waking at 11.30 necessitated some rapidly enforced personal hygeine. Refreshed and better scented but not yet fully awake, we found ourselves groggily upright in a parking lot next to a Pizza Hut clutching fresh milk and as many bakery products as there were mouths. Some attempts were made to contact the absentee. Phone battery dead on the other end, we feared a possible MIA scenario.
Progress was made towards York. The journey was a grimy one. The road throwing up its bilious brown muck across our bow much of the way.
Our eventual arrival in port was accompanied by the good news of Pete’s simultaneous arrival by train. Contact was made and a hearty pat on the back included. Smiles all round.
It was declared a day off.
Initially, fresh air was required and a stroll was taken down the many unfamiliar streets. The idea was forwarded by one of our group (possibly he whom we call Colin) to go Cinema-wards and engage our minds in a film. This plan was put into action with remarkable ease. Steve Coogan was the inspiration for our mutual enthusiasm and, attractive and extremely clean cinema included, the experience was on the whole positive - though perhaps very slightly underwhelming given his previous output. Anyway....I digress.
The next objective was sustenance. This prompted some aggitated and malnourished street wandering. Selecting a common ground for our en masse mastication was not to be easy. Surly gangs of waiters lurked behind window menus looking for a ruck; awaiting some West Side Story-esque musical street fight to unfold. We walked on. Our stomachs eventually left us outside an ornate Thai establishment. Not wanting to remain gutless in a strange city for long, we soon followed them inside. Fortunately they had already ordered.
The food arrived and we forced it downwards quickly and greedily. Payments and tips (or a semblance of) were dropped in a plate, we ducked back inside our jackets and broke for the street.
The false promise of watching some overpaid football chumps battle it out for one cup or another fueled some more futile street wandering, though we were starting to notice broken twigs and footprints suggesting we had travelled these trails previously. We eventually returned to our van more than a little weary. Our enthusiasm had reached its nadir. An uplifting call to our better instincts was required but not expected: a rallying speech was not on the cards.
Elsewhere, word was still awaited from that other party of explorers with whom we were so closely affiliated, albeit temporarily. Had Alamos’ quarrelsome fiend of a van finally undermined their collective ambition? They and we did not know. An early morning encounter, involving hammers and solenoids, would reveal all. Until then we had no choice but to wait.
The malaise compounded.
In the end, grumpiness trumped apathy. Sheer distemper uprooted us from that vessel, in which we otherwise surely would have faded solemnly into death that very night.
The forced disembowelment of the van's human contents saw us again a roaming amorphous mass of free time and limited funds. A date was made with a nearby club known as "Fibbers". It promised “Alt/Indie Friday” and, faced with hours of slouching in street corners amidst wet concrete shapes, we considered this a fair proposition.
From this point events sped up. A montage took shape depicting spirited social interaction soundtracked in memory by the more notable of the musical numbers (see: Interpol and the Strokes). Faces grew red, pupils dilated, glasses emptied, were removed and replaced. New friends came and went, some arm-wrestled into submission by Rich, others by the passage of time and circumstance. Thoughts swam about us and the fervour continued through closing, into the street, back to the van and most of the way to Durham, where we were due to be extinguished that evening.
Apparently, after rolling to a stop in Durham, we were met in the street by a lady known as Kendal, another of the suspiciously popular Flett's many contacts across the UK. They say she helped scrape us off the road onto which we tumbled out of the van and brush us inside some house, where we lay on the living room floor as a mass of crumpled snoring debris until the next morn.
Saturday -
The last day began listlessly. Croaking words and hunched frames crept from one dimly lit room to another. It became apparent that not only did none of us know the people with whom we were staying but even Kendal - our contact - was only loosely accquainted with them. First encounters with the owners took place in the kitchen. They were extremely hospitable. Why, we're not sure....
We still don't know who they were.
But thanks all the same.
Compared to earlier legs of the trip, Stockton was but a few yards away from the previous night's lodgings. We arrived amidst its grassy suburbia early, wrapped in sunshine and not entirely displeased with our surroundings. The ratio of ned to civilian had risen sharply as we ascended this lonely island and our natural survival instincts were sharper as a result. The coiled spring within the boy McCulloch in particular, taut and ready to send him rocketing into the distance at the first opportunity. We walked a full twenty minutes trying to purchase cigarettes to calm the man down. A mission that was greatly hampered by a town that hides all its valuables in amongst a myriad neon kebaberies.
Street art depicting some gamboling greyhounds was met with confusion and some derision from within the ranks. Pictures were taken, largely to humiliate the sculptor. Otherwise, nothing seemed particulary amiss here.
A direct hit was scored in securing lunch at a reasonably good restaurant. Other such modest achievements were made and the hectic momentum of the previous two nights began to drift from our short-term memories as life slowed to a normal gigging pace. Gear was loaded in etc. Routine and predictable, we fulfilled our presented tasks.
Much to our juvenile enjoyment, the venue provided enough internal space to allow a kickabout as soundchecks took place. Passers-by and idle voyeurs were regularly brought into said game at extremely short notice and largely against their will. Beers were again provided by kind staff, though the realisation of a long journey home dampened our consumption of it somewhat. The last "night" had already passed and this was the long walk.
Then once more, messages reached us from afar. Alamos had suffered total tour meltdown. Their detestable fiend of a conveyance had given up on life, forcing their hand. They had taken the RAC's single tow back to Dundee, bypassing Stockton altogether, leaving us to top the bill of two that evening. Yet we had no powers of bass amplification. The guitar amp was temperamental. The monitors in the venue refused to work. Things looked shaky at best.
And so it was that the gig went ahead. The oldest member of the opening band chalked up a massive 15 years of age. When the time came, we took our arthritic old cadavers stage-side and made the relevant noises. The room, sizeable anyway, opened before us like an underground carpark as about 15 punters tried to hide the spaces. Yet, surprisingly, the music flowed vigorously from our machinations to their ears. Events and fatigue, frustrations and alcohol combined into an ehxausting but raucous mix. Moments and riffs happened I'm sure.
The applause between songs defied the low turnout. Someone said encore. We obliged. Rich walks out mid-song to retrieve more beverages for the rhythm section, returned to salute some fallen nemesis momentarily and finally sat down at his kit just as we kicked back into some feral chord sequence. A drained hedonism seemed to satisfy the enthusiastic few and many friendly words flew our way upon conclusion. Objects we were selling changed hands for cash and conversations with those enthusiastic few in attendance saw us cheerfully back into the van and facing out of town.
Breath is inhaled.
Looks are exchanged and a course is plotted across the lumpen neck of the land of England. Slicing striaght across the jugular, we make for home.
Mental preparations are made for slipping back into each of our cut-to-fit comfort suits: beds, showers, clean clothes - perhaps also the indistinct melancholy of the next day’s rise.
Forward momentum is achieved.
Hours collide with the windscreen and are smashed to meaningless and immeasurable fragments. Vigorous repartee between driver Flett and passenger No.1, Carlin, decorates the van’s interior with finely honed “Anchor Man” quotes and singing for much of the bleary road North, at least until the M6, at which point the paint starts to run in my mind and doesn’t form a clear picture again until just outside Banknock.
It was there that Rich left us and it was there that we left the tour.
The first of the group’s bags were defenestrated and through this breach in the hull was sucked the air of our enthusiasm. Memories became memories and eyes transfixed.
Brake lights go on and off.
Doors close.
One by one, our beds meet us, and we’re delivered through the last of the night into Sunday and later onwards, to this diary….
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