Thursday, November 15, 2007

Evenin' All.


I think the weirdest thing is that I haven't been here for 2 1/2 years and I feel completely at ease. Shame my Chinese sucks, but at least it's amusing the kids.




Web access seems completely unrestricted except for some BBC feeds. I feel like I've been gypped a bit, as I remember it being harder to get to some sites.... I was hoping for a man in the wilderness feeling but here I am, not even in the country a full day and blogging. Imagine if Captain Oates had said, "I'm just going outside and may be some time." only to return a couple of minutes later to tell everyone, "Did you know there's an Esso garage just behind this big snowdrift....?" I feel a bit like that.

And on that note, I'm off to Starbucks, where small is still called fucking tall.

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

All That You Can't...

I'm going to China for three months tomorrow. Don't know anyone there (not really) and have only a vague plan of what I'm doing beyond learning Mandarin. I'm excited by the Stingray feeling (anything can happen in the next half hour!). I had this plan 2 years ago just before The Strokes started touring. Going to China for an extended period is the second item on my hit list. I am a very lucky boy.

By take-off I'll be fit to burst and feeling like the first 8 bars of Metal Guru or the guitars and horns on Eddie's Big Bird where it doesn't sound like it will ever come down or Paul Weller playing anything on a Rickenbacker or all of I Want You (She's So Heavy) but especially the bit where George changes pick-ups half way through or Albert and Matt playing GfC or hearing Reptilia live or Common People in front of 90000+ people and I don't care if they're my mates because they all rule or my new polka dot shirt that only took 25 years to get here or shopping with Mick at Oswald Bailey and cooing like affected effeminate pigeons over the linings or laughing with Rob and Graham on the way home from The D&T after stopping at the Parson's Nose or Audrey looking for Cat or Li going batshit-crazy on the roof or hearing from someone who's got under your skin or listening to Embarrassment and Gangsters in 12 hole burgundy docs or typing THE END after 118950 words and 439 pages and I'm spent.


Not sure I can blog from Beijing - I think there may be a block on the site. Guess I'll find out soon enough. Not that you'll miss me, I know you're all fickle tarts and you'll all be over at Harley's, Lucas's and Jamie's blogs once I've gone.

Happy Holidays. See you in 2008.

Maybe.
Ruby Murray Worry


I am concerned. Many of my (washed) tee-shirts smell of curry when I take them out of the closet.

There is no curry in the closet. What if I'm starting to smell of curry and my tee-shirts have caught it? Then what? It would be a disaster, socially, that is. A catastrophe.

Friday, November 02, 2007

More Tooth Aches:


Nothing going on so I'm fixating on my new tooth. I was thinking that as I'd spent so much on tooth # 30 and it doesn't do anything other than look vaguely off-white in my mouth how much better it would be if I'd had it fitted with a little light like those kids in Shibuya have on the ends of the cell-phones? Then I'd have a disco mouth, which I've always quite fancied, and I'm sure it would add a whole new dimension to lots of activities. It might even get people to pay attention when I'm talking.

And as for getting my teeth fixed before going to China--apparently I messed up. A friend sent me a snippet from the esteemed UK Sun newspaper that told of a dentist called Wang Wal who, to help his patients relax during procedures, procured prozzers to give them blow jobs. I'm not sure how this worked, or if I'd be able to sustain the required interest while a man drilled into my tooth (wouldn't it be strange if it became an erotic fixation and you had to do it at home afterwards as the "only way it works now, love"?) but I felt gypped. I'm going to check on Dr Wang Wal's practice to see if you get the good drugs as well and if you do, then I'm taking a bumper bag of sweets and no toothbrush to Beijing....

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

SS Starbucks

Only in New York. I was in Starbucks at 7:45AM on Tuesday morning (this is the day before Halloween) killing 10 minutes before an appointment when I noticed that sitting nearby was an SS Officer, dressed in a green wool SS Tunic, jackboots, black jodpurs, mirrored aviators--the full monty. He struggled to put on his utility belt (water canteen, empty clips, etc) and then started chatting with another couple of guys who came in. It looked like they all wanted somewhere to hang out.

