| "Wot I did on my summer holiday"
Owen´s account of Shakespeare And The Bible´s summer tour, 2009. Editors note: Other members |
 Thank-you Jesus, thank-you lord |
Day Minus 2 The bus is hired, the dates are booked, the band’s rehearsed (to the point where further rehearsal would be plain counter-productive; let’s just play the damn songs to somebody before we get bored sick of them). For a variety of reasons we’re all dying to get out of town. Last day of day-job work and…wham, bam, thank-you Jesus. A sudden attack of serious pain in the arse – and up and down the right leg. Maybe, at my age, I shouldn’t be trying to earn a living by making ‘tasteful’ arrangements of extremely heavy boulders. Doctor says it’s likely to be a slipped disc, gives me a pain-killing injection that doesn’t do anything, and recommends a couple of weeks of complete rest and recuperation. Not an option. |
 "20cc to spare"  Quasimodo  Etap hotels – “reassur- ingly identical” 
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Day 1 Not a promising start. The 200 metre drive from home to the Shakespeare Suite is agony…. And we’ve got 1700 km to cover in the next 48 hours. Naja, was uns nicht umbringt… Next Big Question: will all the gear fir into the hire-bus? Ah yes, easily, with about 20cc to spare. There’s even enough space to rig up a sick-bay on the back seat for yours truly. Up, off and away. I soon realise that my previously much-valued map-reading skills have suddenly been rendered obsolete. We have Sat-nav. My comrades, in their wisdom, have opted for the personality of Erika to negotiate all the twists and turns of the next 3 weeks. In my opinion she’s a stuck-up, smart-alec bitch whose character would be much improved by a good kicking. I’d like a Sat-nav with the voice of Hal the computer from ‘2001’ (“ I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Christian…”) Otherwise, the day is more or less a blur of motorway and motorway services, the only memorable interruption being a pit-stop during which I try to ease my back with a bit of yoga: I’m just starting to relax a bit when I’m stung on the arm by a wasp, three times in rapid succession. The sulking factor, already high’ish, goes up a couple of notches. At sunset we roll into Nancy. We get a pretty good meal in a crowded city-limits restaurant which, curiously in France, features extensive displays of cricket memorabilia, before crashing in the adjacent Étap motel. |
 "We ain’t gonna pay no toll"  We’re all going on a summer holiday  Heading for the hills again  The therapeutic view from Patrick & Setti’s front room |
Day 2 I’m always pretty grumpy first thing in the morning, but the discomfort makes me even worse. I start the day with a good row with Bärbel and surly greetings to the rest of the crew. I just want the painkillers to kick in and to get moving. Apropos cricket: we’re in the middle of the second Ashes test. An SMS to my pal Sean in Hamburg kicks off a text correspondence that lasts for the rest of the tour, on and off. Cheers, mate: it was a very welcome distraction from the aches and pains of the daily bus-rides. Down through France. South of St. Etienne we start climbing, and the scenery starts looking familiar, and looking good. We make an apéritif stop in Le Puy, beneath the large domineering pink Madonna (reminds me of Erika, somehow…) and then we’re into the last lap. As we hit the A75 west of Mende, the unique landscape of the Causses starts to appear. We put Zebda on loud, and when Millau finally emerges between the mountains we roll down towards it bellowing “Motivés!”. We pull into the carpark of our host Patrick just as he arrives back from the Rugby club. There’s a big tournament on this week, but unfortunately we’re too late to watch Sale Sharks. Patrick has just been drinking with Andrew Sheridan. He says maybe it’s just as well that we’re late: he knows about my instinctive animosity towards English prop forwards, and we wouldn’t want Mr. S. getting hurt before the start of the season… Up to Patrick and Setti’s beautiful apartment overlooking the river Tarn. Loving embraces and heart-warming immersion in that famous ‘Midi’ hospitality. Feels like coming home. |
 Millau  The secret garden  "Heroic and uncomplaining…" |
Day 3 I wake up in my god-daughter Oriane’s bed – she, I hasten to add, is elsewhere, having kindly given up her room to Bärbel and me for the duration of our stay. Then it’s off to the doctor. He’s a friend of Patrick’s, the rugby club medic. Damage to the sciatic nerve is immediately diagnosed, and he writes me a prescription for a course of cortazone, which doesn’t really help, and some rather lovely painkillers, which certainly do. For much of the next week I’m in a mildly blissed-out state, the only disadvantage of which is a tendency to forget little things like lyrics, chords and song-structures. At this point I’m going to resolve to stop whining on about my physical discomfort from now on – I wonder whether I can stick to it? Suffice it to say that I battled on uncomplainingly, resolutely, heroically… The rest of the day is just chilling in Millau. Bärbel and I are staying with Patrick and Setti; Chris and Adrian are a couple of doors up with our neighbour Didier, a lovable Iggy Pop lookalike who climbs mountains for a living; and Kristina and Oliver have pitched tents in the beautiful walled garden at the end of the street belonging to another kindly neighbour, Christian. The rest of the gang wander into town for the afternoon. Unable to do much in the way of wandering, I stay home and start preparing the evening meal (heroically and uncomplainingly, needless to say). |
 Adrian learning French  Creissels, without rain for a change  Concert#1 |
Day 4 …which is also Concert #1. It’s become something of a tradition that our first show down here is at the Fontaigne in Creissels, a picturesque village a couple of miles outside Millau. Come to think of it, I doubt that there’s a village that couldn’t be described as ‘picturesque’ within 100 miles of here. The other tradition is that it always seems to rain when we do this gig – and it really doesn’t rain very much around these parts in August. Still hope (or madness?) triumphs over experience, and they’ve set up the stage outside the bar. The first soundcheck takes some time, inevitably, but everything seems to work. At apéritif time a few familiar faces start to appear, including the lovely Oriane, who, sadly, disappears just as suddenly not long afterwards, due to the unexpected arrival of her ex-boyfriend. She’s just recently been through her first ever heartbreak, and we all know how much that hurts. It’s a pretty small crowd, but it’ll do for the warm-up gig. The band feels a bit nervous, and yours truly is a bit forgetful as mentioned above, but we’re well enough rehearsed and it goes okay. With impeccable timing, Samira arrives as we start up the song she inspired. I fumble the last verse, but I blame the pills. There’s the occasional worried glance towards the heavens from those of us who’ve been here before (Kristina, Oliver and me) but the rain stays away, the moon comes up, God’s in his heaven and all’s right, more or less, with the world. |
 The Larzac |
Day 5 Up to the Larzac for Concert#2. The Larzac is a high plateau to the south of Millau with a landscape unlike anywhere else, the result of a million years of wind erosion and a few hundred years of sheep-farming (Shakespeare And The Bible are quite fond of sheep). Weird and wonderful rock formations form spectacular outcrops in the dry, grassy moorland, from which the view seems to go on forever – well, at least until the Pyrenees. |
 ‘La Lutte’  The Tarn valley |
