Just as I'd become convinced that the United States was really one big Essex it turned into a bumper sized version of Lincolnshire. Now it's mutated into a slightly more stodgy Hertfordshire. We had a beyond bland dining experience in a Cracker Barrel in Louisiana yesterday - fried chicken breast and side dishes of vegetables in varying shades of beige. The chicken was encased in some sort of fibre glass version of batter which meant that they could take random bits of chicken and the casing would sort of hold it all together in a vaguely chicken breast shape. The Cracker Barrel was like one of those farm shops you find on the A17 in Lincolnshire. It had farm implements hanging off the ceiling and the place was cluttered with factory-made interesting old things. Everythin had a barcode, everything was for sale.
It seems to me that America is forever trying to recreate it's recent past in glass fibre, plastic and particle board. Yesterday, having played in Austin, we were obliged to drive through the night because the hotels were full of hurricane evacuees. We got to Shreveport in the late morning and booked into a Casino hotel. Shreveport is all Casino hotels - Casinos and loan places. We got a great big luxury room with a kingsize bed that was almost double the size of a double bed. It was very cheap - they make their money on gambling, the rest of it is just designed to make you feel like a high roller. Neither Amy or myself have any interest in gambling. We strolled round the casino looking at all these glum, desperate people. Occasionally one of them would have a win and they'd set up a half hearted whoop and a holler. Some of the others would vaguely join in. then they'd all slump back into their own private misery.
We had dinner in a plastic brick built railway station from the Great Depression. For no apparent reason there was a stage coach hanging off the ceiling. We had a table under an overhanging canopy. Above us were balconies stacked with the luggage of the dear departed from a century ago. We had gumbo and shrimps and stuff and it taste very much like the real thing.
The hotel staff were all black - African Americans as they're called now. I love the black people I meet in America, we always seem to get on together. They're much more open, much less uptight than a lot of the white people - Jellyfish Americans as I believe they're now called.
I can see how America breaks bands that try to tour it - the bands that try to break America and fail. Touring here is hard. The distances are huge and a lot of the venues have joined the industry. Some take a professional pride - they don't perhaps give a flying fuck about you personally but they'll make every effort to ensure that the show goes off without a hitch. Others really don't give a fuck. Nobody compliments you or tells you anything that would help to make you feel less insecure - you're on your own, buddy.
PA systems don't work properly, house engineers mix you too quietly because they feel like giving their ears a night off. Some engineers are so fucking lazy that they can't be bothered to waddle the distance from the board out front to the stage to actually listen to the monitors with their own ears. That's usually in clubs where nothing works properly and just being in there for more than five minutes is enough to bring you out in a rash.
Thee Parkside in San Francisco is a bit like this. Last time we played there a young girl did the sound - she actually did a great job even though she arrived an hour and a half late and the monitor speakers were all but blown. This time we had a guy who could have got off a care in the community bus. He was willing enough and he kept calling me Sir. Every time I asked for something he said yessir, yessir, and bowed subserviently. He seemed to think we were a country 'n' western band - he said we'd be OK with him because his speciality was twang. I said ours was bass and that threw him through a loop, I could tell by the slight twitch.
The monitors hardly worked, just like last time. Apparently there's no money to repair them. We didn't break the percentage due to unspecified costs. I hope some of these costs go to repairing the equipment. We didn't have a bad time but some of the people, the ones who probably thought we'd be a Dead Kennedys tribute or something, got on our nerves. Mostly the audience were lovely. I hope we can play in San Francisco again soon but at a diferent venue.
At Merced in the middle of California we came across a notable exception. Jeff the soundman there did a great job. Sadly there were only twenty eight people. But those twenty eight loved us thanks in part to Jeff. And I should say that the Bumbershoot crew were good too. In fact I'm probably going to back track completely on most of what I've just said because thinking about it just about everywhere we've played is a notable exception.
At the Cinema Bar in Los Angeles I thought I made a fine job of the sound myself with no time for a real soundcheck. Even though some drunken arsehole at the back demanded in a stentorian voice that we TURN THE GUITARS DOWN - WE CAME TO HEAR YOU. Well, really - I pointed out that Amy was standing behind a yard of American plywood with strings on it, whacking the hell out of it, and so was I, so what the fuck did he think he was hearing if it wasn't us, expressing ourselves.