His conversation was how the country was going to hell, how the biggest concentration camps weren't run by the Germans but by Stalin, blah, blah...all, no doubt, opinions based on very selective readings of history. He claimed to have guns in New Jersey, (which was worrying) and he wanted to live in the Pacific Northwest as he "couldn't be himself in New York anymore. And he never thought he'd say that." (Lots of survivalist and right-wing weirdos live in the Pacific Northwest)

He'd gone to a lot of trouble to look like a stylized SS Soldier (although I doubt many of the original Nazis had styling haircuts and Rayban Aviators...) but the funniest and most insulting thing was his complaint that he'd watched The View (Women's magazine program shown every weekday in the US, higher brow than most) and "all I'm going to say is that there were three white women, probably Jewish women, arguing with Whoopi Goldberg. You know? You see what I'm saying?" I wasn't sure what cock-headed point he was making to his simpleton friend, other than maybe it was obscene they weren't all anglos (quelle horreur!); but excuse me for being amused by the thought of the SS tuning in to The View, and then getting offended. I guess even pig-ignorant, impotent, fantasists playing at make-believe meanys have standards...
Spooky Tooth

It's a sad sign of the times when the only thing one does of any note is visit the dentist. Today I went to another dentist to get a root canal done. He couldn't numb it. I know, because every time he put a very cold thing on it to see if it was numb it still hurt like a bastard. He gave me like 6+ shots with a syringe straight out of a Tim Burton movie and was kind of getting tired with me not getting numb; but probably not quite as tired as I was getting with him sticking a freezing cold piece of whatever on my hyper-sensitive tooth. I know, I'm mummy's poor little soldier today...

So now I have one tooth in my head that's cost me $3000.00. It doesn't even look that good but it will, I've been promised, not trouble me any more ("You've lost your nerve!" he quipped to me). This is one good thing as in two weeks time I'll be on a flight to China and I don't want to learn the Mandarin for "What are you doing in there, doctor, because it hurts to buggery?" The other good thing is that I got some vicodin, and only a churl would complain about that. I'm not sure if it's to dull the soreness in my mouth or the red ache of my amex statement. Whatever, lucky me I could afford the treatment.

I wonder what people do here if they can't afford treatment - it's kind of criminal that one has to pay for all this stuff (actually, I think it's true of dentristry in the UK now, too. It didn't used to be--thanks margaret thatcher, you evil old crone. Couldn' we burn you on the bonfire on November 5th instead of a Catholic effigy--you did more to f*** up the country than Guy Fawkes ever attempted with his gunpowder plot). I mean, don't we all pay enough taxes these days to cover things like essential healthcare, or did I get something wrong?

Oh yeah, I forgot. I'm paying Haliburton and Blackwater to get that oil for my SUV. Sorry, my bad.

I think it's time for my vicodin....

Sunday, October 14, 2007

A Happy Place; Like My Dentist's Chair...


Nothing to post about over the past month or so. Got a Chinese visa, have booked a flight, and have spent the past five weeks working on this:






It's now 115,000 words long and 429 pages high. There's a strange satisfaction in the numbers, regardless of whether its any good or a pile of crap. More type-memory than flight-memory. Arf.

Over the remaining four weeks before my trip I'll be trying to rewrite the 115,000 words as best I can so i can forget about this completely once I'm in China and start work on the next one, which I'm eager to get into like a fat kid with his Christmas chocolate. I'm quite surprised at how dark this one is, and then again I'm not. It makes me laugh, and if I can ever sell it, maybe it'll do the same for you; or not. I really can't tell anymore. I just take what comfort I can from its heft.

In other news, when I've not been rewriting what I've already rewritten (which is the best part of writing for me, kind of like overdubbing guitars when you're in the studio), I've been listening to Keren Ann, Terry Hall, Albert's guitar playing, rediscovering Kate Bush (The Sensual World reminds me of a coach holiday to the Moselle Valey near Koblenz in 1990 with my then girlfriend. The river was glassily placid and there were small fires streaming ghostly smoke across the surrounding vineyards; it was amazing. I wanted a job piloting a barge up and down the river so I could see it every day. I still wouldn't mind that, to be honest), Feist, and Ryuichi Sakamoto. I've even managed-afer 5 weeks of being home-to get my time back for running the course around the park. And finally, on Friday, I went to my dentist and he insisted on giving me gas for a filling which meant that by 8:30AM I was floating around his office like a big, pink blimp and giggling as he gouged a hole in my tooth with a steel spike; it's an unusual place to feel happy is a dentist's chair. Life is good here in New York City. What's not to love?