The other thing that put the Larzac on the map in the 70s and 80s was the struggle of the local shepherds, which lasted over 10 years, to resist having the whole region turned into an enormous military exercise area by the French government. Both the solidarity and the creativity of ‘La Lutte’ (the struggle) were magnificent. At one point a number of shepherds herded their flocks through the centre of Paris to draw attention to the campaign. Eventually they won: the military zone is limited to a few square miles, and the centuries-old sheep-farming tradition continues. Mind you, the political militancy of these more or less subsistence-level farmers continues as well. Millau’s first MacDonalds had only been open a few days when it was comprehensively trashed in protest at the inhumane methods of multi-national agricultural concerns. If you don’t think that’s worth a round of applause then you’re at the wrong website. Go away. |
 Franco  Chalet de Brunas  Concert#2 |
The northern edge of the Larzac drops away spectacularly into the Tarn valley. Perched at the top of the cliffs is a little shack called the Chalet de Brunas. A tiny bar, a mobile kitchen, outdoor seating for about 100 people, and a stage improvised from an agricultural trailer. This is our venue. We meet up with the friendly, enthusiastic French-Italian owner Franco, and start setting up in the csorching afternoon sun. This place really feels like the middle of nowhere, so it’s a pleasant surprise that, by apéritif time, there are over 100 people here. We play a short first set, during which the huge red sun sinks in the west about ten minutes before the first August full moon – the harvest moon – rises in the north-west. Obviously, we play Niel Young’s ‘Harvest Moon’. After an hour or so of serious Fench eating it’s time for the second set. The crowd is well-fed and friendly, as is the band, and everything feels pretty lovely, until…half-way through the second song, the power goes out. At first I think we must have overloaded the circuit and we probably just need to replace a mains fuse, but it soon transpires that the whole region has gone dark – and quiet. Local power-lines had been damaged in a recent storm, apparently. Nothing for it but to wait; but when there’s no sign of returning electricity an hour or so later, and people start to wonder off, we decide to make the best of it and play an impromptu unplugged set with acoustic guitars, harp, accordion and pecussion. Not ideal, but the gesture is appreciated. Such a shame – but we’ll be back next year for sure. |
 A Ketchup Boy  A Ketchup Boy’s breakfast |
Day 6 Bon anniversaire, Bärbel! After two gigs in the last two days, and another one tomorrow, this is very much a day off. In the morning I bump into Adrian at the supermarket. The items that (I think) I see in his shopping trolley are as follows (and speak volumes):
I owe Adrian an apology here. It wasn’t ketchup at all, but tomato juice. After all, we’re all aware of our drummer’s legendary – nay, mythological – passion for health food…Still, I honestly thought it was ketchup, with the unfortunate consequence that from this point on (and possibly for the rest of their lives?) the drummer and the guitarist, flat-mates at the time, became known to the rest of the gang as ‘the Ketchup Boys’. |
 Vulture!  Le Viaduc  Bärbel’s birthday… |
Of course a big part of the Alternative’s magic is its setting: the river threads through pine- clad banks, above which tower spectacular sandstone cliffs which gradually turn LSD-pink as the sun sets. I’d promised Chris that we’d see vultures, so I’m relieved when they make their appearance, gliding magnificently around the clifftops, in the late afternoon. Changes in farming methods, and excessive hunting, had wiped out the vultures in this area in the 1950s. In the mid 80s a dozen pairs were re-introduced, and an extensive protection programme for them was set up – with great success: there are now almost 400 pairs nesting in the region. They may not be the prettiest creatures close up, but in flight they’re simply stunning. |
| In the early evening we say “À Demain” to them and wend our way back to Millau, before setting off for Bärbel’s birthday dinner. We drive a few km down the Tarn, passing under Norman Foster’s dramatic Millau Viaduc (the highest suspension bridge in the world) to the beautiful medaeval village of Pèyre, with its church carved directly into the hillside – an extreme juxtaposition of the modern and the ancient. In a little restaurant owned by a friend of Setti’s we enjoy a leisurely meal as a huge moon rises behind the viaduct. The highlight is the melt-in-your-mouth fig gateau to round things off in Bärbel’s honour. Happy Birthday, Cariad. At the end of the evening, Christian somehow manages to get a well fed SATB band safely home, even though this involves reversing Quasimodo (as our bus has been christened) up a dark, steep, narrow gravel drive and around a hairpin bend on to the main road whilst being bombarded with contradictory instructions from the rest of us…Man of the Match. |
 L’Alternative  Adrian & Harry discussing global affairs  Dinner time |
Day 7 The birthday celebrations continued when we got home last night, inevitably. Apart from anything else, Chris had earned himself a couple of glasses of wine. We assemble around the late-breakfast table with varying degrees of hangover. Kristina’s is the the most severe, being compounded by pain that no male experiences, however many gallons of rosé he’s drunk the night before. “Nothing that a refreshing dip in the river won’t sort out”, I suggest, helpfully. If looks could kill… Back out to the Alternative, for Concert#3. Leisurely Aufbau and soundcheck, interspersed with a swim for the braver ones. We do the customary short apéritif set for the few people who are already there, and then settle down to dinner. We’ve forgotten to tell them beforehand about the vegetarian contingent (Bärbel and I), and a veggie option is not something you can take for granted in this part of the world. However Georgette, the charming cook, rustles up something delicious in a chili and coconut sauce for us. Over dinner we hear the news that Willy Deville has passed away – one less Old Dude left. We raise our glasses. Somehow this leads to a lengthy conversation between Didier and myself about Iggy Pop, which is to have consequences later in the evening… Just before we go on, Chris receives a text informing us that St. Pauli have won the first match of the season, the winning goal coming, in true Pauli fashion, in the 93rd minute. I’m already wearing a St. Pauli/Sex Pistols t-shirt. Adrian is wearing his HSV team shirt. I apologise to the audience on his behalf, in French. Failing to understand but hearing his name, he smiles beatifically… This is the fifth time that I’ve played here, and one thing never seems to change: it’s always worryingly sparsely attended at the start of the set, and pulsatingly full by the end. Knowing this, I put off starting for as long as I can, but there are still only about 30 punters there when we finally kick off with ‘Dudes’. Sure enough, however, a steady stream of headlights starts coming down the hillside almost immediately. Maybe they’re all skulking in the bushes above us smoking pot until they hear the first cymbal crash? Anyway, the place fills rapidly, the band is rocking and the crowd is noisily enthusiastic. |
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By the time we get to ‘Yeah, Yeah, Yeah’ at the end of the set, I look up to see a dozen pretty little French things pogoing wildly right in front of me. This is where the Iggy theme comes back to haunt me. One voice in my head says: “Don’t be stupid, at your age you’re only going to make an embarrassing spectacle of yourself”; the other says: “Fuck it, you’re not as beautiful as Iggy, but you’re not as old as him either – and besides, when are you likely to get another chance?...”. Off comes the shirt (but only the shirt) and I start to strut – and carry on for four encores. Yes, I’m embarrassed now, but, hell, it was fun at the time. |
