Heading Home:


On the drive into Scotland one sees road signs that say: Carlisle & Scotland. On the drive back south one doesn't see signs that say: Carlisle & England. I can't think why--unless the English think you're already in England and it's redundant to singpost it? I would imagine the Scot's would welcome the opportunity to higlight the border one more time....



We left Glasgow and its paltry Pagan Winter Lights ( I guess the Scottish aren't too superstitious about the dark, judging by this meagre display) to spend a night in Carlisle en route to Nottingham. We stayed in a well-hidden hotel in the centre of town that reminded everyone of England Circa 1941 when they woke in the morning and the sun was shining on the market square. It did have a market town feel to it - and we were staying in the main square, the kind of place where everyone would have got together for a good hanging a couple of hundred years ago.





However, biggest surprise for me was how much they'd pimped out the market square for the pagan light festival (Hard to see here in daylight). They had the three wise men with faces so scary you'd never let them in to see a baby, especially if one of them was carrying some death oil. And the rest of the square was similarly decked-out. I guess Carlisle people like to ward of the darkness. They also had an Ann Summers store on the market square so I guess we can all deduce from that that people in Carlisle like christmas time and are always at it in saucy underwear.....to be fair to them though, there didn't seem to be much else to do there, not now we've stopped hanging people anyways.


We drove past Newcastle and passed the Angel of The North, a giant steel (?) sculpture next to the A1 that you can see for miles and that gave me the willies a bit like a giant Wicker Man might.



When we got to Nottingham I was cheered to see that the ghost of Christmas Future (for me anyway) Steven Seagal is playing at Rock City in Nottingham in February. I'm tempted to fly back to see this show. Really. And that scares me now that I've said it because I might.




After the show during load out I collided with an inch thick piece of plywood that some spazzy roadie made ages ago for Steve in Albert's band (f***king thing weighs a ton and could be used as a roll-on / roll-off car ferry if need be). Net result was that I saw stars and nearly threw up while Brian, who was carrying the pedal board felt dreadful with guilt. It was a silly accident and apparently my head made a good noise when we collided-i really can't remember as I was on my hands and knees trying not to cry. However, 20 minutes later once the drugs had kicked in (and I never knew so many people on this tour were carrying painkillers....I was impressed) I was entertained by how big the bump got. It turned into a real cartoon bump. I could have done without having to drive back to London but it wasn't so bad until someone put on the hippy music and the bump started throbbing in protest.

Here's Brian being wracked with guilt.




Anyway, three hours to sleep in now before tomorrow's promo begins. Last night in a hotel for 48 hours too so I should make use of a bed that doesn't shake.

Not that a shaking bed is a bad thing. Don't put words into my mouth.

My Night With The Pussycat Dolls:

Our Glasgow hotel was across the street from the S.E.C.C. (I think I’ve put on shows there in the past, but it’s a bad sign when you can’t remember the venues from outside. I‘d know if I went backstage…). When we got back from the radio station where the band had been recording a session we ran into the crowd for the Pussycat Dolls as they were leaving the S.E.C.C. (we asked some kids holding poster who’d they’d been to see – which in itself is a bit creepy—40 year-old men cruising teenage girls outside a gig in their big white van with blacked-out windows…). Giddy on the news we were only a few hundred yards from the Dolls we all started singing Don’t Cha’. Everyone knew the lyric (respect to Cee-Lo, even though my friend says he was a bit of a dick when she met him checking into a European hotel once). I took a guess at what hotel they’d be in but in the end we decided against going around to hang out in the bar (this wasn’t a unanimous decision, btw). Aside from the fact that an unkind judge might label this as ‘incredibly f***king sad behaviour’ there’s also the matter of who needs more restraining orders? One or two my be considered fashionable—even rakishly becoming in a certain light--but when you’ve got more than a couple then I don’t think girls like it so much…no matter how much explaining you do about what a mix-up it was and how you weren’t sleeping outside her house in a car all week with a camera and some rope. Anyway, I digress.



Our hotel is in a dead part of town on the river. I quite like it, for all its deadness. There is some interesting architecture around, new buildings mixed with remnants from the city’s history. The giant crane above was next to our hotel and was no longer in service. They did right to leave it where it was - it looked great. Apparently the shipbuilding yards were bombed heavily in WWII and along rows of nearby tenement’s you can see where a building was destroyed by bombs and a newer one erected in its place in the middle of a row. I like the gritty, pragmatic parts of cities. Tangentially, I also realized yesterday how much I like Motorway Service Stations. They’re like little oases on the road. I saw a couple yesterday nestled into woods at the side of the M6 / M74. And while intellectually I know they sell the same crap as each other, part of me can’t help thinking they’re like little local grottos where you might find something cool and unique; even at Toddington or Leicester Forest East.

Okay, now you’re looking at me strangely…

The Scottish Play:


I’ve got a cold. I think I got it in that damp, stinky club in Leeds. Did I mention the dressing rooms reeked of damp paint fumes? Class. It’s just about to take me out for a day or so – I can tell. I’m cranky, runny nosed, very tired…actually apart from the runny nose that’s pretty much business as usual for me.

After the Leeds show we drove to Sheffield for the night. Our hotel overlooked the Wicker and the Holiday Inn. This is the river Jarvis sang about in the Wickerman. Because of my friends in the city I have an affection for Sheffield and always like being here, even when the view is less than stellar. Brian, our guitar tech’, was telling me about the time he slept in the bar of this Holiday Inn after a session on a Wet Wet Wet tour. I used to work for Pulp. When Pulp played Top of the Pops (1994?) and Wet Wet Wet had been Number 1 for about three years with Love Is All Around Jarvis hid a sign in his coat that he flashed to the camera. It said I HATE WET WET WET and went out live. I’d completely forgotten about that until now. Happy Days.




Yesterday we drove across the moors to Manchester. Amazing bleak countryside that this photo, taken while I was driving along at 70mph doesn't really do it justice. Manchester was a good show but the thing that cheered me up the most was seeing The Holy Name Church opposite the venue. I may be mistaken (there might be several Churches so named in Manchester) but it made me think this was the Church named in The Smith’s Vicar in a Tutu. (“I was minding my business, lifting some lead off the roof of the Holy Name Church. It was worthwhile living a laughable life, to set my eyes on the blistering sight, of a Vicar in a tutu….”). It’s the little things that make me happy.





My I-pod died today. It just stopped working. It’s about 2 1/2 years old so I suppose the little fucker was due (my last one lasted about the same amount of time). Apple must be building them with some kind of spacc’ed out power supply so that they die sooner rather than later. Fortunately at home in New York I’d just backed everything up onto a hard drive via Ipod Rip so I’m a very happy boy – not counting the fact I’ve got another 3 weeks to go without and Ipod. Oh, God. I’ll have to talk to people. Oh sweet Jesus, please: make it stop…..

We drove through the border country today between England and Scotland. It’s one of the most beautiful places in the country. The mountains were covered with black clouds, heavy with rain. The sun stayed at 45 degrees all day (it rarely gets higher in the winter here). This meant the light was clear and sharp if not very warm. The contrast was never better seen than when a flock of about thirty birds swooped and dived in a circle. One minute their dark backs were almost lost against the black clouds, the next minute their silver underbellies glinted like new blades in the sunlight before they wheeled around again. The mountains were covered in patchy brown gorse and autumnal heather, the grass was a vivid green. It was breathtaking. It made me want to move here to write and get healthy in the fresh air.

We passed Penrith. This was the setting for Withnail and I, one of the best British Movies ever made, ever. If you haven’t seen it go buy a copy on DVD. Then watch it, and try not to quote it all the time. I wanted to stop off and go to the tea-rooms, but we didn’t have time. In fact, I was going to buy them and fire everyone....

In Glasgow we all got bought fish and chips from a place called McMonagle’s in Clydebank. It was without a shadow of a doubt the best Fish and Chips I’ve had since I was a boy on holiday in Devon. Outstanding. It’s hard to get good stuff like that now as production of almost all fast food is so homogenized and has little to do with quality. Did I ever mention the McLibel trial and the documentary about the two people ( a postman and a gardener) who wouldn't apologise to McDonalds for saying their food is crap, btw? That’s another good movie – albeit a documentary. McLibel. I hate McDonalds and that f***ing clown with a vengance. This story made me realise what an insidious influence they really are.

See? Cranky.....

Tonight is off (we got back from the radio at 11PM so some night off). I’m staying in to feel tired and coldy and to get some sleep. Don’t let anyone tell you we’re not living the dream.