Which is why I'm considering leaving for a year and going to live in comparative poverty. It doesn't do to get complacent, does it?

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

120 Days of Sock'em:

I am tidying my apartment - it's something that I've avoided properly for months but I've run out of places to put my clean laundry so it had to be done.

Because on every tour I end up buying new socks when I run out of clean ones or when all my bags get nicked I've accumulated over 120 pairs of socks. Including the unopened packets that I also brought back with me I reckon I don't need to wash my socks for nearly sox months.

For some reason, that impressed me. I was going to see how many I could fit on my feet at once but then I remembered I'm at home now, not on tour. (I still haven't completely let go of the idea...)

I've also acquired a big, fat, sox month long business visa for China. I'm leaving on November 13th. That should be interesting...

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Hammer Horror.


I got back to New York after my last trip exhausted, as usual, but also glad of the extra time I spent in London and Paris.

It's a strange feature of touring / traveling that getting home is both a good and bad thing. I'd ached for my own bed (literally in my bunk on the bus-a bunk that had started to smell of rabbits, for reasons I could never fathom unless it was either me or Albert below, but we're both very clean--just like Paul's Grandad) but when I got back I found myself missing England more than I ever have.

My American friends have told me my accent is back and I know when I was in England I was slipping in my Coventry accent again; deliberately too--which is about like making yourself fat for a laugh.

(Coventry Accent 101: Say Water without pronouncing the T, same with Butter. Use the word Scratter to describe someone who doesn't pay their way and is always trying to cadge ciggies or drinks or anything. Affirm everything not with Yes or even Yeah but with "Arh." said with a dipping chinese-style third tone. Duck is pronounced with a nasal U sound and no C. Not that we use the word Duck-off there much. Call a bread roll a Batch. Replace the words really and extremely with the word Dead. Classy, innit?).


Anyway, back in New York I started watching some of the twenty DVDs I bought in HMV and Virgin. These are mostly old British films and largely a bunch of 1970's Vampire films made by Hammer Productions. They were all shot in England with parts of Suffolk, I think, made to look like Transylvania. They were all full of comely wenches and most had Christopher Lee in them as Dracula. Oliver Reed makes an appearance as the Werewolf (he was dead good-looking before the drink destroyed him) and Peter Cushing is the man I'd most like to have as my grandfather if I could have a third and Peter Ustinov wasn't available.


Ingrid Pitt - Vampire Hottie. Part of me still wants to date a Goth (and Goth was still cool in Coventry and Leeds long after the rest of the world had got into rave music. Amy Lee got married already, didn't she?).




Christopher Lee - the James Bond of Draculas.



It's strange how these cheesy, dated movies have stood up over time. I can still remember scenes I'd only seen once on a Friday night when I was about 12. They left an impression, that's for sure. To be fair, comely wenches and a single flash of boob (usually by the end of the second reel) coupled with dark and powerful undead super-antiheroes is a powerful aphrodisiac for a 12 year od boy.

It's funny to find a vivid sense of self in something from your childhood. The same can be said when I listen to The Jam, I can instantly be transported to being angry and eager and fifteen and crazed with a huge unsatisfied appetite for life. Not like the jaded old tosser I am now.... It's good to know that those feelings from back then don't go away, but something happens over time that makes them less accessible.

I also got copies of David Essex's movies That'll Be The Day and Stardust, both classic (if a little contrived) British Rock movies back when we were good at such things. Ringo was in That'll Be The Day (and Keith Moon makes a cameo!) and it was one of the first films me and my brother recorded and kept on video (along with Papillon and Billy Liar).

To a large degree these movies were--apart from hanging around at soundchecks when The Jam played Birmingham--my first introduction to the behind the scenes world of the music business (there were no VH1 Confessionals back then). I think it's still pretty accurate now. Well, everything except the bit about making dogs OD on Acid. I don't think anyone does that anymore these days.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

Things to do in Paris When You're Dead.