 Orangina, as it should be  The Gorges de Dourbies |
Day 8 In the morning Bärbel and I wander around the Saturday market, and then call in at the ‘Tout Va Bien’ bar – I love that name. We drink Oranginas (I hope they never stop making those bottles, somehow they take me straight into the innocent black and white France of Jacques Tati…) and watch the para-gliders floating serenely down from the mountain at the edge of the Causse Noir. I feel a tinge of regret that the sciatica has put paid to any chance of para-gliding for me, this year. (Stop complaining!!) I’ve been warned to make myself scarce in the afternoon. Unfortunately, I’m already aware that something in the nature of a surprise has been planned for me this evening. I celebrated my 50th birthday in ‘real time’ in Hamburg a few weeks ago, with the release of ‘Plus Or Minus Zero’. There’s an ‘international party’ – a gathering of my nearest and dearest from several countries – coming up in Wales next week, and our London gig is also billed as a birthday ‘do’. Talk about self-indulgence. However, Setti, Patrick and Oriane have no intention of letting this visit pass without a Millau ‘fete d’anniversaire’ for their old ami – even though they’re going to be in London and Wales as well, bless them. |
 Chaos de Montpelier-le-Vieux  The Tarn, with Patrick & Setti’s home in the far left of the picture  The Garden Party  M. Acquier tends to the dead animals  My (French) birthday cake |
It’s decided that the best plan is for me to take the Ketchup Boys (neither of whom have been here before) on a sightseeing drive around the surrounding countryside. It doesn’t really matter which direction you take from here: it all looks pretty damn good. Having already seen a bit of the Tarn both to the north-east (the spectacular Gorges) and the west (gentler, rolling hillsides) I opt for a circular route taking us up the Gorges de Dourbie and returning across the Larzac. We pass beneath the wonderfully named Chaos de Montpellier-le-Vieux before stopping for a swim at La Roque Ste. Margarite. This canyon isn’t quite as dramatic as the Gorges du Tarn, but it’s breathtaking enough; plus, it’s off the tourist track and therefore appealingly empty. When we climb up out of the cliffs and forests, the sparse, open landscape of the Larzac takes over with an eerie suddenness. Before descending to Millau, we stop off for a quick one with Franco at the Chalet de Brunas; a beer for Adrian, oranginas (sadly, in cans this time) for Chris and me. |
| Back at the flat, I make a diplomatic withdrawal for an hour or so and then wander down to the garden. This is party-time. The place is full of old friends from my French connection home from home. The walled garden, which has a bit of a fairytale feel to it anyway, has been decked out beautifully: candles in the beds, lanterns in the trees, buckets of beer, crates of wine, and tressle-tables laden with various delicacies. On this occasion, ther’s even a range of veggie options, although the serious eating, for the majority, starts when the sun goes down and M. Acquier takes up his position at the meat grill, fetchingly attired in a potholer’s helmet with headlamp. Setti has assembled a makeshift choir whose inebriated indiscipline (I’m referring specifically to a couple of the basses, here…) is more than made up for by their joyeux enthusiasm. Then there are charades. Then the guitars come out. Oliver and Adrian are both wandering around with serious perma-grin, thanks to Didier. The wine keeps flowing and the sausages keep coming. At one point Oriane starts talking to me and we gradually drift to the other end of the garden. At 14, she seems to have an instinctive wisdom that amazes me, though, knowing her parents I guess there’s no reason why it should. An hour later it feels like we’ve moved from godfather/goddaughter to good mates – but I guess we always were. No idea what time it is when the festivities eventually wind down. All I know is that I’m a very lucky man – and no, I’m not complaining… |
 The triumph of the little man: Domenici scores for France against New Zealand, 1999 World Cup  Millau market square with its ancient plane trees  More philosophising… |
Day 9 Sunday morning, coming down. Quelle surprise: we’re all hungover again. Frankly, I remember very little of this day. I know that, to my shame, I slept through the clearing up process in the garden. Bärbel and I went for a bleary dip in the river, which sort of helped. Adrian accompanied us as far as the water’s edge, but couldn’t bring himself to take the plunge. Then I watched a Tri-Nations match between Australia and South Africa on TV with Patrick, both of us flat out on the sofa. Southern hemisphere rugby has become so dull and predictable – not to mention brutal – that we both nodded off. One thing that the Frengh and the Welsh have in common is a passion for open, exciting rugby, and this was anything but… |
| In the evening we go for a meal in the old market-place, beneath the majestic old plane trees, with our hosts. Setti, Patrick and Oriane are flying to London tomorrow, and leaving us in possession of their apartment for the next 24 hours – the fools. The restaurant is packed, and the girl who serves us looks to be about 12 years old. She’s clearly terrified of the cook, and enquiries into possible variations on the set menu are met with a look of panic. We take pity, and try to make her life as uncomplicated as possible. |
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| As usual, the hard-core retires to the balcony/conservatory that looks out over the river
to the edge of the Larzac, for a glass or two; but this time the philosophising doesn’t go on for more than an hour or so. It is Sunday, after all. |
 A swarm of para-gliders  Oliver back on earth  Kristina and her pilot  Chris prepares for take-off (“Can’t we have a beer first?”) |
Day 10 At midday our Millau family head off for Toulouse Airport. Saying au revoir to these guys is usually a tearful and protracted business, but on this occasion the revoir is going to be in a couple of days, so it’s relatively painless. Now it’s para-gliding time. Not for me (out injured), Bärbel (enjoyed it the first time but thinks it would be boring second time round – I don’t get that, but ‘chacun son gout’, as they say) or Adrian (cluck, cluck); but the other three are up for it. Of that trio, Kristina’s the only one who’s done it before. She’d rather go hang-gliding this time (always in search of new horizons, or just a short attention span – take your pick…) but it’s not available today, so she’ll have to settle for the same as everyone else. We’ve clubbed together to buy Oliver his flight as a late birthday present, and Chris is game – though perceptibly nervous – as well. I’m sure he feels better when I comment that €70 is a pretty reasonable price to pay someone into whose hands you’re entrustung your life for 45 minutes or so. Back up to the Larzac. The take-off point today (it varies, depending upon wind direction) is just below the Chalet de Brunas, as luck would have it. Visibly shaking now, Chris proposes a quick visit to Franco for a shot of Dutch courage before spreading his wings. Worried that, once he’s in there we’ll never get him out, I suggest that a beer will taste much better at the end of the flight. I watch with envy as they swoop around high above the valley for half an hour, recalling my first flight two years ago when we were lucky enough to have a pair of vultures gliding around us; they weren’t aggressive, just curious – plus, they were basically saying “that’s rubbish: look at how the professionals do it”… When they’ve all touched down safely we adjourn to Franco’s for a quick one. I think Chris takes particular pleasure in this beer, having suspected he’d already drunk his last one. We say adieu to Franco with mutual promises for another show – with electricity – next year, and drive back down the mountainside, as the sun sets behind us on the Larzac, to pick up pizzas for supper. |