It's Grim Up North:


Or wet, at the very least. We're in Leeds, Yorkshire today. I haven't been here in maybe a decade so I'm enjoying the visit. I'm much more of a tourist than I'd like to admit; while everything feels English and familiar I'm also thinking that everyone's accents sound quaint - someone called me "me flower" in a shop today - and isn't it funny that people go out of an evening in the freezing rain without coats? Then again, I used to do the same thing 20 years ago ( mainly because I was skint and didn't want to waste a quid on the cloakroom in a club - not when I could be spending it on lager or cider & black instead). I've got all fancy pants now and I'd get too cold waiting in line for a club even if I were wearing my Brooks Bros. overcoat. Actaully, I'd never wait in line for a club. Not even if the baby jesus was onstage and there was a drink special on snakebite and black.

These are the Christmas lights in Leeds. I like Xmas lights, they make me hopeful that I'll have an xmas worthy of a Wham! video--although I should have learnt by now. There's something primitive about having light fesitvals in the winter, I think. I heard So Here It Is Merry Xmas by Slade today in Leeds Market for the first time this season. I miss hearing that in the USA. It made me feel festive.




On to something grumbly: What's happened to the telly in the UK? When I moved to the USA I remember thinking that British telly was so much better than US telly. I don't know that it's true anymore. With the exception of the occasional show like Vincent, Wire In The Blood and the like, most of the shows are wank over here now. There's even a naff thing late at night on ITV that's like a call in quiz show and that looks like a cheap commercial all the way through. Absolute bollocks. What happened? Was it always so crap and I just didn't notice or has it changed now that there's 24 hour broadcasting as standard everywhere and they have to fill up the time with some guff or other? It's hard to find something to watch. (Unlesss one's bought $200 of DVDs, that is....)

One thing I had forgotten was the level of public drunkeness in provincial England of a night. The streets are busy with drunks coming home & shouting on the way. You don't hear this so much in New York (at least not where I live, I suppose) nor in London (except in Leicester Square at 11PM). Going out to get wankered with the getting wankered as important a part of the evening as maybe enjoying a gig, show, dance or whatever. I think it's a very English attitude to having fun - like we have to gorge ourselves on it when its available for some reason; there's less urbane sipping of red wine at dinner than there is guzzling lager until one's swearing at roadsigns and throwing up in a taxi. It's in me too, to this day, although I don't drink anymore--partly for that reason. I think some Europeans are similar, but the British are world-leaders. It's a strange way of going about things - trying to numb oneself whenever possible. I wonder if its a throwback to feeling a kind of institutuionalised powerlessness from the good old days (Before the 1970's recession) when the poor and working class laboured in factories and mills and when vacations were the whitsun bankholiday weekend charabang to North Wales or Skegness? (I can't speak to posho' drunkeness as I work for a living, just like me mum and dad). Or maybe it's just a symptom of a buried rage that the British carry around inside after centuries of emotional stoicism.



I went to the hardware store in Leeds to buy some tools to use to hang our new backdrop. The hardware store was in a deserted old market in Leeds. Inside the market there is a Stamp Collectors store. It was empty too, apart from the proprieter. But there was something great about the empty market with its anachronistic stores; I like that about places in the provinces (anywhere). And of course I'm being condescending as I don't live in a small provincial town anymore and can enjoy the (apparent) lack of facilities. When I did live in a small town my skin itched in frustration thinking that life was going on elsewhere. I was sure that all the good things in life, all the golden opportunities, all the fun bypassed my home town on the M1 and the M5. Anyway, I hope Mr. Studley has a good weekend selling all the stamps he needs to and gets to have all the fun he can eat.


On a chipper note I've been feasting on the following - all are worthy of your attention.

Joan Didion - Play It As It Lays - genius writing - perfect style. LA in a book. What I'd give to do one thing half as good as this ever.
Jarvis - Fat Children. Jarv', innit? It's Hugo Boss.
David Essex - Rock On
Reeves and Mortimer - DVD Complete Series. Classic English Comedy and probably an aquired taste...
The Mighty Boosh - I've just got the Live version of the show which is like the TV show but as Panto. Again, classic English comedy. Probably best to start off with the TV series. I want to hang out with Vince and Howard.
Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want / Vicar In A Tutu / Frankly Mr Shankly - The Smiths
When The Sun Goes Down - Artic Monkeys
Vetiver - I Know No Pardon / Leonard Cohen - Famous Blue Raincoat
David Bowie - Stay

London in the Wintertime.


Sunny, damp and chilly and London looks amazing. We landed, checked-in, then went straight to work. For the first time ever I'm not buying books and CD's before I do anything else. That will come though, I'm sure of it.

Went to Sunday Lunch in Borough Market at a boss restuarant called Roast, who, not surprisingly, serve Roast Dinners. It's been a long time since I've had a proper Sunday dinner. Roast beef, yorkshire pudding--the full monty. Class. South of the water is turning into my new favourite area of London now what with the Tate Modern, Borough Market, Bermondsey Street..the band were rehearsing down there so this makes it my second trip to London where I've mostly hung out in London Bridge / Borough. I'll be wearing a pearl covered jacket next, me old cocksparra'...

We (read: I) picked-up a van to carry the band and the gear around in. I haven't driven around in London like for a long long time. It's good fun and I can remember all the routes across town (mostly), but parking is a chore. Even on my old steeet in Kentish Town - which used to be a great sneaky spot for parking splitter vans - is now all permit only parking. Everywhere is, in fact; which made me realise I've been gone for ten years. Coincidentally, it took nearly 10 years to find parking only to have to move the van again after 2 hours. Why do people drive in London again? I know the tube is crap but driving, luv a duck - what a bleedin' palaver...

The Christmas Lights are up and on along Oxford Street and Regent Street; the city looks exciting and festive. It's one of my favourite times of year in Europe because it looks like Christmas. I managed to drop into HMV and came out in a daze with $200 worth of DVDs--some Chinese movies, and some old British TV shows (The Edge of Darkness, Top of the Pops compilation feat. Slade, T-Rex, The Jam, Ian Dury amongst others. The Jam look so young doing Down In the Tube Station At Midnight, and their miming sucks but it's great to see old performances like that.) I got some old episodes of Reeves and Mortimer and I'd forgotten how funny they are, and how English and original. I'm looking forward to checking out the Mighty Boosh Live DVD my friend gave me for my birthday. I'm glad to be back where people can make me belly-laugh.

Still, we go to Birmingham tomorrow so it could all change....c'mon luvver.

All the Turkey you can eat...

This is the Asian shore of Istanbul, a place called Uskudar. It was noticably poorer-looking than the new city or the old town but it was very busy with people going to sit on the waterfront to look across the river looking towards Europe.



We were there during the last three days of Ramadan, and everyone was out on the streets celebrating. In Uskudar some street vendors had floated some balloons on the river and were charging to let people (mainly young boys) shoot at the balloons with pellet guns. I don't know what the prizes were but to be honest, after firing a gun myself in Hawaii, i don't think winning a teddy bear as a prize is the motivating factor here...



At the mouth of the Bosphorous there was an endless line of ships waiting to navigate the river or collect their cargo. I have a thing about boats, and seeing so many huge tankers (not that this photo does them so much justice) made my simple heart glad. I am similarly amused by bubble wrap.



We went to see a performance of the Whirling Dervishes. It's more like a folk-dance display now in an exhibition hall at the station, but nonetheless the music was hypnotic and so was the dance. Originally the Dervishes spun and spun to put themselves in a state of religious ecstasy, one hand face up towards God, one facing down to earth so they could channel the love. They refer to themselves as the Lovers because of their devotion to God.



Spices in the Egyptian Spice Market. There was an awful amount of crap on sale too but the spices and Lokum (Turkish Delight) looked amazing. However the Turkish Delight does tend to mess up your stomach if you eat too much. Say if you maybe buy some to take home but gorge on it in your hotel room while you're reading of an evening and finish the lot in one sitting. Then it doesn't sit well at all. So I'm told.





And of course, Turkish Viagra. A walnut stuck inside a fig. I couldn't tell if it was a metaphor or not....

Northern Europe:

Back in Blighty I spent a weekend catching up with friends. Living overseas makes me miss everyone so much. On this visit I got to go to the Tate Modern for the first time ever and saw some great pieces, my favourite being the Fischli and Weiss exhibit. Mad Swiss artists. The film of the Bear and the Rat is genius. The Tate Modern is such a good building too. When I left London a decade agothis part of the City was a dead area; it made me happy to see the City develop so much. In America I miss the sense of history and culture that’s evident in all the major European cities. I miss Europe a lot these days.

I went to visit my hometown to spend time with my family. Although the city has come on a lot since I lived there and feels cleaner and more welcoming than it did fifteen years ago or so it’s still very quiet and closes up completely at night. I went out at 11PM to try to buy a Mars Bar (well, that was a pretext…) but couldn't find anything open – not even a petrol station. Weird.

Late night Coventry. This used to be a Wimpy Cafe in the 70's, now it's a listed building as an example of post-war architecture. Class.