After the tour I felt dead. I usually do. And despite being in one of the most fantastic cities in the world (and it is...) and being in very special company I still felt tour-drained.

However, I saw some very wonderful sights, some old, some new.

Place des Voges - I think this is my favourite Parisian park. It looks like the setting for a monet painting.



None more dead.

This is Serge Gainsbourg's grave. Last time I went it was raining and I was smoking gitanes. I left him a pack. This time I didn't have any fags for him. Definitely too much fucking perspective. (Note the respectful fan tributes - even the metro tickets left for Serge didn't litter the other graves nearby. Not like the abomination that is Jim Morrison's grave in Pere LaChaisse--where the scummy hippies scrawl their pompous bollocks over the nearby gravestones and sit and get pissed nearby. Because it's important to write your tired, tepid, stoner insights on unrelated gravestones. Because your unique insight and vanity means you don't have show any respect for the surrounding families. Fuckwits. Kill them. Kill them all.)



Ever get that feeling someone's walked over your grave?

How cool is this one? It looks like Gaudi designed it--and it's got my name on it.



I liked this one because it's got the world's most depressed statue on top. Whoever was buried here wanted to be sure someone would always be grieving.



And Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir's dual grave. Fittingly minimal. Dead classy.




Montparnasse is my favourite Parisian cemetery. I think being an old git enabled me to enjoy it all the more. I'm starting to feel like I'm robbing time from one of them....

I got to visit the catacombs for the first time. They're an amazing labyrinth running for miles underneath the city. This location was originally a quarry but they moved the human remains buried at Les Halles during the plague years here when they developed Les Halles. Later, in a super-French style, someone decided the bones needed to be stacked stylishly. It's spooky and surreal and fantastic.










On my last afternoon I went to a gig. Because I love them so. Fortunately this one was in a park next to the Seine and in true French style what would be a throway field in the UK or USA was a design triumph with balloon rides in it, a cool railway bridge, a riverfront esplanade, several water features and fountains and two giant glasshouses open for exhibits (well, one was, but I'm not complaining). Got to love France. If you don't, you're probably dead. Trust me on this.

Balloon rides - I have a feeling there's some link to the Montgolfier Brothers here but I'm guessing (and too lazy to look it up).





People in glass houses....



Oldies but goodies....this never gets old. It's always breathtaking, especially when it's up close.




From underneath the base it seemed completely implausible that it was built when it was as it's so huge. It also looks like a giant weird spaceship. As places to go when you're hurting, Paris has to be one of the best...


Sunday, September 09, 2007

Ghost Town:


I was born and bred in Coventry. For years - from the age of about 12 until just recently - I wanted to get as far away from it as I could. At the end of my last tour I went back to visit my mum and my brother and for the first time in ages found the place intriguing and illuminating. (It probably isn't for anyone else...)

Coventry once boasted a busy, overcrowded, medieval-designed but developing city before WWII. The city centre becamse so congested the council were trying to find ways to relieve the congestion. Then the Luftwaffe blitzed it during the war, and razed the city centre to the ground. From a bustling medieval city centre to a wasteland with a ruined Cathedral in no time at all.

Not wasting any time (and after the allies bombed Dresden in return--see Slaughterhouse 5, so it goes) the city was rebuilt quickly int he post war years around a new city centre design by architect Donald Gibson. His revolutionary idea was to remove all the cars and to pedestrianize the centre of town.

Sadly, this had the effect of making the town centre one of those good-on-paper ideas as it sanitised the city centre and made it bland and lacking in dynamics.

Then, in the 1970s the city got hit badly by the recession when all the car factories and heavy industry started to close. Double-whammy. Coventry changed from a place where my grandmother's generation would once talk about the city's character and craftsmen with pride to turn into the most violent city in Europe. There was nothing left.

This is where I grew up.

What I noticed on this trip is that compared to almost anywhere esle, and with the recent redevelopment, it's not such a bad place. It has a lot going for it. In fact, the main problem seemed to be the people. Many were aggressive and feral looking, almost all of them looked round-shouldered and beaten. When I first walked around the city centre on the recent bank holiday afternoon I was surprised by the sharp stares and skulking aggression I encountered before I realised that I may be a poncey git from New York now but I did grow up a spiteful little fucker, just like the little shits hanging around the precinct trying to menace the shoppers.


