You are currently browsing the monthly archive for August, 2003.
I was supposed to give this back at the end of the gig. But i diddin. (rotating it the right way would take effort)
Away with us so, to the worlds greatest ever festival, as it was, next to a primordial forest (I was told by my botanist boffin friend) and a fancy pad replete with suits of armour and old oaken stairways adorned with graceful balustrades. Even the weather, which until this point had been wet, aquaman wet, has cleared and the sun is beaming beatifically. The first day we sit on the grass and enjoy the music. Except myself and John have to play with the Tycho Brahe and, well, we’ve been drinking the Budvar like it was free. In fact, I think it was free. I don’t think I played particularly well. I just about managed to stay on the stage.
The following afternoon all the booze is practically gone so our own gig is much better. We feature Mischa on sax for the first ever time, and debut a song we’ve been working on called Hugs For Buddy. It was written on John B’s balcony on one of those summer days that’s actually summer amid many cocktails. It has a semi legendary air to it, that day. There we conceived our next album. High on Mojitos.
We also throw in John the Revelator, where Simon gets to shock the entire world by singing in a deep country growl, and not half badly.
Fair enough, we were late. We’re always late, and consider it part of our charm. But what an entrance, when Jurgen rolled in in his tank. Ah Jurgen, good to have him back after his soiree to London and all things champers and art, darling. They gave him the prize
In a time of uncertainty for men, owning a truck like this is empowering. Later we would hunt, and wear the pelts of our quarry that night around the campfire, under the stars.
, they wouldn’t dare not.
First show is afternoon. The sun is out and Waterford is feeling all foreign to us. European, even. We get the harsh words cos of the lateness and we try to sound check, but it goes south so the samba kids play and we have a beer and contemplate the whole crazy cosmos of ours then we get up and play our gig to the local grannies, some kids, a couple of Christian bikers, some other people with apparently nothing else to do. The best bit is when we finish and go somewhere else and eat some manky chips while sitting in the back of the tank getting brilliant looks from miffed youngsters wondering why there’s this huge field ambulance outside the chipper. We’re having a brew and a chew and wondering, no seriously do you think anyone died in the back of this ambulance, and watch where you step, there’s souls of forgotten soldiers around. More chips, more chips more booze. Do this gig in Kings pub, rare. Tiny, so tiny, but cool, we stick a few more into, try to set up the stage and do alright, although space means I have to sit in the crowd, at a table, with me pint and me smokes in front of me. If only I had the paper, or at the very least, my smoking jacket. The gig’s intimate, the place is packed, about 15 punters, you can’t argue, we haven’t played like this in a while, and we’re enjoying it. Till it ends, and then back to the fancy hotel for me, the fancy hotel with the sign on the wall of the bathroom that claims the towels are electronically tagged so you can’t nick them. They are like fuck. Snooze, someone snores, snooze.
Saturday, the sun, the sun, the dirty sun. The vegetarian breakfast amuses me. A plate of beans. That’s it. Just beans. Delivered by room service on a silver platter. One plate of beans. Cold. Not even any toast.
We stroll about, killing the time before our load in, find the record shop, with frankly some of the best records I’ve seen. All of Dr. Hook and Gary Numan. There’s a seven foot singing robot to contend with too. Nice one. Festival atmosphere. Lets get a booze, lets get a couple cos we’re waiting around checking out this place we’re gonna play and it’s full of kids and famblys having the dinner like, and we’re all, ah, jayses, where do we stand, what do we do, is this what we are, what do they think? A nice quiet set they want. Ha ha. Eventually all parties get it together and the kids stroll off to be replaced by peeps who look like they might be there for the actual show, which relaxes us, and we play quite well, I think you’ll find.
Unload, hide the van, go for dinner, ah here, wait till I tell you . the worst fucking pizza you’ll ever taste in the Brassiere. Frozen base, ragu sauce, burnt processed cheese. And muggins here, paying for it. Off to the forum for some, not me. This is down time, fancy hotels my arse.