And this is the Devil on the side of Coventry Cathedral. When we were kids on school trips we'd giggle at his willy as it looked like a milk bottle (and we know it's not after doing the corporate gig in October. We know exactly what the Devil's Willy looks like now: it's a Hennessy Bottle). Thirty years later and I'm still giggling at the Devil's Willy. And don't pretend you're not going to click on the photo to look...



Coventry finally has it's own food specialty to crow about. The noble Pork-Batch. At last, a cuisine I can call my own. Cooked pork on a roll with stuffing. Simple, classic, and unhealthy. This cart is a recent addition to the precinct but you've got to love the captioning. Coventry, where crap jokes are given pride of place. Truly makes me proud, and explains a lot too.



From the Midlands I flew to Amsterdam. One of my oldest and bestest friends is playing guitar for George Michael and I didn’t want to miss the chance to see him (However I missed seeing Neko Case and Cat Power to see George Michael - I'm either on the turn or an exceptionally good friend). The show was exactly as you’d expect – professional, slick, packed with hits and very good. I have to say more power to George as he gets to throw in a few barbed comments during the set with the visuals, as this picture of an inflatable George Bush getting blown by a British Bulldog shows. Wonder if he’ll use this on the US Tour? Or at Earls Court, for that matter.



I had my final day in Europe in Amsterdam. It was a rare treat to be in the city without an entourage of stoners all gagging about numbing themselves into comas. (to be fair last time it was only a couple of people, but it was enough to have me spitting bile for the entire visit) The air was crisp, the light amazing and I get off on hearing all the different languages spoken. The Dutch have a great way of saying English slang expressions and sounding more English than the English. The guy in a record store where I bought a Burt Bacharach compilation managed to say, “Mind ‘ow you go.” to me when I paid for the CD. Like he came from Deptford.

I had a great time wandering around and my friend took me to a load of commercial art galleries. There were prints of Dali and Picasso on sale for Euro 3000. I was tempted. Maybe when I go back at the end of the month…

Flying home, the nice lady at KLM check-in let me off my overweight baggage fee, which was kind of her and means I’ll try to fly KLM when I can from now on. Nice people.

Sadly, during my 5 hour layover at Heathrow I had to start hearing idiots in American’s Business Class lounge. Why is it stupid, opinionated people can’t help being loud? On the flight I was sat next to a man who was reading Bill O’ Reilly’s book in Hardback. Why would you want to buy that guff in hardback? (The Book is Called Culture Warrior and outlines his battle to prevent someone turning the US into an image of Western Europe. The preface is as self-serving and self-aggrandizing as I could stomach, but people buy this – in hardback. That’s just plain weird.) The guy also never said please and thank you to the attendants as they served him drinks. That’s piggish. And you know how I hate bad manners….

To take my mind of the violence that I felt towards the fascist ‘muncher sat next to me I made a list of all the good books I’ve just read this past two weeks, and the genius playlist on my I-pod that I’ve been listening to for the past few days and that I’d recommend to you all. Buying 10-hole Doc Martens from Holts in Camden and listening to Madness on the tube home is still one of the best London feelings a kid from the Midlands can get. Listening to Metal Guru while walking along the canal on Prinsen Gracht on the way to meet your date is another legendary feeling; a way to feel invincible with super-powers. How can you not feel invincible with that guitar sound blowing through your head? How can you not?


MADNESS – EMBARRASSMENT
IAN DURY – HIT ME WITH YOUR RHYTHM STICK / WHAT A WASTE
XTC - MAKING PLANS FOR NIGEL / MAYOR OF SIMPLETON
FLEETWOOD MAC – BIG LOVE / TUSK
T REX – METAL GURU
THE SMITHS – THIS CHARMING MAN
ROXY MUSIC - LOVE IS THE DRUG
JACKIE TRENT - MAKE IT EASY ON YOURSELF ( i think this is better than Scott Walker's version...)
DIONNE WARWICK – I’LL NEVER FALL IN LOVE AGAIN
DUSTY SPRINGFIELD – THE LOOK OF LOVE
OK GO – A MILLIONS WAYS
SHAKIRA – WHENEVER, WHATEVER
EDDIE FLOYD – BIG BIRD
THE THE – SLOW TRAIN TO DAWN
THE SMITHS – I STARTED SOMETHING I COULDN’T FINISH
THE SPECIALS – GANGSTERS
BRITNEY SPEARS - TOXIC
THE WONDERSTUFF - IT'S YER MONEY I'M AFTER, BABY
NICK CAVE – SUPERNATURALLY
PAUL WELLER – INTO TOMORROW / YOU DO SOMETHING TO ME
DAVID BOWIE – I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU / PABLO PICASSO
GRANDADDY – ALBUM OF THE YEAR

BOOKS:
Alan Bennett – 3 Stories
M J Hyland – Carry Me Down / How The Light Gets In
Henry Green – Loving / Living (Living is the only book I've ever read written entirely in a Birmingham accent - It's bloody boss, it am).
Paul Bowles – Collected Stories
Issac Babel - Collected Stories

More Photo's from Turkey


A street market...kind of Dolcis on the riverbank.



This guy sat in the park and people came to him to have him write letters for them. He was kept very busy.



And this guy was in Uskudar. He had some scales where you could "check you health". Other health-specialists had rulers to measure height too, but this guy was just running with the basic fatty check.















Along the river banks everyone was fishing. All the men had their own rods and there was a guy renting rods (or so it seemed). I don't know that I'd want to eat anything that came out of the water there but that didn't seem to bother anyone else.



There were many stalls like this - barely more than a tray set up on a trestle on the pavement. They were popular with the fishermen. I guess a hard days angling makes you hungry for some lemony mussels. There was also a geezer serving the fishermen tea from a small portable canteen. The spirit of free-enterprise.















These boats were quayside near the Galata Bridge. And they were busy. With so many ferries on the river it seemed impossible to work on them as the wake from the passing boats would send them rocking from side to side violently.

Europe:

What does the experienced and exhausted tour manager do once he gets some time off? He goes on tour by himself, naturally; a week in Turkey on vacation and a few days in London, Coventry, Rotterdam and Amsterdam. The simple joy of walking through an airport without dragging a posse of tardy rock-stars on to a plane. Such sweet, sweet joy.

After a one-night visit to London where I got to see a performance of Histoire De Melody Nelson and L'Enfant Assassin des Mouches by composer / arranger Jean-Claude Vannier at the Barbican. Guest vocalists came on for the Histoire De Melody Nelson (Jarvis Cocker, Badly Drawn Boy, Laetitia Sadier, Gruff Rhys, Brigitte Fontaine). Going to gigs without being paid for it, and enjoying it? Christ, don’t tell anyone. The show was fantastic. And Herbie Flowers was playing bass which somehow made me feel happiest of all.

Istanbul:

I’d never been to a Muslim country before. I liked seeing such a different culture up close. Our hotel was near the Blue Mosque so were woken by the muezzin and the call to prayer at 6am every day. It’s an amazing sound. In the background we could hear the other Mosques around the city come to life for the day. I liked that there was a sense of religion there and that people still offered devotions thrice daily. Even if some people are paying lip-service (as there are in all religions), there’s something to be said to having a society where some semblance of humility is part of daily life and woven into the day to day doings of people. I liked the humble and holy feeling I found inside the Mosques themselves. I was appalled at the lack of respect many of the tourists showed by not wearing headscarves or by talking and taking flash photo’s near people praying – and not just westerners either – Asians and middle-eastern tourists were all equally insensitive. I guess everywhere’s a theme park these days. I found it refreshing to realize first-hand that Muslims and Islam are not the twisted people and religion of the news propaganda or maniacs. Judging Islam and Muslims by the extremists that obviously do exist is like assessing Christians and Christianity by looking at the Klan. More than ever, people are people. Money seems the most divisive factor in the world to me, and not the way one chooses to worship, or not.

The Blue Mosque - shout-outs at 6AM, 1pm & 7PM.




Istanbul is where East and West meet. It’s evident in the city – in the old town it’s all mosques and history, across the river there’s a shopping street like any in the west complete with Pizza Huts and Burger Kings. Not that this is surprising anymore but it underlined that here is a border that goes beyond the physical barrier created by the Bosphorous.

In the tourist places I found people universally friendly and gracious, but not so always o the street. Being tall with long hair makes me stand out a little (and being vain and shallow makes me like this). In China, where I get a fair amount of attention I was met with stares but likely as not smiles and giggles. In Istanbul I was met with many many flat, dead-eyed stares. It took me a couple of days to work this out and in the end the only rationale I could come up with was that people were less fascinated by my appearance as they were faintly contemptuous of it. Not that anyone in Turkey was really giving me a second thought, but it was noticeable. And to be honest, I was being as biased in my own way about them, interpreting every blank stare as hostile and resentful. However, having seen how tourists wandered around the mosques it would be easy to understand why the two cultures have a long way to go in some regards.