Once I got my game-face back on I had a hoot walking around Coventry. The city's improved a thousandfold since I lived there, there are cafes and restaurants and stores open at the weekend and it's not so bleak (but that might be because I don't live there). I felt sad for the people; there was a haunted look to many faces that went beyond the usual English dourness. I remember when I lived there that not only did I feel like I came from nowhere, there probably wasn't much point in trying to aspire to much outside. It's shit, innit, Cov? Women who'd look at home striding the streets of Manhattan pushed prams hunched over; kids who should be developing games companies or starting businesses skulked around the centre of the precinct. If everyone in Cov said it was brilliant for a year the city would go into turnaround, I'm sure.

Friends I've made since, from other regional cities didn't share this view. They might say Leeds is shit but it was never the end of the line for them. Or they'd brag about Sheffield like they were - gulp - proud of their hometown. All foreign feelings to me.

It's a shame that the song that captured the tone of the city in 1981 can still be relevant today. Back then there'd been a recession, now it seemed more like an attitude, or a nickname that's been allowed to stick. Give a dog a bad name....

Enough of my yacking. This is where I'm from.


I'm from Coundon (pronounced Cown-Dun). My mate Graham was in the Coundon Dogs, they rode around on 50cc scooters. I didn't have a scooter so I wasn't cool.




This lush lawny area is misleading. Until I was 10 it was waste ground that we'd ride our bikes over. In fact when they were laying new pipes (water,gas, etc) we used to roll them down the hill towards the traffic, sometimes with people in them. I went down a few times in a steel drum. And we used to roll old car tyres down the hill but they sometimes went into the oncoming traffic and we'd have to leg-it. Kids, eh?






This is the street I was born on. Everyone's got three cars now. Back when I were a lad there was at most one Ford Cortina per house.... Those are conker trees - we used to strip them every autumn, first with sticks and later with a nut tied to a bit of string you could lob up over the branch and then yank on to shake the conkers down. We made a right mess. We didn't care about playing conkers so much as getting them. It was a good place to be a kid. Plenty of fresh air and space.




These flats up the road from my mum's used to be considered a bit fancy. Roger the poncey, short-tempered hairdresser lived in one and he was divorced, which was considered quite outre back then. Now it seems they lack a certain class. I'm a great believer in being able to gauge a nation's pysche by its pornography and its advertising. This truck says it all. This shop used to sell women's clothes now it sells cheap booze.



The road into the countryside just past the White Lion pub at the top of my mum's street. When I was a kid we'd ride our bikes up here; when I was an adolescent we'd drink in the pub and try to go snogging with girls. I did a lot more bike riding than I did snogging. What can I say? I was a late bloomer.



People often jump off these blocks of flats when they can't handle living in them anymore.




Coventry's infamous ring road. It's a local road for local people. Not many outsiders get it right first time.



We used to run across the ring road but someone put up a big boring fence so now you have to walk over bridge. It's no fun. However, it gives a view of the city centre. The brown building is the Post Office. The IRA tried to blow it up in the 70's. Bleak, innit?




Part of the pedestrianized precinct. At night, when the shops shut and the people go home the city centre gets very empty and the only people you can see wandering around are packs of kids on their way somewhere or shitfaced on cheap/potent lager. That's when Cov' gets menacing. Doesn't look so bad here, does it? It's lairy at night. You don't make eye contact.



This used to be HMV where I came to read the music papers without buying them. A forerunner of Barnes and Noble in that respect. Now there are a lot of 99 Pence stores in town and this huge Pawnshop. That's a bit depressing.



The Burges. Where the chip shops, the bus stops and the taxi-ranks are. When the licensing laws in Britain meant everywhere had to close at 11PM (pubs) or 2AM (clubs) by about 11:30 and 2:30 this place was teeming with drunks trying to get chips and buses and taxis. I saw more fights here than I care to remember. You had to keep your eyes open. Anyone who wanted a ruck knew here was the place to start it. And all repressed English towns at closing time are full of angry people who want to fight. We'd walk down here to the Parson's Nose chip shop which was the best chippie in Cov. This photo was taken at 11:30AM on a Tuesday. The pub, the Coventry Cross, was doing a brisk business which made me sad that people didn't have anything better to do. It seemed indicative of the overwhelming feeling of the city.