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 Drive  Stop  Speeding past Montmartre |
Day 11 Get up, pack up, clean up, load up. Drive, stop, piss. Drive, stop, drink. Drive, stop, piss. Drive, stop, eat. Drive, drive, drive. Drive, stop, piss, drink. Drive, drive, drive. Drive. Millau, Clermont-Ferrand, Bourges, Orléans, Paris, Amiens. Eventually, Boulogne-sur-Mer. Étap hotel – reassuringly identical to every Étap you’ve ever stayed in. Reassuringly cheap, too. The carpark is full, so Kristina volunteers to be ‘security’ and make her nest in Quasimodo’s tummy for the night. One last beer sitting on the pavement at midnight. Lights out. |
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 Quasimodo waits in line  Watch this space…  Adieu, France |
Day 12 Down to the ferry port and, joy of joys, the French Customs. I’ve had a few run-ins with these les douaniers over the years. It started with the old-school fascist who took exception to my 17-year-old hippy haircut on my first hitch-hiking trip. Then there was the 6-hour going-over, nowhere near any border, when they dimantled not only the entire bus, but also my entire drumkit, in their enthusiasm. Not to mention the legendary Jazz Butcher Pantalon Incident at the Mont Blanc tunnel – well, have you ever been strip-searched halfway up the Alps in the middle of December? So I begged the guys, I really did… We are, inevitably, pulled over. There’s a young, eager male (bad news) and an older woman (clearly the boss). Initially, he does the talking. The usual routine: Holiday? Yes. What’s in the back? Music gear. You’re a band? Yes. You smoke cannabis? I used to be awful in this sort of situation, but I seem to have reached the age where nonchalance comes a bit easier – especially when your interrogator could probably be your grandson. I’m more aware than I would like to be of the contents of Adrian’s underpants, and I can feel his petrification, two seats ahead of me, from here; but I muster as much boredom as I can and reply: “Not any more – did enough when I was young to last the rest of my life”. I catch a glimmer of a smile on the boss’s face. He looks at her with enormous question marks in his eyes: ‘Can I? Please? Please! Can I?’ – like an overexcited labrador puppy. She asks what kind of music we play, and that’s when I know we’re okay. I tell her I’m a songwriter and risk a friendly smile. She shrugs and grins and waves us through. Her young colleague goes into a visible sulk as Adrian dissolves in the front passenger seat. |
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 Breakfast on board  The greyish cliffs of Dover |
An uneventful crossing, and we’re clear of Dover in no time – just as well: I doubt whether my flirting tactic would have worked so well with some xenophobic old soldier on the English side. Kristina has volunteered to do the first bit of ‘wrong side of the road’ driving, and she gets the hang of it really quickly. As we approach London, Erika finally slips up, to my delight, insofar as she fails take the Inner City Congestion Charge into consideration. I know, I know, we probably programmed her wrong. Still, yours truly doesn’t need ‘programming’ to avoid a hefty fine. With a smug smile, I ignore the silly cow’s instructions and navigate us across Sarf London as far as Hammersmith Bridge, from where it’s just 5 minutes to the Brook Green in Shepherds Bush, the venue for Concert#4. |
 The Brook Green  Max Eider & Pat Beirne |
We’ve just pulled up outside the pub when who should walk round the corner but the French connection himself, M.Patrick Acquier. Pure coincidence: he had no idea that we were playing here tonight, he just knew we were somewhere in London. He’d decided to go for a walk by himself, from the flat he’s staying at a mile up the road, to explore the area whilst Setti and Oriane were hitting the shops. Well, it’s a tiny little place, really, London.
We unload Quasimodo, and the band starts setting up whilst I head up the road to my local bank, to replenish our coffers a bit. After soundcheck a few of us go to the Indian restaurant a couple of doors away. One of the things I miss most about Britain is good, cheap, ubiquitous curry, so it’s always a priority for me as soon as possible after setting foot on my native soil again. The food is good, but it arrives too late for us to be able to enjoy it much. |
 Bärbel, Oriane, Setti, Rick & Judy  Paddy, Mike & Sally |
When we get back to the venue it’s already filling up with familiar, friendly faces. Many of them are part of my musical past – or indeed, present: John Silver, the impassioned songwriter from my first ‘real’ band The Sonic Tonix, Peter aka Max Eider, the hugely talented Rick Startin, Mr. Harmonica Pat Beirne, Pete Cellartime Crouch, to mention but a few. So many other old amigos as well: Nick, Anita, Martin B., Olly, Winnie (with son, mum and auntie in tow), Lucy, Cathy, Maria, Claire, Steve, Angela, Brian, Bruce, Sam, Judy, Mike…sorry to all those I’ve left out…Plus the family: brothers, in-laws, cousins, nieces, uncle. I’ve always disliked the phrase ‘friends and family’, which almost sounds as if the two are mutually exclusive – not tonight, they’re not. The SATB touring party has also increased in volume as of today: our ‘artistic director’ Gabi has joined the bandwagon for the next leg of the tour, as have Chris’s wife Tina and her sister Connie. A quality warm-up set is provided by our old chum Sally with her friends Mike and Paddy, playing finely honed country/folk with mouth-watering harmony vocals. |
   Concert#4 |
Then it’s time for us to make a racket. I feel surprisingly relaxed, even though I’ve never played my own stuff in London, or to most of these people, before – and even though the band seem to be convinced that I’m going to be a hopeless bundle of nerves tonight. It feels good from the word go, and either this (admittedly not impartial) audience are genuinely enthusiastic, or they’re very good actors. This is fun. Still, we keep the set short and sweet – I don’t want to push my luck, and I do want to have some Feierabend drinking time with these good people before the midnight curfew. When it’s all over, we disperse to our various West London billets. Adrian, Bärbel and I are handsomely accommodated by Olly in his Sinclair Gardens flat, where we eat bananas and watch the recorded second half of the England/Holland football match (can’t remember the score, don’t really care, though Adrian, being Dutch, probably can and does). Chris slopes off to a sleazy Shepherds Bush B&B with his newly reunited spouse. Oliver and Gabi splash out on the Brook Green accommodation…and Kristina, well she seems to have developed a bit of a thing about our handsome tour-bus. The last we saw of her, she was dancing down the road, sighing contentedly about having some ‘alone time’ with Quasimodo. |
 Haircut, sir? No thanks  |
Day 13 24 hours since we arrived in Britain and I, for one, am knackered already, and looking back fondly on the laid-back tempo of the French leg of the tour. We have to move up a gear now: five gigs in six days in this country – real touring. So, orf we jolly well go. Assemble at the Brook Green, load up, drive off up Scrubs Lane…and then spend about an hour moving less than half a mile through the bottleneck nightmare of Harlesden. Once we finally escape the gravitational pull of London, it’s pretty easy going up the motorway, Kristina at the helm again, and by mid afternoon we’re pulling into the pretty little Staffordshire town of Leek, where we’ll be playing Concert#5. |