Normally prudish about strangers touching me, I decided to go for a Turkish Bath as I didn’t want to miss the opportunity. How could I not? I picked a 300 year old bathhouse that was suitably very tourist friendly (ie: very good at relieving me of my money) and signed up for the Sultan Treatment.

Once inside I was given a cubicle where I changed into wooden sandals and a thin towel that just fitted around my waist and was the size and thickness of a large tea-towel.

Then I was led through to a room where several men were lying around and being bathed. Through this room and I was into a smaller chamber where I was to loosen up in the steam. After ten minutes or so my masseur collected me and began rubbing me down with what was to be the pre-massage. He looked like a bond-villain’s henchman. Piano teeth, thick black moustache, a large mole over one eye and a purple knife-scar on his eye-lid. He mimed to me whether I should be on my back or my front and ground my skin mercilessly. I was determined to be stoic about it and not cry out. I am British. And it sounded so undignified when the other men in the room were doing it. After he’d loosened the top layer of my epidermis he took me to one of the alcoves where there were taps with running hot and cold water and began to bathe me. Like I said I’m a little prudish about this so it was al I could do not to giggle as my masseur ran his hand up my leg soaping my thigh. Once I was slippery as a fish he instructed me to lie on the marble floor where he gave me another massage. This time I did cry out, and grunt, and I made noises that I never expected to make with another man. I think it was the only way I was going to get him to stop leaning on me and running his elbow down my spine (don’t try that at home). At one point I thought he was going to crack my ribs, such was the pressure he put on them.

Once it was over he spoke the other three words he knew (aside from “Good “and “Sittum”) which were “Fifteen, twenty euros”, as his recommendation for the tip I was to give him. He needn’t have worried, I would have been too scared to leave without tipping.

Here are some photo’s of the trip. I don’t know that I’d rush to go back, but I’m glad I’ve seen it. And I liked that I could take a boat across the river to Asia, which is, of course, my spiritual homeland.

This is Asia. Good, innit? The River Bosphorous was busy the whole time we were there. Huge freighters ferrying cargo to and from the Black Sea all day and night.



The bus station at the West end of the Galata Bridge....it's rush hour...

Fall Tour

We started the fall tour in Toronto at the start of September. Many of us were very sick. I lost 6 lbs in three days and was diagnosed with Salmonella by the visiting doctor. He got through a lot of Vitamin B12 that day. We weren't sure we were doing the show up until about an hour beforehand as some of the band were too sick to get up out of bed.

The show was on an island in the lake - about a half a mile from the City. The previous day they'd lost two boats that were to ferry artists to and from the festival site. The people were so nice to us that it kind of made up for the slight kluge that the festival was. And it's always nice to take a boat to the gig, even if Richard Branson is on site being a numpty when you arrive. The last time I remember doing it was with Pulp in Norway when we jumped on a powerboat after the show and shot-off across a fjord. That was fun. This is me on the way to the show. I hadn't eaten for three days and look surprisingly well for it, considering. My rusted, empty black soul was back in the hotel feeling sorry for itself.



We didn’t have a production manager for the first week. This meant I was covering the position. Not what I’d asked for and I wouldn’t want to do it again, mainly because it means I wasn’t doing any of the three jobs I was supposed to be doing well or even passably on some occasions. I was very relieved when we finally hired someone, as was everyone. Never again.

For me the initial over-stressed, over-worked, under-supported grind set the tone for the tour and I never really got into it. There was no momentum for me, as I was so exhausted from the first couple of weeks that over the remaining three weeks I was counting the days until we finished. I haven’t toured with a feeling like that for a long time. To be honest, as it was the last tour of a campaign and we were doing a strange mix of supports for Tom Petty (excellent) and our own shows (mostly good) to shows in B markets where we were trying to develop some support out of radio airplay (not always so good) I think it was hard for everyone to get motivated. The shows were good, the band never let those suffer, but off-stage we were all in the doldrums somewhat, and our heads independently immersed in what we’d be doing once the tour had finished.

There were a few moments that stand out. We had two band buses, to give the band a little more space on the road and this helped a lot. There’s a big difference between getting on a bus with 8 people and getting on a bus with 4 people. The most direct comparison is between economy class and business. This meant the long drives felt leisurely and our two drivers were quick and smooth. Much like myself. For the first time we were all excited by the prospect of a 14 hour drive. We’d jump on the bus after the show, change, lounge around eating the food and then go to sleep only to wake a couple of hours from our hotel. Driving into Salt Lake City was good like this – the view over the salt plains impressive and spooky. Traveling across the American West always makes me think about the pioneers. They must have had some 'nads.



Unfortunately for the crew they only had one bus and as some crew members hadn't ever learnt good manners and basic social skills it put an undue amount of stress on the others. Some people ended up flying themselves rather than travel on the bus, which is wrong, really.

Supporting Tom Petty was good fun. His crew were the most charming and generous people I’ve met in a long time and they helped us a lot. Plus we got to finish early and there wasn’t a lot to worry about.

Pompano Beach. Our hotel was on the beach and fine enough for what it was, only it was miles from anything like a store. I was in the gym, pedaling my lazy legs off on a Saturday night (there really was nothing to do there) and the hotel’s “masseuse” was in the gym too, waiting for her next appointment. I was pedaling and watching Dog The Bounty Hunter on TV (I’m a populist at heart). She sat down on the next bike over and watched the show too. She smelled of cigarettes. I asked her if there was a store nearby. She told me there was one about a mile away in the bottom of one of the nearby hotels. She told me it was open until about 9PM or so and, “it’s run by them sand…..er..people.”
I wonder if she really meant to say Sand Niggers? And if it was a strange point of etiquette in Pompano Beach not to say Nigger in polite conversation to someone you don’t know? I’m speculating of course. Maybe Sand ‘People’ is a common expression down there. The shopkeeper was Indian, not Arabian. I really don’t get Florida. It’s like an episode of cops played out in real life with the cast from Springer. (Except for the cool people I met whom I’ve omitted here as it ruins my rant.)

Looking at the photo below I can't quite remember how miserable I felt on this day, or why. But I did.

Churlish, moi?



On the same day off in Florida as there was nothing to do and nothing on the TV (and remember I was sulking) I stole a DVD from the bus. It was Season One of Grey’s Anatomy. I watched the whole thing inside a day, lying on my bed, staring out at the beach, watching TV on my computer; too listless and morose to move. That in itself sums up how I was feeling. I bought Series 2 in Los Angeles three days later. By that point there were four of us watching it, gorging ourselves on the show whenever we could. For about a week it was all we could talk about. When I got to Kansas City I was up to date and so I bought a subscription to Series 3 from I-tunes so I could watch the new episodes as they were screened. I wasn’t alone in this. And it wasn’t unusual to hear us discussing where we all were and what was going on with Meredith and Shepherd as we left the venues each night. I think in some ways it was a symptom that we all craved a little normalcy after nine months of traveling non-stop. I know at the end of the tour I was craving a day to hang-out in my apartment just to clean and do laundry. I think knowing we were finishing meant everyone’s centre shifted slightly. Mine did.

Our last show was a “private” corporate show. It was an extravaganza for the party goers and a cluster-fuck backstage. It’s up there in my top three worst-produced shows ever. Completely run by numptys. If it hadn’t been for us and Goldfrapp’s crew being cool it would have crashed slowly and messily. I was half-tempted to let it, but one can’t fuck up a gig out of spite. Not one’s own, anyway. Aside from the pernicious rain – which was a drag as the dressing room was a trailer on the street – and the disorganization, the lasting impression I took away from the show was that there’s no such thing as only half sucking the devil’s willy. No matter what you promise yourself beforehand.

In a magnificent display of pre-planning this three and a half foot wide passage was where all the bands' equipment loaded-in and out, and where the many hundred waitstaff caried tray after tray of crap liquor from to get everyone in the crowd lathered-which they did, and was everyone's route backstage. That no one got hurt is a small miracle. Sometimes the gig is an afterthought to making sure that the branding is in place. Oh well, what do I know..?




And that’s nine months on tour….now I can rejoin myself. Being disembodied was getting old towards the end, that’s for sure.

Mexico

When we finally got to Monterrey - including a 3/4 mile sprint to change planes at Dallas/Fort Worth airport which we just made by seconds - I discovered my luggage hadn't made it. It's been a recurring theme this year that I've had to buy new clothes in various cities when my luggage has gone AWOL. By far the best was Lufthansa at losing my bags - all the other airlines seem like amateurs at losing luggage by comparison. Lufthansa give you an amenities kit, spare undershirts, and can tell you where the bag is at any given time. That wasn’t quite the case in Monterrey.