The Parson's Nose and Mr Porky's. Two late-night institutions. Yes the sign does say Faggots, Peas and Chips All In. No, I'm not going to tell you what that means except to say that it was the primo-after pub meal if you could afford it. I rarely could so I'd usually get Saveloy and Chips. Typing this is making my mouth water.

The woman who ran the Parson's Nose was infamously rude to people--especially girls. There was always someone crying outside of here and often another row brewing.




Mr Porky's - he sold pork batches with stuffing. (Batch is Coventry for bread roll or bun. But it's a batch, right?). Never let it be said we didn't have any choice.



You'd eat your chips on the walk home as you'd never have enough money for a cab (well, townies might, if they had apprenticeships or something).


The station, looking south towards London. That misty strech of track always seemed like the portal to another world. I rarely went to London. It was like Narnia to me as a teen. And when I finally escaped and moved there, the world really did open up. But this view reminds me of being abitious and clueless.




Good. Now I've got that out of my system....

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Luxury Coach-Class Travel:

Trying to do everything in a tiny space sums up really one of the greatest stresses of touring. Even though we're traveling on a luxury coach (and yes, they come nicer than ours, but really, once you're on a half-decent tour bus it's all much of a muchness) we still all exist inside coach-class spatial confines. For example, this is my bunk and the only private space I (or any of us have). And by private I mean you're separated from everyone else by a curtain. A curtain that, say, Brian can yank open at any time and say, "Hullo Dicky. Are you havin' a wee polish in there, are ye'?" This is most annoying when you are having a polish; not because of the interruption but because it's Brian.

This is bedtime.




This is the back-lounge. In every back-lounge on every tour bus in the world exists red-eyed roadies watching something marginally crappy or very funny in perpetuity. And it smells of man. And cigarettes. And dead air. That said, look at Brian, Vicente and Jamie having fun. This is what it looks like to have fun. On every tour bus there is usually a tour-video/DVD that everyone watches and then quotes relentlessly. On this tour it was every episode of the British TV show Still Game.




None of it so terrible, just terribly small.

The best thing about this bus are the windows in the bunks - a rare feature. And they open too, which is a Godsend when you wake up in the baking heat inside a metal tube that 8 other men have been sleeping in.

A room with a view.



The first few days on the bus are okay. You get your little space sorted. You're hanging out with people you like and the tour stretches ahead of you full of promise for the excitement and romance of places you'll visit (Paris! Lisbon! Copenhagen! Reading....) but after a while something strange happens on every tour.

At some point you become tired of dressing and hopping around in a narrow aisle traveling at 60 miles an hour; and of watching people brush their teeth; and of trying to contort yourself to take a leak while being jostled around city centres; and of having to be with people around the clock (even people you like a lot and despite the fact that it's nobody's fault). This is when the bus starts to attack you. Suddenly every sharp corner jabs at you; every full cup is spilled at every short stop; every bump and lurch happens as you're just about to sleep; everything you need is packed in a bag you can't reach; everyone gets in each other's way and every time you want cereal there's no milk and every time you want a cold soda there's only warm beer. I've never been on a tour where this doesn't happen. Never.



When I first became obsessed with music it used to sustain me through the tedium and the desperation of living somewhere that life avoided. Time dragged in my home town, and the worst time of all was on Bank Holidays when the stores wouldn't open for Sunday and Monday. Time crawled for two whole endless days while I waited impatiently for my life to kick into gear and begin. Music was the one way I thought I could escape a dull life and get out to see the world. And I was lucky.

So it wasn't without some irony that at the end of this last tour that I was deposited in a village 12 miles away from my mum's house at 1:30pm on a bank holiday Monday. I felt like i was in an episode of The Prisoner, the series where Patrick McGoohan can't ever escape from The Village.




Cheery Bye.

Monday, August 20, 2007

Scandinavia:

Göteborg:




It seems very Scandinavian to have buildings with lots of lit logos on the outside. The above was in Göteborg.






Jamie enjoying the rider in Oslo. They'd kindly prepared some kind of deviled eggs for us. The aroma stayed with us all day and all night...

Strange Norwegian advertising...I didn't go into the store, funnily enough.