  The Wilkes Head  Hard at work setting up the stage  Hard at work setting up the stage |
It all looks so tranquil and innocent here, it’s hard to imagine that this place spawned the four mad, bad, dangerous-to-know ne’er-do-wells we had staying and playing in Hamburg a few months ago, who are the reason for us being here today. To be fair, only one of them, Melv the bodhran virtouso, is originally from here. Skippy, as the name might just suggest, is a roving young fellow from Down Under. Watson is an old mate and one of the finest, most soulful singers you’re ever likely to meet; when Kristina and I shared a bill with him at a wedding in Cyprus last year the idea for this visit was born. Then there’s Malcolm, our host for this evening. Malcolm is a magnificent guitarist who can play any tune you mention as effortlessly as if he’d been practising it all day. He’s also the landlord of the wonderful Wilkes Head, a legendary meeting point for musicians from near and far. |
 Melv & Bones  Malcolm & Watson  Concert#5 |
First on the bill is Melv, accompanied, in Skippy’s absence, by ‘Bones’. Melv’s version of ‘Who do you love’ is magnificent, as ever. Then Malcolm and Watson are on. I’ve heard this set a few times this year, but I’m a very long way from tiring of it. Watson’s voice oozes not only soul, but also the unmistakable aura of a man at ease with himself. Wunderschön. My personal favourites are Dylan’s ‘Thunder On The Mountain’ and the heart-wrenching ‘You Belong To Me’ (forgotten the songwriter(s) – sorry). Then it’s us. What a luxury to be playing on a decent-sized stage at last. If I wasn’t a cripple I could run up and dowm and make an idiot of myself by bumping into everyone else. Just as well that I’m a cripple, then. The lights are great, with an ivy-clad wall as a backdrop. It strikes me that a Goth band would look really good here, though I’m not sure that’s the kind of music that this crowd really wants, so I resist the temptation to launch into an improvised version of ‘Bela Lugosi’s Dead’. The gig goes well, with Adrian in particularly fine form tonight. The only slight disappointment is that we have to cut the set short as we’re running late and the curfew here in good old GB is pretty strict. It makes me all the more appreciative of southern France where nobody gives a merde about that.
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 John Wilkes was famed for his good looks…  Kristina taps a beer…  …and Owen pulls one. |
So then the music’s over – but the night is still young. Once we’ve packed up, and (most of) the punters have gone home, Malcolm takes us on the Tour of the Wilkes Head – a well practised routine, I suspect. A couple of points of historical interest:
So much for the history lesson. Now comes the practical course. In the cellar, Kristina is instructed how to tap a new cask of bitter – and manages it very well, for a German…Sorry, all I mean to say is that, in spite of her extensive experience as a barmaid, she’s rarely encountered anything other than keg beer over here. |
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 Guess where we’ve been?  Adrian breaks his fast |
Day 14 Bärbel and I wake up in an attic room in Leon’s house, with only vague memories of how we got here. A cup of coffee and a slice of toast with our good host (I reckon that makes us quits after the coin scam), and then we head up the road to the Wilkes to see how the rest of the crew are faring. Oliver and Gabi couldn’t stand the pace, and disappeared to a hotel in Stoke for the night; Chris, Tina and Connie eventually staggered off to a local B&B; Kristina spent another night in the loving arms of Quasimodo; and Adrian struggled manfully to keep Shakespeare And The Bible’s partying reputation alive by fighting it out single-handedly with Malcolm until the bitter end – they both look absurdly fit, considering… We flop around in the garden for a while and then load up at a leisurely – perhaps ‘fragile’ is a better word – pace, before making our fond farewells and heading off in the direction of The Land Of My Fathers – and, indeed, Mothers, for that matter. |
 As the weather worsens…  …the landscape improves  The Bryn Tyrch |
It’s a pleasant, sunny day, and it remains that way until pretty much exactly |
 With my Mum and Dad  Dad and Nick  A happy Frenchman in the Pays de Galles |
Once we’re all checked in, my first social call is to my Mum and Dad, who arrived earlier in the day. In addition to them, and the above-mentioned auntie and uncle, I’m absolutely delighted that pretty much all my nearest and dearest (and, in this case, ‘nearest’ is a misleading term, geographically – some people have come a long way for this) have made the effort to be here. Apart from the SATB travelling circus, Germany is represented by Gunnar and Katja from Hamburg and Niki and Martin from Munich; Jean-Pierre and Katleen are the Belgian delegation; then there’s nos vieux amis Setti, Patrick and Oriane from France/Algeria; Anita from Cyprus (okay, she now lives in London, but I like to emphasise the international flavour here); plus Nick, my brother Billy, Pat and Claire, Jim, Amanda and Thad from London; Peter from Berwick-on-Tweed; my other brother Dan with his wife Louise and daughter Bethan from Cambridge; Gary and Jean from Yorkshire; Huw, Jane, Eleanor and ‘little’ Owen from South Wales – plus Huw’s mountaineering brother Tom – a useful man to have on board right now; Campbell and Maude from Bristol; and Lucy, the ‘Wild Woman of Wiltshire’…and there’ll be a few more arriving tomorrow. I feel obliged to do a fair bit of circulating during the evening, though in truth everyone’s getting on fine without me. The atmosphere is lovely, and of course there are a lot of ‘haven’t seen you for ages’-type reunions going on, as well as new introductions being made. Lucy attempts to shock my mother with (largely exaggerated) tales of disreputable escapades when we were students, but I reckon she’s heard it all before. My Dad buys drinks for far too many people, but he’s always been like that, bless him. |
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Well, the real party is tomorrow, and we’ve had a few long days. For once, I decide to hit the sack before the ‘last orders’ bell rings. We’ve enjoyed wonderful hospitality thus far, but it’s still a delight to have an en suite hotel room to slob out in. Wind and rain outside, but who knows, maybe we’ll be able to see the mountains tomorrow… |
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 Tryfan  …and Ama Dablam – no contest  Llyn Ogwen |
Day 15 …but then again, no. No, of course we can’t. In this neck of the woods, hope generally runs a pretty poor second to experience. The weather, if anything, has worsened. Nonetheless, after breakfast an intrepid hardcore decide they still want to have a go at climbing Tryfan. I know it’s easy to say, but I would have gone with them if my leg had been working. I love Tryfan, and I must have been up it about 50 times. Its summit is the closest thing that a cynical old atheist like me has to a church. Ama Dablam may be the most magnificent mountain I’ve ever seen, but little Tryfan is still the most beautiful – and anyway, the chances of my ever getting up Ama Dablam (6812m) are, quite frankly, getting rather slim these days. Tom Llewellyn, who’s been higher in the Himalayas than I have, offers to lead the brave few: his nephew (and my god-son) Owen, Gunnar (the punk-rock brain surgeon) and his partner Katja, and my brother Dan. |
 Peter, Owen & Bärbel, with Yr Oleu Wen in the backgr.  Llyn Idwal under low clouds  Christian, Man of the Mountains  Chris ‘Snogger’ Rudd  Alison & Maude  The Champs Elysées Choir  Patrick & Setti singing ‘Le Temps Des Cérises’   Concert#6  Tom Jones |
Most of the rest of us head up the valley behind Tryfan to take a walk around the lake Llyn Idwal.