I left the hotel late at night to go to a convenience store to buy toothpaste, deodorant, etc and on the way back on the steps of a club I saw a pimp with three girls. They were obviously waiting in plain sight of our hotel's lobby on the off-chance a guest felt like some company. The girls were all fat and dressed in tight shiny yellow and purple boob tubes; comely would be a generous adjective for them. I wondered if the roles were reversed and there were groups of male prostitutes waiting on a nightclub’s steps to attract trade if it would work if they were fat and stuffed into day-glo spandex? Must say something about men, right?

While the way things get done in Mexico can be a little excruciating, the people we met--aside for the Mexican equivalent of the TSA Guadalajara Airport who were dicks - were uniformly the kindest and warmest people I've met in some time. Everyone was gracious and tried to be helpful. America, are you listening? It's that manners thing again....

Outside the shows in Mexico City a small market appeared each night devoted entirely to Strokes swag – all bootleg of course. We were told the only group to successfully prevent this happening was U2. We all took turns to go out and buy some souvenirs. I was wearing a suit and the price was an additional 10% for me on everything. Suit tax. Fuck it, I bought loads of stuff anyway – there were some great shirts and mugs. I think the band will be ripping off some of the designs for their next tours. It was overwhelming just how much Strokes merchandise had been made for the 2 shows for sale. There were at least fifty stalls selling tee-shirts, mugs, posters, key-fobs, etc.






The venue in Guadalajara was a new 5000 capacity arena. We were their fourth show. When I asked what other shows they promoted I was told, “cock fighting.” I wondered how 5000 people could see two tiny chickens scrapping on the floor. Unless they have some big, fuck-off chickens down there bred just for fighting?

10 Weeks Since You've Gone....

I got home (on the flight with the blathering man-child) after 10 weeks away only to find that absolutely nothing had changed. There were no problems, nothing to complain about, no new streets to navigate. In fact, an unkind judge could say that the Upper West Side had hardly noticed I'd been gone. Fickle bitch.

Still it was good to be home and while I had a ton of work to get stuck into I first exploded a couple of luggage bombs in my apartment. And then left them there - like a good single boy does - for most of the week until even I got bored of stepping over 10 weeks laundry. (Not strictly true, but not far wrong, either...)

So aside from realising I don't know what I like to do now that I'm home (True, sadly. Spent my first couple of days incapable of making decisions to do anything. Even going to see a movie was a HUGE decision), I reverted to my default position and settled onto the sofa to read. I reccomend Cold Skin by Albert Sanchez Pinol. It's perfect for anyone with a dark, gothic disposition; and Tourism by NIrpal Singh Dhaliwal, which is a very English (not British - and there's difference) almost tabloid read, but well-written nonetheless and with a great narrator. He's such a tosser.

I've also been listeing to Ok Go and The Tyde's new records. While buying The Swayze's genius "She's Like The Wind" from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack (it's time to re-stock the i-pod) a friend showed me the Dirty Dancing Havanah Nights soundtrack and Wyclef's on there with Claudette Ortiz singing Dance Like This. God Bless the 'Cleff. He had that one thing about shouting one-time, two-time over everything, now he's on his second idea of using the same song with a different singer - good luck to him. He was given two lemons and he's made gallons of lemonade out of them. And I really like the Shakira version. But if The Cleff stretches it anymore it'll snap. He should teach classes.

I can't read on tour, I can't concentrate for any period of time, but I do have to plan some travel for when we finish so I'm taking guide books with me on the next leg. I'm supposed to be going to Istanbul for mater's birthday (although after today's bombings I don't know if that still qualifies as a viable birthday present for her....) and when we finish touring I'm hoping to go to China for an extended period. That seems like a boss idea. But when doesn't it, eh?

We're off to Mexico soon. Just when I'd got used to being me, again. Oh well, time to dive for the last leg. I'm off to bed and then I'm going to take my personality suppressants....

Silly as it sounds....

I used to feel as though I were on the bottom of the world when I visited Australia and New Zealand, removed from everyone and everything. These days I feel much more as though they are both places I could live in and they feel more familiar than ever. For some reason they don't feel so remote. Even walking on a beach next to the Indian Ocean near Perth didn't feel freaky this time (usually I weirded-out thinking about how far away everything is). Everywhere's only twenty four hours away, these days.

I never get to see Brisbane. This time it was because I was catching up on some paperwork and I spent the whole day watching the city go through its day from my room, that overlooked the pedestrian access to the station. I felt like I was in one of those time-lapse photos. Still, I made a start on the tour accounts….






My current favourite game is trying to figure out what to do once this tour is over. I’ve a few vague concepts floating around, but most involve relocating from New York, semi-permanently. Consequently everytime I go somewhere new I imagine settling there. Sydney is beautiful but I don’t feel connected with it. Melbourne on the other hand, feels special. The bay it sits on seems vast and still (none of the gauche showoffiness of Sydney’s Harbour and poncy Opera House).

I’m a sucker for big f***-off freighters (See Korea entry) and there were a couple of those floating about. I had to take someone to the doctor’s office and the neighbourhood the doctor’s was in was amazing. Cafes, low-rise buildings, very neighbourhoody but still only a stone’s throw from the city centre. Melbourne, though, had me at the view from my hotel room. The thing I liked was that how distant the horizon looked through the spooky twilight haze. Dreamy, dreamy.




We passed through Adelaide, which felt like a quaint country town. On the giant video screen in the pub they were playing Transvision Vamp’s I Want Your Love video. Over and over. That was random. Wendy James – you can go to Adelaide and make a few quid, I’m sure. You could even visit Cliff Richard's mum, she lives there too.

We finished in Perth. Place where I formerly got the willies. Not this time. I had a blast there. Running around the Swan River, scoffing scones in the London arcade (Which is a misplaced Olde-Worlde English style shopping arcade in the Middle or Perth, buying rugby shirts, walking along the beach at Scarborough. All good fun. I don’t think I could live there, but I could easily spend some time there writing. After so long being in close proximity to so many people, personal space--and the opportunity to make ones own schedule--are heady prospects.

In Perth, as the entire tour party was leaving to fly back around the world to go home or on vacation we got the news about the terror plot that British Police had discovered. It was interesting seeing this news unfold around the world. First, the Australians reported the news that British Police had foiled a huge plot, etc, etc....then the BBC started updating their bulletins with more information, including a press conference where the British police admitted it was an inter-agency operation with Europe. A few hours later the US authorities started with their press conferences - the head of Homeland Security sneaking in the information that the Americans had been involved in the investigation (not that this was mentioned in the Aussie and European New Reports). By the time The President got involved he was speaking of the plot as an Islamic plot....you know how that one goes (Now ignoring for a minute that acts of terrorists bear as little relation to Islam as do the Klan's activities to Christianity). What was interesting was seeing a whole world's spin on the story so that what started out as a foiled attack turned into evidence to support an opposition to Islam. Oh, and the US was really involved in the operation too. Everyone gets a star. Hmmmm....

But enough of this. On the way home I stopped off in Hawaii for a week….as you do.



Pictures are worth several hundred rewritten, copy-edited words. Here’s my week in Hawaii. The first few days were strange because I couldn't adjust to the lack of stimulation. (Pay TV options notwithstanding!). As at the end / intermission of all tours I went from exhilerated to despondent at the drop of a hat, changing emotions very abruptly and often with no obvious reason. That would have happened had I been anywhere, so being in Hawaii only cushioned the blow somewhat.

Yes, I'm a lucky bastard. I make no excuses or apologies. And hate the playa', I say. Why wouldn't you?



And there were things to do in the hotel, too.



Although quite what the subtle differences were between Japanese Extreme and the Explicit Package, I'm unable to tell you....not at those prices.

I tried surfing and had only slight success (My floating and falling-off skills, however, are at International standard). It was excellent fun and as I was leaving I was already scheming to go to California to learn how to surf properly. One of the things I like about surfing is that outside of the pleasure of the actual moment, it's absolutely pointless. (Not that this takes anything away from it). Reading some surf stories and literature I was interested in the level of obsession around this kind of activity (And I'm speaking as a fan). It's strange that the ability to float on moving water can become so all-encompassing a passion, and I do understand. I was reminded of a time (last year?) in Beijing when some skateboarder had been sponsored by a corporation and had jumped the Great Wall of China on his skatebaord. The PR Person was talking it up and quoted the Skateboarder as saying he'd fulfilled his life's dream. What? To jump over the Great Wall of China on a skateboard. Erm...life's dream? I'm sure it was fun and all, but....

And now what does he do? Sit in bars getting loaded telling everyone, "I was the first guy to jump the Great Wall of China on a skateboard. Hey! Buddy! I said, back in the day I was the first guy to jump.....". It's all downhill from there.