There was a cunt sitting right in front of me who suggested in quite an aggressive manner that we do more of Amy's songs - how about Beer And Kisses, or what about Give The Drummer Some? That ought to work well with that computer beatbox thing. The subtext read stop fucking about with that talentless English git and play some quality music.
I didn't like him and he didn't like me, I could tell. He was middle-aged - he wore a baseball cap perched on top of his fat pink head, a loose white t-shirt, tight shorts and luckilly one of those black banana bag things that men like that wear to keep their hemorrhoid cream in. I say luckilly because at least that way we couldn't see an escaped testicle.
I think he was the inspiration for my Campaign For Better Dressed Men. I'm not sure quite how we're going to campaign yet, except by wearing trousers and real shoes but I'm sure tailoring and a bit of work with a steam iron will find a way.
Anyway, as I was saying, touring America can wear you down - it's scary. We landed up in Kansas City. I thought, what the fuck am I doing playing in Kansas City? I remember Doctor Feelgood coming home from their only US tour with tales of opening for Gentle Giant in Kansas City and it not making any sense at all.
The club we were at was called Knuckleheads. It could have been put there for the tourists except that no tourists would come to this area of town. It on the wrong side of the tracks but there were so many tracks it'd be hard to say which tracks it was on the wrong side of - the place is surrounded by railroad tracks. It appears to be in the middle of a freight yard.
Knuckleheads is a genuine juke joint in a poor area of town. It looks like the bar in The Blues Brother where they play both types of music, Country and Western. I was looking for the chicken wire grill in front of the stage and for a moment I was almost terrified. But everyone was really kind and we set up the gear and soundchecked, had something to eat and bonded with the soundman and owner over stories of John Mayall and what an arsehole he is.
The set went over great. When we got to the break in Another Drive-in Saturday a passing freight train sounded its horn/whistel/siren thing - you know the noise. It was exactly on key, sounding like a deranged orchestra. There were no more than fifty people but for a Tuesday night in Kansas City we took that as a great success and so did the owner - he wants us to come back and do a weekend show. I never thought there'd be anyone interested in us in the middle of America. I assumed they were all redneck rock fans and Foreigner ruled the airwaves. It seems I was wrong.
Before we went to the hotel - best hotel of the tour by the way - we had a junk food excursion at the Waffle House. As we walked in Sweet Home Alabama came on the jukebox. The place was cluttered up with neighbourhood badhats. It was trashy and we felt right at home. We had waffles with maple syrup.
1 Never say ‘cheers’ or ‘yeah,cheers’ at the end of a song.
2 Never, ever address the audience as ‘you guys’.
3 Never tell the audience about the boring stuff you got up to on the tour bus -
I don’t want to hear that stuff - a band should always strive to give the impression that they arrived in a space craft. Unless they’re a blues band, and then I want to know that they arrived in a Bedford van having spent the night in a lay-by, sleeping in ex-army sleeping bags on top of the amplifiers. The only band I've ever witnessed transgressing rule number three was a Brighton band called The Electric Soft Parade. Their frontman said yeah cheers so often I lost count. The Electric Soft Parade weren't very good. The Dykeenies were but the singer said cheers after the first three numbers so I gave up. Actually that’s not quite true - I was getting cold and I had to go and get organised for my cameo appearance.
I don't know what to say about The Proclaimers shows without sounding corny, trite or bland. Someone who isn't reading this carefully might leave under the impression that I'm using those adjectives to describe The Proclaimers but I'm not - they could never be any of those. So I have to resort to fabulous, fantastic, they went out with a bang etc...
I've probably said it all already anyway. Erika Nockalls played the violin on Sunshine On Leith wearing a green satin frock. I played my green Microfret guitar on Whole Wide World. So there was a bit of colour co-ordination - a matching his 'n' hers Eric section.
Anyway, they were talking about getting together to record a new album beginning next March. I can hardly wait.
There's loads more to talk about but if I start on that I'll get bogged down in it so I think I'll stop now and put this on the site without finishing it off...
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