This is real micro-climate country, and the weather improves markedly as we travel 5 or 6 miles northwards. It’s still quite blowy, but the rain subsides, and visibility gets better. The peaks directly around us remain in the clouds, giving our walk a fairly dramatic, Tolkeinesque ambience, but to the south Tryfan emerges briefly from the cloud cover a couple of times, which pleases me for the poor sods struggling up it…It may not be the grand expedition I’d been hoping to make today, but it’s still a great walk, and by the end of it I think we all feel that we’ve blown a few cobwebs away. Chris is the only member of SATB who came along (Oliver and Gabi did their own low-level walk, and the rhythm section slobbed out in the hotel as far as I know) and he seems impressed by the terrain, in spite of the lack of vultures. I hope I can come back with him some day in finer weather…
Back at the village, I propose tea and cakes in the café next to the hotel, but when we get there we find that the café, which has been there forever, no longer exists. The sign, however, is still there, which leads us to the conclusion that “café” is in fact Welsh for “there is no café here”. Happily, an alternative café is located, so we can get our much needed sugar hit after the day’s exertions. Then there’s just time for a shower and a bit of a lie-down, before the evening’s festivities commence. |
By the time I get down to the lobby, the numbers have swelled again. The family connection has added Janet, Sian, James, Bethan and Cerys; The Netherlands are now represented by Harry and Anjo; my old sports teacher John Kirkland (unlike the legendary Leonard Skinnard he was a great teacher..)and his wife Margaret have come across from Anglesey; and Chris ‘Snogger’ Rudd has arrived. |
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The Bryn Tyrch is packed, and when the Buffet is opened I hang back with a typical host’s anxiety, worrying about everyone getting something to eat and finding a space in which to eat it. When I do finally get some food myself it’s quite excellent. Diolch yn fawr (and I mean FAWR) to Rachel and her team It’s been a fantastic evening. Typically, I’d been a bit anxious about how it would all go – more nervous than at any of the ‘proper’ gigs; but with friends like these I really needn’t have worried. I feel humbled – and very, very happy. Thank-you, everyone. |
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 The long good-bye |
Day 16 This time there’s no getting around long drawn-out farewells. Once the (equally long drawn-out) breakfast has finished, a mass orgy of hugging, snogging, exchanging phone numbers, etc. takes place in the hotel car-park. We finally say au revoir to the French, and to pretty much everyone else, except for Jean-Pierre and Katleen, with whom we’ll be hooking up in their home country in a few days. I’m emotionally drained by the time we finally get on the road. The only hitch on the cross-country treck to Northampton is the sudden appearance of a warning light in Tina and Connie’s hire-car (we’re travelling in convoy, now); we can’t locate the problem, but we get through to our destination without mishap. |
 Wilson  Northampton Labour Club |
Northampton is a bit tired. The Bible Band may be ever so slightly hungover as a result of last night’s fun in Wales, but it’s nothing compared to the mother that is hanging over NN1 this fine Sunday afternoon. There’s a good reason for this. Pat Fish’s band Wilson played their final concert last night. These local heroes were doing more than just a concert. They were making a live CD and a movie simultaneously, and, needless to say, they were having a bit of a party in the process. When Pat arrives at the venue, his suit is immaculately white, which is more than can be said for his eyes. Concert#7 is taking place at Pat’s very own ‘Masters of Budwar’ club. We’re in prestigious company here. Over the years he’s hosted TV Smith, Vic Goddard and Dave Kusworth, to name but a few. The venue itself is the Northampton Labour Club, a pleasant, no-nonsense, old style workers’ bar which harks back to the days when ‘Labour’ actually had something to do with the working class. Once we’re set up, we nip across the road for a Balti. As was the case with our London curry, it tastes good but we just don’t have the time to enjoy it. |
 ‘High Quality Women’  Curtis Johnson  Concert#7  Russel & Bärbel (philosophising) |
Tonights’ opening act are a pair of musicians from our home town of Hamburg that we’ve never met before, the ‘High Quality Women’. They are bizarre, and deliberately so – serious adherents of Dadaism, no doubt. They are joined by my old mat Paul Williams, playing the bass and sporting a pair of fly-eye shades that are frankly disturbing – deliberately so, I guess. Then we have the man himself Mr. Curtis Johnson, the short, shouty baldy person from Scotland, with a soul the size of Ben Nevis. Great singer, great songs. Check him out, if you haven’t already done so. Our set goes okay, though I have to admit there’s an element of gesonntagt weariness in both the band and the audience. In my own case, it may have been compounded by the pleasant painkillers slipped to me by a sympathetic pal of Russell’s who’s been similarly afflicted recently. Still, it’s good that a few more familiar old faces have turned up: Simon, another original from The Sonic Tonix who went on to be guitarist with The Woodentoops and his partner June (drummer with The Communards) with their daughter George; and a good bunch of other NN1 stalwarts including Sophie, Russell & ’Nita, Botty, Joe Wooley and Paul. As in Leek, we’re obliged to curtail the set due to rigidity of the British licensing laws. This is one of the reasons I often quote for my decision to move to Hamburg, somewhere between my love for Bärbel and my fondness of pumpernickel. After the show it’s back to Chez Fish (he lives, appropriately enough, in Shakespeare Road) for red wine and ‘sundries’. In spite of the fine hospitality, most of the crew disperses pretty soon, though Pat and Russell philosophise well into the early hours, with Adrian a somewhat reluctant zuhörer. Me, I crawl upstairs to the guest-room, throughly whacked. |
 The Ranelagh  The strain is beginning to show…  The Ranelagh interior  Owen, Barry, Adrian & Kristina (three drummers and a musician)  Tina, with Chris Pearson & friends  Cartoon by Tony Husband  Concert#8  Another bar-room floor… |