I'm being mean, of course. Everyone needs a dream. I was going to try to help relieve African Debt or cure AIDS but if I'm really honest I've got this po-go stick....

On the Northwest tip of Ohau is a strip of very beautiful beaches. I drove there to watch the sunset one night. As I got further away from the town of Hale'iwa I noticed that the road and area got less and less developed and touristy. In the end there were just amazing beaches populated by Hawaiins all spending their Friday night cooking up BBQ's on the beach. It didn't seem like such a welcoming place to an outsider (not that anyone gave me a hard time, either. But people wouldn't respond when you said hello.) It was an interesting scene.



However, I can understand not wanting to share this. Especially with everywhere else on the Island overrun by tourists.



One thing that was common were burnt-out cars littering some of the less travelled roads. It seems it's a sport to nick a car, drive it into the ground, strip it of anything of value (or not) and either torch it, or f*** it up beyond repair. I've only ever seen this to this extent in provincial England before now...if it's something that happens everywhere, maybe it could become a new urban sport...









Pounders Beach pounded my bodyboard so thoroughly that it snapped in half. Then it tried to strip me. I took the hint and left. It won.



Maybe it was because I was leaving Hawaii but F*** me were people annoying on the plane. I know America champions its freedom of speech but couldn't the Government introduce a law to monitor quality of speech. Why are the dumbest F***s the loudest? The guy sitting behind me had no idea how close he came to me throwing food at him just to get him to shut-the-f***-up about how many miles he travels every year and why he has to fly business, blah, blah, blah. Me. Me. Me. Like a five-year old. F***in' peasant.

And on that note, I was back in my New York state of mind.

Korea:


Two days off in Berlin after Lisbon. Genius decision. I did laundry and ate lunch with friends and hung out in children’s playgrounds (with a friend’s child, not just by myself). Very mundane stuff; it was a well-needed intermission. It’s not normal to spend your life flying around with Rock-Stars. It does bad things to your self-image; in all sorts of ways. On our next break at the end of Australia I was offering to do people’s ironing for them. Do you think it’s a cry for help?

We all met again in a departure lounge at Frankfurt airport. The tour party--who‘d flown in from places as varied as Berlin, Malaga, New York, London, Glasgow, Amsterdam, Nice & Leeds--and three hundred Koreans flying home. It was a precursor to being in Asia: very busy; very noisy; and very exciting.

On the flight there was a problem with the air conditioning, they couldn't start it while we were boarding at the gate. It was so hot for the forty minutes prior to the engines being turned on. People were getting testy, everyone’s clothes were soaked through. It wasn’t a good start. One doesn’t like to start a ten-hour flight smelling like yesterday’s meat, never mind share a plane full of people doing the same.

Once we got going it was okay. There were enough things to play with on the business class seats to keep everyone amused.

We didn’t go to Seoul. The airport and the show was at Incheon, about 2 hours outside of the capital. The rain drizzled and everything looked oppressive, in quite a cool way. In fact, although we all wanted to go to Seoul it never happened. The 2-hour drive seemed impossible and I suspected that no one could be bothered to take us and consequently used a convenient rainstorm as an excuse as the "roads would be too dangerous." Even though the storm was bad it felt like a very Korean way of telling us to stay put. I got the feeling as with Japan and China, people don't like to say "no" directly.


Instead we wandered around the backstreets of Incheon's Chinatown (allegedly the only one in South Korea) before the show. It ended up being quite interesting, if only because wandering through the backstreets of any big city gives you a sense of place not always afforded to the visitors of Downtown or the tourist routes.




I liked the gritty, industrial feel of Incheon. The view from my hotel was of two scrap metal freighters being unloaded. I’m a geek for things like that so in many ways I felt right at home. The whole city felt like an industrial grinder, second-hand tyres stacked high by the roadside; store fronts selling only huge chains and shackles for the ships in the harbour; giant freighters full of cars putting out to sea.















It rained constantly while we were there, giving everything a post-nuclear holocaust kind of feeling. Our Korean hosts, and the staff at restaurants we visited, insisted we use umbrellas all the time to protect us from the rain, even when jumping from taxis to the restaurant. We asked why, and they told us there was so much pollution in China it made the rain in Korea acidic. We were lucky; the rain in the winter when millions of Chinese are burning so much more coal is allegedly much more toxic.

That was a stroke of luck, eh?

Lisbon: A Tube of Meat Toothpaste.

Maybe it’s because it’s the end of the tour that I feel so listless here and can’t settle. It’s beautiful enough, although as the day goes on I keep expecting to see Nick Cave riding a mule down the backstreet behind my hotel. He'd be wearing a suit and a hat and riding his mule slowly. He'd probably ignore me altough we'd be the only two people on the street. Then I'd get scared and sit in my room and read a book to pretend that I wasn't hiding from Nick Cave, but in reality I wouldnb't be able to concentrate and I'd just read the same page over and over and over. Oh yes, my friend, you say you wouldn't be scared if you saw Nick Cave riding around Lisbon on a mule, but let me tell you, you'd be terrified. Just like I imagined I was.

Once everyone leaves for the three-day tour break suddenly I get that Perth feeling (I get the willies in Perth when I realize that in some way, by being in Perth one is at the edge of the civilized world. I think it’s the most remote major city or something…I mean Perth Australia, btw, not Perth Scotland. It doesn’t do to talk about the willies one gets in Perth Scotland). After one night in Lisbon I get up at 4am to fly to Berlin to see my friends. We did go for one good meal in Lisbon and feasted on so much flesh (No chicken –we were only eating things that talked, not squawked) that by the end of the meal I felt stuffed as a tube of meat toothpaste.

I’ll leave you with that image, I think. It's how I like to think of myself.

Visas: Man in a Briefcase.

Because we’re traveling so much I feel like I’m playing a game with border patrols and foreign consulates. During the course of this tour we’ve had to get visas for Russia, Japan, New Zealand, Korea and Australia. For us Britishers it is (sometimes) easy – we are allowed to carry two different, valid UK passports and while we travel on one the other one can be on a desk somewhere getting a visa stamped in it. Easy-peasy. But for the Americans it’s not so easy; they can only carry one passport.

This means whenever we want to get visas we have to do so when we’re not using the passports to travel. Now there’s the EU this should be a doddle, right?

Should be, except where you’re going in and out of Switzerland. Except when you’re going into the UK and Ireland. Suddenly this becomes quite a song and dance. We got the Russian visas while we were in England for three days doing the Wireless festival, the passports arriving back at the festival site while the band were on stage and one hour before the crew bus pulled out for continental Europe to go to the Southside festival in Germany. The Australian visas are done electronically and probably don’t really count; the Japanese visas I processed on a quick fly-back to London while the band were in Cologne, borrowing their passports to take them to the Japanese consulate on Piccadilly. Just to make this interesting, the consulate refused two of the passports because they didn’t have enough pages in them which meant the following day in Berlin I had to go to the American Embassy to get new pages put in the offending documents and take these back to London when I went back 3 days later (while everyone was in Paris) to pick up the visas. To the Japanese Consulate’s credit they turned the two errant passports around inside 25 minutes when I returned. I must have looked pitiful (But they won’t thank me for telling you they did this). We were in London for 2 days just after the Russian show just before the Oxegen festival in Ireland so we got the New Zealand visas inserted then (again, the consulate helped us out and did it quickly) and now I’m at Charles De Gaulle airport after taking the train to Paris from Lyon this morning while everyone else went to Nice. I’m flying back down to the south of France to rejoin the tour tonight and then returning on Thursday, on the day off before the overnight drive to Spain, I’m flying back to Paris to pick up the passports, hopefully full-to-brimming with Korean visas. I had to forge a signature on an application on the train. The guy sitting next to me looked puzzled as to why I was obviously forging signatures while carrying a pile of fourteen passports. I felt like Donald Pleasance in the Great Escape. I probably looked like him too after so long on the road eating all the crap food I’ve been eating…

So today I had breakfast in Lyon, Lunch in Paris and tonight I’ll be eating something rich in Nice. (On Saturday we woke up in Switzerland, played a show in Italy and went to bed in Lyon. There’s a pattern here). As the travel becomes more ridiculous, (and I’m fascinated by people who’s jobs are always like this—write in and tell me your extreme travel schedules) I find myself getting more and more used to the idea of flitting anywhere for anything.

(Jumping forward: In Lisbon at the end of the tour I’ll find myself sitting in a hotel lobby, checked-out, with no idea what I’m doing that afternoon: staying in Lisbon? Flying to London? Flying to Berlin? Suddenly going anywhere becomes nothing more than a phone call to a travel agent and a series of automatic procedures to get on a plane. I end up flying to see friends in Berlin, btw. But once you’ve got a couple of hundred quid and a passport it’s very easy to imagine flying anywhere. What a giant fat luxury that is...).