Copenhagen. Another logo building.



Rare shot of Brian not giving the V's.




People pay to go on this.



Nyhaven.



This is how it used to look backstage....perhaps it's for the best. So much Facebook.



Matt's Mardi-Gras drumkit.

A Curse on Thieving Pikey Bastards.


Truth be told, after 8 days I was quite looking forward to leaving Scandinavia. While it’s beautiful and the people are as friendly as people are anywhere I was tired of switching currency every day and of the high prices; it was time for a change.

Our last show was in Aarhus, Denmark’s second city, so we were told. I’d never been before – normally we don’t get further than Copenhagen or the Roskilde Festival. We arrived early, walked around town for a bit (it’s pleasant enough, a river banked by small café’s and restaurants in the town centre, a big redbrick copper roofed Danish church type thing – all the usual) and the venue was clean, warm and seemingy well-run. Before I set foot in there and before we’d loaded our gear onto the stage the local crew had hung our backdrop – usually the least favourite part of my day. I hate hanging that backdrop, big, unwieldy thing that it is…..it looked like it was going to be a good day.




A river runs through it.




Every city has a red-brick, copper roofed building in the middle - sometimes several.

We set up the gear, washed clothes in the laundry in the room next to the dressing room, and found good WiFi reception in the main dressing room. This meant of course that everyone brought their computers to go online, i-chat, download music, and generally stare at their facebook profiles wondering what obscure book, film or record they could add to make themselves sound more interesting.

After soundcheck, at 7 pm, the venue manager told us it was time to adjourn to the restaurant nearby for dinner. This we did in dribs and drabs and by the time the support band had arrived to eat I was on my way back to the venue to check my Facebook inbox.

When I got to the venue I thought, for one moment, that someone had moved them all. I called Matt back at the restaurant and asked him if he’d put the computers on the bus for safekeeping. He hadn’t. Someone had come into the venue, walked upstairs and taken all six Mac’s sitting from the table in the dressing room.

We were incensed. We accused the support band, we accused the venue, we ran around the neighbourhood looking for the culprits. I must have missed them by minutes. A hippy wandering around in the backstreet told me and Jamie that “three foreigners, 3 middle-eastern men” had come past him with computers, but he was vague about where they’d gone. I grabbed a bicycle and combed the nearby streets looking for them, for anyone, although after a few minutes I began to suspect the hippy more than any spectral arabs. I still do.

We didn’t find them – we found a sheet of paper that had fallen out of someone’s computer case. In the end the haul was 6 laptops, software, one ipod, cash, travelers cheques and Todd the bassist’s passport.

The police wouldn’t come to the venue so I went to them to file a report. The cop taking down the details couldn’t be bothered entering all the information I gave him so he told me to fax it in. If he’d been any less interested he’d have got his cock out and gone home. I know it’s not a murder or a violent crime, but it was US$20,000 worth of computers…..it didn’t look like they were so busy in there. Maybe we were just foreigners?

Back at the venue when I returned the security door was again unlocked. Nice.

The venue manager told me he didn’t believe any of his staff were involved. I pointed out that it would be almost astronomically coincidental if someone just happened into the venue just as we were at dinner to go directly to the main dressing room (without touching the support band’s gear or the guitars on stage or the venue's computers) to take only our computers and to leave again without being seen by anyone. I thought it more likely someone at the venue was involved. Its got to be a pretty short list too, and, I'd say, it starts with him.

The day ended sourly; venue staff getting in the way and being obstinate about it, people leaving the doors propped open like a bunch of fuckwits, and every one of us realizing that someone we were working with that day had stolen our stuff and was laughing at us – it made us suspicious of everyone there, which was a shame. It's no way to go through life and everyone we'd met earlier in the day seemed so hepful and amiable. In the end we were all glad to leave. At this point the senior venue manager hadn't deigned to call me back.

I replaced my computer the following day (but not the contents which has all gone) and insurance claims are already in process. None of us care about the machines as much as the irreplaceabe information and personal photos and documents that were lost. The shadow of identity theft still looms a little but mostly we’re over it. I was surprised at the violent fantasies we all share—there must be some kind of universal victim’s rage that has otherwise calm people wishing violent pain on the perpetrators (my favourite is jumping up and down on slow-cracking ribs – it’s not the worst by a long shot either. So much so that I wouldn't feel comfortable repeating them all here).