Day 17 Once we’ve loaded up and made our farewells, we have no luck in our search for anything resembling breakfast in Northampton, so, running on empty stomachs, we rejoin the M1 heading south. I’m beginning to feel seriously under-nourished when we hit the permanent traffic jam that men call the M25. By the time we reach the Leatherhead turn-off I’m debating in my mind about which of my companions has the most flesh on them, and fumbling around in my rucksack for my knife… The pub-lunch we eventually find is fairly mediocre, but at least it fills the gap – and at least it’s a Youngs pub. The rest of the journey is completed in better spirits, and by early afternoon we’re trundling into Brighton. Concert #8 is another one that’s been set up for us by good old Watson. It’s in a pub called The Ranelagh. Within the next few hours this establishment is going to find a permanent place in my Desert Island Pubs. It feels right from the moment we walk through the door and introduce ourselves to Barry, the genial, laid-back – and very funny – owner. You’re not likely to mistake it for anything other than a musicians’ dive: the walls are covered with the relics of instruments and photos of old jazz and blues legends, the ceiling with ancient 78s. We’re made to feel welcome from the word go, even though I’ve gathered that Barry had some qualms about putting on an unknown German band on a night (Monday) when they don’t usually do live music. “Still”, he says nonchalantly, “if Watson says you’re good, then you’re good – and if you’re not, it’s Watson’s fault…”. At one point, I ask him if he’s a musician himself. Within clear hearing of Adrian, he replies: “Me? No, mate…I’m a drummer.” It’s not a big place for a 5-man band, but we reduce the drumkit a bit and opt for Christian’s ‘little’ amp, and we manage to squeeze in okay. Once we’ve sound-checked and had a beer with the friendly locals, it’s supper time. Some of the party decide to go to a Thai restaurant, but for Chris, Adrian, Bärbel and me there’s only one possible option: fish’n’chips down at the sea-front, watching the pier light up and listening to the screeching sea-gulls. Magic. By the time show-time comes around there’s a reasonable crowd in, though it’s not exactly bursting at the seams. Pat Fish, who had an enjoyable gig in Brighton a few weeks previously, has kindly done some MySpace jungle-drumming for us, which has paid dividends: amongst others, Howzey is here. I last met him after a Jazz Butcher show in Hammersmith in 1985. Chris Pearson – the only person I know who lives here – has turned up as well, and he’s brought a bunch of friends to help bolster the numbers. Also in the audience is Tony Husband, creator of the wonderful ‘Yobs’ strip in Private Eye. To my delight he presents me with a cartoon of the band scribbled on the back of an envelope, after the show. In deference to the intimate nature of the venue we start with ‘Ca Me Plait’, instead of our usual punkrock opener ‘Dudes’. We’re in the groove straight away, and it’s such a joy to play to an attentive audience. People obviously come to this place to listen to music, not to talk loudly all over it. You could have heard a pin drop during ‘Harvest Moon’ and ‘Cariad’. Mind you, they liked the noisy stuff as well, so we blast them with ‘Yeah, Yeah, Yeah’ as an encore. From start to finish, I thoroughly enjoyed myself tonight – I reckon we all did. We wind down with a few beers, and then the posh contingent head off to their B&Bs, whilst Kristina, Adrian, Bärbel and I bed down on the floor of the pub. To be honest, it’s not the first time that I’ve fallen asleep on a bar-room floor; but it’s the first time that I haven’t seriously regretted it the next morning. |
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Day 18 One very good thing that happened yesterday was that I managed to change the booking for today’s ferry so that, instead of having to leave Brighton at the crack of dawn to get to Dover, we can now have a nice relaxed day – well, it starts off relaxed, at least… I wake up slowly, beneath the benevolent gazes of Robert Johnson and Leadbelly, whereupon I’m immediately berated by my colleagues for the volume of my snoring. Apparently I’ve captured the title, previously held by the drummer, of the loudest sleeper on the team – no mean feat. The pub door is locked, but Kristina manages to escape over the garden railings to fetch us some much needed coffee, just before Barry and his family appear to turn on the coffee machine. To my relief, Barry says he really enjoyed the band. Adrian asks tentatively: “Do you think it may be possible for us to play here again?”, and he replies: “I shall be seriously annoyed if you don’t”. Eventually the rest of the troops arrive, and we load up Quasimodo and make our farewells, already looking forward eagerly to coming back to this cracking little pub. |
 Quasimodo sun-bathing in Brighton     ‘Oh I do like to be beside the sea-side…’  Barking mad  Adieu, Angleterre  Channel sunset |
Oh I do like to be beside the seaside. There’s only one thing to do after that adrenalin rush. Head for the bar. Then, Stellas in hand, we go to the back of the ship and watch the greyish cliffs disappearing in a beautiful sunset, as we approach mainland Europe once again. Thank-you, Britain, and goodnight. Thankfully we encounter no inquisitive uniforms in Boulogne, this time, and Chris takes the wheel for a few more miles of France, before we cross into Belgium. We finally arrive at Jean-Pierre and Katleen’s shortly before midnight. It’s a deeply rural location (they’ve moved since my last visit) and finding it stumps both myself and the lovely Erika for a while, so we resort to phoning them up, eventually. Then, at last, we’re there. It’s a hot, peaceful summer night. Bärbel and I are handsomely accommodated in the attic. |
 The Caravan of Love |
The Ketchup Boys take themselves off to the ‘Caravan of Love’ (no, don’t ask…). Kristina, Oliver and Gabi put up their tents in the moonlight, and I sit in the garden watching them contentedly, drinking Jupiler under the stars with my favourite Belgian Bad Man, Mr. Van de Walle. |
 Bärbel the flower-child  Ieper Town Hall, home to the Flanders Field Museum  "The war to end all wars"    Concert#9 |
Day 19 A blissful lie-in, and I wake up mid-morning to the hottest day of the Belgian summer – at least as hot as southern France. After a leisurely breakfast we still have a few hours to kill before heading to the gig, so Oliver, Gabi, Chris and I decide to go into Ieper to visit the Flanders Field museum. Oliver and I have done this once before; it’s a pretty draining – but very worthwhile – experience. This part of Western Flanders is saturated with the ghosts of the First World War. The countryside is covered in (well-tended) cemeteries, containing the remains only of those whose remains were at least partially recovered. The rest of those who fell in the region – thousands and thousands of them – are commemorated at the city gate, where The Last Post is still played by a lone bugler at eight o’clock every evening. In 18 months, the front between the British and German forces just south of Ieper moved no more than a couple of hundred metres back and forth, during which time getting on for a million lives were lost. The deadlock was finally broken when the Allies tunnelled behind the German lines and planted huge amounts of explosives beneath the ground. When they were detonated, creating lake-sized craters in the landscape and killing many thousands in an instant, the explosions could be heard as far away as England. Back outside in the dazzling sunshine, we buy last-chance postcards and drink a coffee in T’Klein Stadhuis – yet another bar that’s become a regular port of call for me over the years – before heading back home for a late lunch of simply delicious couscous that Katleen has prepared for us. Then it’s ‘Hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s off to work we go’ time again. |