Three days later….

Getting an 8AM flight to Paris was okay, kind of like taking the bus to work – it’s only an hour and a half flight. Once the wisecracking consulate guy gave me the passports back (The guy at the Koran consulate likes to make witty remarks…things like “If you don’t speak French or Korean why are you in the Korean Consulate in Paris?” “Because I’m a twat, obviously.” This might just be clumsy humour on his part and not intended to be condescending, but I’m like Beyonce in that my mother taught me better than that. We came to an understanding when I asked him in Mandarin if he wanted to speak Chinese. Not that I can speak it very well, but it was enough to stop the thinly veiled ridicule at my language inadequacies. Twonk).

After my chat with Oscar Wilde at the Consulate I had a couple of hours to kill. I took myself on an impromptu date and walked along the Seine, finally taking an early lunch in St. Germain Des Pres. It was a first date so I didn’t talk myself into going back to a hotel, instead I jumped back in a cab to return to Orly airport to fly back to Nice to get to the buses just in time to give the crew their passports so they could drive into Spain and make the load-in at the Beniccassim festival.

As I arrived at the hotel I ran into some of our party leaving for dinner and we all left to go eat at a very good but very slow Mexican Restaurant run by the most unfriendly host I’ve met in a long while. He kept telling us we didn’t want the things we’d ordered and curling his lip in contempt. It was a strange sales technique because everyone started ordering more to spite him, until we were bilious and had doubled the check.

That showed him, eh?

Lake Geneva.

This is the view from my hotel room at sunset. Boss, isn't it? Lake Geneva is one of the most beautiful places I've been too. Here you can see the shadow of the French Alps on the left across the water. This is where Evian is made in a huge industrial plant where it's wrung out of the rock like orange juice. That's why it's so pure. That, and all the chemicals they put in it to make it transparent and to get rid of the rock-mites.

Montreux is a pretty town, snug between the lakeshore and the moutains. It feels like nothing bad can happen in Montreux. Sometimes its hard to be agnostic with all this majesty in evidence.

However, if there's one thing to make me think that the universe is Godless it's jazz and blues and The Montreux Jazz Festival was in full effect. Aside from a few old duffers, who plays blues well? No one, right? People only like playing it because it's easy to do badly. All those pointless tossers blathering on and on about being down....BB King, Muddy Waters, Robert Johnson - what did you do to us! I mean, those guys sang the blues, but these days people are at best only moping. And Jazz...what's wrong with the right notes in the right order, eh?

I went swiming in Lake Geneva on the day that we left. The water was warm and fresh and I could swim and stare up at the Alps with the sun on my face. The air was so calm and still it felt like all of Switzerland was whispering so as not to distrub the beauty of the day. Then some selfish wanker started playing a gig on the outdoor stage behind our hotel. I think it was the deaf bastard son of George Benson pushing a barrow load of smooth jazz guitars off an Alp and scatting over the top of it. When I climbed out of the lake I noticed a strange thing....people were listening. What's up with that? And scratch that thing I said about nothing bad happening in Montreux...

Shakira! Shakira! Shakira!


To while away the hours I’ve dumped a ton of Pop Music onto my I-pod. It’s a guilty pleasure, for sure. That Shakira single is boss – riddled with naffness, but to be honest, being a bit crap is an essential part of pop, I think. Take Dusty Springfield’s cheesy “I love you so,” at the end of the perfect The Look of Love as an example.

Shakira, though; What a pop monster! The single “Hips Don’t Lie” is great. Infectious, sexy, short, more hooks than a butcher’s fridge but Christ the lyric is pants! Not that it's important but I think if you're writing a pop song you can at least come up with some decent words. You only need about 12 lines... That the song is by Wyclef--that should be enough in itself, but it gets better. Wyclef sings “Stop fighting” all the way through. Who’s fighting? Shakira and her legion of salsaing admirers? Nope. Oh, it’s ‘Clef, because he’s from Haiti and he’s still a ‘Fugee” at heart. He's the people's poet - keeping a nation together while talking about Shakira's dance moves. Utter Tosh! The guy is minted – money coming out of his ears. The last time this bloke was in a fight it was with Sheryl Crow about who got the next bag of cash for the Amex Sponsorship Gig. But I guess ‘Clef’s keeping it real for all those ‘fugee kids he still hangs around with.

Next, Wyclef sings—when he’s not busy placating the assembled mass of pugnacious Haitians—“She make a man wanna’ speak Spanish,” (And then, to prove a point, in Spanish)”What is your name, pretty? My house is your house.”
Shakira, replies with, “Ooh baby when you talk like that, you make a woman go mad.”
Ladies, tell me: is that really all it takes?
F*** me! I’ve been studying the Tang Poets in Mandarin in the hope of being able to pitch a little woo. I’ve definitely been overthinking things if you can say 'My house is your house' in Spanish and you pull Shakira…
There’s also a great line where she sings. “Oh boy, I can see your body moving, half animal, half man.” Manimal? Shakira likes Manimals?

Freaky.

Still, if you see the video it makes more sense. She’s very hot. But she does this thing with her chests; it’s a weird boxy/ in-out dance. The first time she does it, it’s cute. It definitely interrupted me while I was doing the ironing. But, then, in another video, the one where she’s been fixing a car and is covered in oil or something, she does it again and it’s not so cute. I’m all for unusual chest movements—we all need a little pep in our lives, don’t we?—but when its something done with the bold-font subtitle “this is sexy, isn’t it?” for me it loses some of its charm and it becomes a little naff. Shakira doesn’t have to try to hard, but she does: through most of the video, sadly. Having said that I still watch it to the end whenever its on TV, even though I obviously don’t like it….

On a side note there was a kid down my street who did something similar to Shakira with his chest (except he was 11 and didn't have a cleavage). His name was Steven and we used to pick on him mercilessly for having a pigeon chest and for being a freak. I hope he sees the Shakira video and finally feels some validation and takes his weird ribs out dancing somewhere. I’d like to think he’d be proud now, running along the trail blazed by Shakira, undulating his thorax in time to whatever music he's into. I hope he’s not another drunk with a shattered, lonely, unconsummated life because of a childhood marred with abuse about the shape of his body.

Hips Don't Lie is one of my four favorite songs of the year so far. Maneater by Nelly Furtado, Ain’t No Other Man by Xtina and Don’t Cha’ by the Pussycat Dolls are the others. I think all the songs are ruined by their videos – which make them perfect in a pop sense, I guess. Each one of them tries to hard to be sexy—like they were produced by men my age trying to make things hot and edgy. What’s with Nelly Furtado losing her dog and then leading an underworld S&M club in some dance moves? Why are those women rolling around on the bed in the Xtina video? The Pussycat Dolls are really only Nicole, aren’t they? Or maybe that’s just me missing the point. The other Dolls don’t seem to do much apart from some crap dancing. (However, maybe one of them drives the van, the other one knows how to fix the keyboards, one books the gigs, one does the tour accounts…. ? I don’t want to be presumptuous…).

Cee-Lo wrote Don’t Cha’. I felt vindicated when I heard that. What a burden it is to be a snob.

That three months ago I was listening to Neko Case and Emiliana Torrini and now I'm on Pussycat Dolls and Shakira. Whatever next?

It's been so long, so long, so long....


Just like Dave says in Cat People.


The tour’s going well but it’s relentless. Ultimately, for me, the hardest thing about tours is not that there’s a lot of travel or that there’s a lot to do; but that there’s a lot of travel and a lot to do for a long time--day in, day out (Look--more Dave!). And there’s no getting off. The past few weeks have been particularly grueling as we came out of a 3-month US tour into five weeks of festivals. The festivals are all like single shows rather than a cohesive string of dates (like a tour); consequently all the planning for the festival dates is very very bespoke, time consuming and full of duplicated fact-finding and detailing. As we don’t stop moving for five weeks there’s no real time to catch one’s breath. Still, it beats working for a living and I’ve no time for anyone whining about working too hard in the music business, so it would be poor form if I were to start. But that's why I’ve not been blogging…tour malaise.