I hope whoever has the machines enjoys them, and that the money made from the sale pays for lots of cheap cigarettes, booze and fried food. I hope the thieves’ lives in the arse-end of Aarhus continue in the same vein until they become middle-aged men living on petty thievery. I hope the horizon frustrates like a line never to be crossed and that their lives become stale and tired like their imaginations and caabilities. I don’t believe in an interventionist god or a Catholic after-life accounting but I do believe that character is destiny. Just to exorcise this episode from my mind once and for all (in a couple of years you'll be an anecdote); I hope the bitterness of a wasted life eventually turns from a dark, despairing miasma over everything you do into a few black, pernicious cells that divide and multiply in your colon or your gonads or your spleen. And I hope, when you’re pronounced terminal and your family gather around, you realize what a waste of organs you were and what a tremendous amount of nothing you amounted too. And I hope you see disappointment and shame in your bastard offspring's eyes when they look at you.

This week we’ve been to Amsterdam, Brittany & London and been paid for it. Next week I'll spend an amazing three days in Paris. Then I'll go back to New York and live large. How much did you get for my laptop? Fuck you, you thieving pikey bastards.

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

Sneaky Days Off.

Proper, do-nothing, be-bothered-by-no-one, days off on tour are rare for me. It's my job to be on-call for problems so I'm used to it (If I'm honest, it freaks me out when I'm in Asia on vacation and I spend a day without something coming up; it feels unnatural to get back to my hotel room and there's no note about a problem with a ticket or someone needs some money or someone's put their trousers on backwards, etc, etc....). On Monday we had a day off in Lisbon and no one bothered me. I almost felt a bit guilty about having a paid day off but then I realised a couple of things.

1. There are so many days, even on the easiest tour, where you don't get any down time or rest for days on end, so somewhere some karmic credit must accrue.
2. There's a high likelihood that the reason I'm not being bothered is because I planned well beforehand. As Matt keeps saying: "We're professionals...."
3. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.

But just to spoil things, this big-nosed, shiny-faced, ginger-eyebrowed git keeps getting in all of my photos.





I did what work I needed to do at the hotel and then jumped on the subway and ran around the old part of Lisbon for a couple of hours. This has to be the best perk of my job - you can keep the tedious avaricious after-show parties with limp-egoed wannabees, you can keep the meet and greets with celebrities in feral, stuffy dressing rooms, and you can fuck right-off with your impotent Hard Rock Cafe branded sex and drugs and rock and roll image and imagery (yawn) but please, leave me the good gigs and days off in cool places. Thanks.

View from the afternoon.



Bob Eiffel's left-over lift nestled deep in the heart of Lisbon's earthquake district.



I wandered around the Alfama and climbed up to the Castle de Sao Jorge on top of the hill. It was built by the Moors / Muslims and while there I pondered on the universal theme of organised religions everywhere: build big castles and consolidate your power base (Ever seen St. Peter's in Rome? Knoworramean?). Back in the day even the tiniest castle would have taken forever to build, and this one was a doozy on top of a hill. I'm glad they did though, the views from the ramparts were great. Shame about the busker playing the tin whistle inside while dressed in quasi-medieval gear. Still, I suppose the tourists liked him.

The parque at the castle. Things don't get much more typically Iberian.



Tourists and castle and Lisbon. (The tourists just aren't as round over here as they are in America, it has to be said. Unless, of course, they're American...).



Note the ironic framing of picture to show my scorn for organised religion. Even when I'm a tourist I am still, and always will be, sticking it to the man.




I went home for a run along the River Tagus, which was another treat. Going trotting in unusual places is always interesting and the riverbank by the Parque das Nações was peaceful and lined with interesting modern buildings and, more importantly, hardly any people.

In the morning we were scheduled to fly on a budget airline to Göteborg via Brussels. I tried not to brood on the potential for disaster and instead enjoyed one of a diminishing number of nights in a bed. Once we play Göteborg we will have exactly 2 nights in a proper bed to look forward to in 17 days. Now that I've realised this, it's a wonder I'm out of my pajamas and on my feet at all this week.