| Concert#9 is, quite frankly, a bit weird. We’ve been booked to play at a stud-farm-cum-restaurant in the middle of the countryside, where they have regular open-air concerts during the summer, but where, I suspect, the band is intended more as a back-drop to the culinary experience, rather than as the main feature. As in France, we play a short set during apéritifs; but, unlike France, we’re then expected to play during the meal, rather than after it. As far as I can see, there are a couple of disadvantages to this arrangement: firstly, the band doesn’t get to have any dinner (though we did get a sandwich at about midnight); and secondly, the audience – the majority of which comprised a coach outing that had block-booked the place for the evening – promptly departed halfway through the second set, as soon as they’d finished their coffee and desserts. Fortunately we were left with a hardcore of Jean-Pierre and Katleen’s friends and neighbours, plus one of J-P’s sons with a bunch of his pals, to play out the remainder to – and these are the people who really have come for the music. Anyway, I shouldn’t complain: we’re grateful to have the gig at all, especially as it’s the best paid one of the whole tour… It’s still unbelievably hot when we get back home at midnight. Once again we sit out in the peaceful, star-lit night and reluctantly succumb to Mr. Van de Walle’s insistence on plying us with fine red wine. As I may have mentioned, he is a very, very bad man… |
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 "Get off my land"  SATB on a tractor  Jean-Pierre with Willi the Farmer  Back in the Titanic |
Day 20 Dog-house time for Owen, this morning. I’m less than fully awake when I stumble into the shower, and I fail to close the curtain properly, with the result that the water floods out into the hall where all our bags are stacked. The main casualty is Kristina’s luggage. The soaked clothes aren’t really a problem – in this heat they’ll dry in ten minutes – but she’s less than happy about the ruined packet of sea-salt that she’s been carrying around for the last fortnight. At least, she said it was sea-salt. Maybe it was 500g of prime quality cocaine – that might explain why she was so pissed off… I eat my breakfast apologetically, and then camp is struck and Quasimodo loaded one last time. Before departing we have a last photo session together with our good hosts and the friendly farmer-family from next-door, posing on a tractor (“Ah, you should see the Ketchup Boys on a tractor…”). We’re presented with a gift of local wine which – seeing as I can’t drive, and I can’t navigate, and I can’t carry anything, and, yes, my leg is still hurting quite a lot (sorry to bring that up) – I decide to sample on the spot, just to sweeten the sorrow of parting a bit… Then we’re off. Another day-long haze of motorway and motorway services. Just as we pull in for our final pit-stop somewhere near Bremen, the oppressive heat finally cracks and a short, but dramatic monsoon-type downpour takes place. I love it when that happens. |
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 A load of beer |
Day 21 We rest, now. Eventually we get up and go to the supermarket to buy a load of beer for tomorrow. Then we rest again. |
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 ‘Niemand siegt am Millerntor’ |
Day 22 It’s a good job we did the resting thing, because this is going to be a busy day. For Chris, Bärbel and I it starts with going to the footy. Due to this season’s silly new TV-controlled scheduling, St. Pauli are playing at 13.30. Breakfast football. We (I mean ‘they’) play pretty well, managing a 2:2 draw in spite of having been reduced to ten men just before half-time, following a harsh double yellow card for Charles Takyi, who still produced a magnificent solo goal before his premature departure. After the game, Bärbel and me head for the Shakespeare Suite, to help the others prepare for tonight’s home-coming party, whilst Chris takes himself off to Finkenwerder (‘San Francisco on the Elbe’) to attend a friend’s wedding. |
 Kristina directing the lighting crew |
Concert#10 is taking place in ‘The Shakespeare Suite’, our ever-so-slightly pretentious name for our rehearsal room – or, rather, it’s taking place in the hallway just outside it. We do a bit of minimal tidying up and decoration, and set up a projector so that we can impose our holiday snaps upon a captive audience, in time-honoured tradition. We stock the bar up with soft drinks, beer (a big thank-you to Sean for his contribution on that front) and several boxes of wine of varying colours that we’ve miraculously managed to bring back intact, all the way from France. Then it’s time for one last sound-check, though without Chris, who’s still living it up at the wedding. |
 Bert the Beautiful Barman |
Guests start to arrive from about 9pm. Bert the Beautiful Barman takes up his position and does a sterling job for the rest of the evening. Inevitably, one or two of the St. Pauli contingent have ‘fallen by the wayside’ due to the early kick-off (well no, let’s be honest, it’s due to going to the pub straight after the match, in the deluded belief that they’d be in a fit state to move on to our party five hours later…). Nonetheless there’s a respectable delegation from my Pauli local (Jens I, Mac, Hugo and Dagmar, Sonja and Ralph) as well as a good showing from the Titanic (Jens II, Nicole, Jeanette, Uwe and Uli). Bärbel’s cousin Gabi has brought a load of friends and family all the way from Reinbek. Kristina’s mum Heinke is there, of course, as is our ‘Number One’ fan Holger, together with his son Carsten and his sturdy sidekick Ralph… and there are many, many more. In fact, pretty much everyone is here… except for Chris… |
 Außenborder |
Our rehearsal room next-door neighbours ‘Außenborder’ kick off the show with their fine brand of ‘bratpop’ – always a pleasure to hear, even though we probably know their set backwards, as they do ours, due to the proximity of our rooms. Their songs are tightly woven pop tunes with acerbic, observant lyrics and great vocal harmonies. They get a well-deserved encore, and then we’re ready to go…except that we’re not, because the lead guitarist is still conspicuous by his absence. A phone call establishes that he’s somewhere in the middle of the river in a taxi (so to speak) and so there’s nothing for it but for Kristina, aka Suzi Quadrato, to keep the crowd entertained with her incomparable deejaying skills for a little while longer. |
  Concert#10  Dancing the night away  The Excitement Gang |
Eventually The Man from Finkenwerder arrives, still in his wedding togs. He grabs a beer and tunes up, and it’s ‘1,2,3,4’ and off we go, one last time. I know that the band has tightened up enormously over the course of the tour (something would be seriously wrong if it hadn’t) but for these people, many of whom last saw us a couple of months ago, the improvement is probably quite spectacular. It’s not just that we’re tighter, however. We’re relaxed, we’re celebrating, we’re surrounded by old amigos, we’ve had a beer or two but not too many (yet) and, quite frankly, we’re having a gas. We blast through the set, and when it gets to the encores I’m afraid I do the stripping off thing again – although it doesn’t feel quite the same with Holger and Kristina’s mum in the front row, rather than a gaggle of Gallic teenagers (no disrespect meant). It’s another hot night, and this is a pretty rock’n’roll location. By now the whole place stinks of beer and fags and sweat – and I love it. When the band (and, particularly, my voice) is finally too shattered to go on, Suzi Q takes over and it’s time to dance the night away. We listen to a lot of fine music, but, above all, we listen to Joe Strummer & The Mescaleros over and over. When the remaining hard-core are pogoing to ‘Coma Girl’ for the umpteenth time, someone has the stupid idea (well, in fact, we probably all had the same stupid idea, collectively) of breaking out another bottle of fine French Cremand (we’d already started the evening with one bottle of it). We toast and we huddle and we kiss and we dance again. Just for this moment, we are The Excitement Gang. Seitenanfang |
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