A lot has happened over the past month, so much so that even the events of last week feel a long way away. Some selected highlights are:

Cat Power’s dancing during her appearance on Later with Jools Holland and the fact that she was having a crafty fag in the studio when the cameras panned around, cupping it in her hand like some kid behind the bike sheds at school (once taping starts no one is allowed to leave the studio and all the bands stay on set). That earned a collective “ooh, she’s so cute,” from all the assembled road-crews who all smoothed-out their Radiohead tour tee-shirts and wiped the crumbs of rider from their chins before smiling at her doe-eyed all through her performance--me included;

The sauna in the hotel in the small town of Jönköping, Sweden where we stayed when playing at the Hultsfred Festival. Jönköping is a tiny town and there was a little bit of culture shock when arriving from New York but the hotel had a sauna on the top floor with the view of the lake—it didn’t get dark until around 11:30PM and it started getting light at 2AM so it was easy to get confused, especially when schwitzing in a sauna. Saunas and steam rooms are excellent. Trust me, if you’re not middle class and don’t ponce around in these places already then get yourself in one and sweat the prole out of you…;

Zurich and that lake—gorgeous, clean, Swiss. ‘Nuff said;

Wireless Festival in Hyde Park – comedy backstage village – does someone give out uniforms for bands? Black! It's all gone black! John Major's young Conservatives go indie! Jack White was a geezer but really everyone else, ”must try harder.” Regressive and bland. And if anyone says, “but it’s all about the music” then get off a stage in front of thousands of people you drab numpty. Christ, so many black jeans, so little personality. At least it reminded me I’m a Mod at heart;

Berlin – there was a beach on the river behind the venue, completely man-made and completely genius and completely full of gorgeous Germans of both sexes. Danke schön, baby Jesus. For the first time ever I saw the crew all want to take some exercise and go swimming. Not me, of course. I only went there when I had to to remind people to return to work. Honest, I did. It would be easy to leave your heart in Berlin. I always do—have done for years;

Copenhagen—our hotel was on the beautiful, calm quayside. The water was blue, like liquid sapphire. I wanted to leap into it. I went out walking past the moored boats and the Little Mermaid statue (which was once beheaded by vandals). One yacht had a mini helicopter parked on the stern. I want one of them! In fact, I’d like to have one of them so I could crash it into an island. That would be rich, wouldn’t it? Crashing yachts and helicopters into islands and walking away like they were rental scooters. (btw: check out Yacht Rock on Channel101.com. The real story of Kenny Loggins, Hall and Oates, Michael Macdonald, et al). Also in Copenhagen I watched the world cup at the same time as a friend in LA where we texted each other on the relative merits of the game. Best use of communications technology in a long while, I reckon. I did it in Moscow and Scotland too. Also I saw the Christina Aguilera video on telly for Ain’t No Other Man and think it’s a genius single. Forever I will associate CPH with Xtina now. Pop music is the best thing in the world (ex-girlfriends, ex-wife, please don’t take offense);

Moscow - it was much more fun than I thought it would be. Last time I was there in 1994 it was hellish, this time it was like working in any European city. The show was in a theatre that had a giant (read 10 feet tall) bust of Lenin upstage behind the curtain. I think our Russian hosts were a little disappointed in us though, whenever they took us out I got the feeling they were expecting us to act wacky and drink lots of vodka and ask for hookers. We did none of the above but ended up watching the football at the aftershow party. It was strange, as though we’d kind of killed the party everyone had been expecting. And you could so tell people were waiting for it…I think they were let down we didn’t behave reprehensibly, there were lots of prostitutes in the hotel bar—unless it’s a custom for single Russian women to sit in bars reading newspapers at 2AM? Apparently it costs US$300 for a shag. Some of the women were so beautiful I wouldn’t have the nerve to try to talk to them if I saw them out in a bar somewhere. The horror of their job seemed evident when I saw a procession of fat businessmen approach them. These guys were so out of shape they must find it hard to jerk-off and yet here they are, renting beautiful women. I couldn’t help but wonder what went through both their minds. I went to see Lenin’s Mausoleum just outside the Kremlin--the line was an hour long. One Italian tourist and his three friends tried to cut the line because (from what I could understand) they had to leave at noon for their flight. The Russian official monitoring the head of the line called his colleague over who took the Italian aside. The Italian went through his whole spiel again and the 2nd Russian took him away from the other Italians and asked--I imagine--for some kind of ‘contribution’. As I passed the Italian looked genuinely shocked. His aghast expression said; ‘To think that you have to bribe to cut the line at Lenin’s tomb!’ Welcome to Russia, comrade. Lenin is dressed in a dark suit, and one hand was curled into a half-fist as a result of his stroke. The charcoal grey marble walls with red accents that lined the stairs down into the tomb was some of the best architecture I saw in Moscow. You have to keep walking past the body, you can’t stop--otherwise the soldiers guarding the corpse snap their fingers to usher you out. It takes maybe two minutes to pass by after an hour or so in line. I think they’re moving him soon, back to his hometown. One thing was still the same in Moscow, everyone tried it on for a tip or for some kind of pay-off. One of the local crew broke the window in a door during load-out at the venue and they were trying to blame our security to get a pay-off. Last time I was there I would have taken this more seriously (however, we did throw furniture out of an 18th floor window that time), this time I just told people to Fuck off and that seemed to work, here's a picture Jamie took in Red Square outside of the Kremlin - it's a strange place to be. I'm sure some bloke from the rag-end of Russia would feel the same in Times Square;



Oxegen Festival in Ireland and our boss guitar tech' Brian gets injured by some falling truss that was blown over in the wind—he’s hospitalized and so I look after the guitars for the gig. No one else on the crew has a clue how the guitar pedals are wired so we all of us kind of make it up and when the band go on (in front of 70000 kids) all we know is that their guitars technically make a noise and are in tune. It’s weird doing someone else’s job at a show—I quite liked it for a day. You know when roadies come out before the band go on and check the guitars? I had to do that and it’s great playing a guitar really fucking loud on a huge stage--even for a minute. Anyone who says different is a liar. Once we knew our tech' was okay the biggest bummer for me was the loss of my very expensive flashlight. It was like a light sabre and it (obviously) made me feel like a man. There, I said it.

Scotland – my same friend in LA is texting me scores while I’m at the side of stage and I’m relaying them to the band to relay to the 75000+ crowd. Removed as it is I'm glad to be hanging out with my friend via text, which sounds a bit strange now that I've typed it out;

Amsterdam – Jesus Christ. The original corporate alternative lifestyle. While it’s a great idea to have a place where people can do as they wish, it’s like the Libertine capital is overrun with philistines. Smoked out, drunk English, American and French tourists stumbling around. What’s the point? If you’re going to get that fucked-up you can do it at home with Thunderbird wine. It would save you the air-fare. I like that the Dutch have their lifestyle (although, as the original hippie nation they prove a point by being arrogant and elitist about it. Never trust a hippy. Ever. For any reason. They’re all smug fuckers who are dishonest about having an agenda—hippies, that is, not the Dutch. Having said that I’d be a bit pissy if I’d ceded Manhattan for Dutch Guyana…although to be fair it was probably one of those English swizzes, the kind that bagged us Hong Kong too. It would be enought o give anyone a chip on their shoulder. Yes, yes, keep yer hair on-the British are next. In twenty years the British Empire will seem as fanciful as Portugal's does now. At least Portugal gets some sun). When you get away from the monged-out tourists Amsterdam is beautiful and genteel and a great place to spend time. I think they should widen the red-light area a little and only allow tourists to visit there unless they have special culture visas. That way they can stumble and leer their way around to their hearts content without making the place ugly for everyone else…then the red-light section would be like Vegas, which would be apt. There’s no Starbucks in Amsterdam—do you think it’s because they worry about their corporate image? For some reason that made me happy. At some point, some knobby PR twonk has doubtless struggled with how to make a coffeeshop viable in Amsterdam without selling weed or without tarnishing the Starbucks corporate image. Oh, and I saw a guy wandering along with the back of his jeans so shredded he might not have been wearing any (his white keks were plain to see, though). He wore glasses and looked like an accountant from the front (maybe he was) and I wondered why he was trying sooooo hard to be so gay. I mean, fair enough, if willies is what you like then may you get all that you need, but to insist that everyone address that aspect of you before everything else seems ridiculous. If I were to be that hetro, I’d quite rightly be taken for a loop on the M25 in the back of a van and be beaten until I got a grip by my friends, or at least I should be. To me it seems a strange part of gay culture whereby it’s okay to be overtly gay, as if anyone’s supposed to give a fuck. Is it a reaction to years of repression? To me it just looks like another way little boys run around holding their willies out for everyone to see. We all of us do, one way or another. We want everyone to be as impressed by them as we are.

Or is that just me?

Speaking of which, we’ve just got to Austria and it looks just like the Sound Of Music. I’m off for a quick sing-song. “How do you solve a problem like Mari-ah.”

HOME IN NEW YORK



It took a while but I've finally stopped screaming into a pillow under my bed.

It took eight days, to be accurate. Eight long, bloody-throated days.

Still, that's all done now. I got a haricut today and a neck rub and if that wasn't enough to restore my faith in God (and it was, to be honest. I am e'er so simply pleased) then this link really made me believe that there has to be some impish intelligence to the universe.

Thank you, Jesus. Thank you.

www.stevenseagal.com