The Wild Hunt: Nobody knew who they were or... what they were doin

Day 3

Bristol 07/02/2015

We woke up to a muggy London morning and started our preparations to ensure we had everything needed for the next 30 days on the road. I packed up my suitcase which Chris, our illustrious driver/tour manager/ cultural and spiritual guide, said looked like it could contain gold bullion. In fact, it held a weeks worth of clothes and a few knick knacks totaling to maybe $50. The van had been dropped off the day before and had been parked on the street adjacent to Chris’s flat. Someone had side swiped the passenger side view mirror, cracking it, but it still functioned. This would be a first in a duo of window mishaps that would happen on the tour. Nothing to do about it right then. We milled around the flat for a bit before we charged west towards Bristol.  Piling into the van, we all entered our van hive mentality. Mp3 players and other devices were brought out to disorient us from the hours of our lives that tour inevitably takes from you. The English countryside reminded me a lot of Singapore, the foliage thick and tangled, piled alongside farmland and stretches of highway. Chris told us that we were going to make a stop at the Avebury Henge between London and Bristol. We pulled off the highway and started our way on a stretch of narrow pastoral roads. We trekked into a small village with the other tourists and made our way to a path struck between giant stones that had been resurrected when the henge was deemed a national heritage site and reconstructed from the destruction that the middle ages had brought upon it. It was very humbling to be surrounded by something built with such intention almost 6000 years ago. The experience of consciousness manifested into structure, alignment, and design is a daily experience. Everything in which we travel, live, and occupy is constructed by the history of collective human intention. Being around something that old and steeped in abstract ceremony makes me think about the first levels of documenting consciousness and intention. It was pretty overwhelming to be around.

There is nothing indicating why the henge was built or its function but it did have a cool wishing tree that I tore off part of the insert in my leather jacket to be able to tie it around the tree. I tied the piece around a branch and wished that we’d get through the tour ok. When I opened my eyes Mike was on an opposing hill looking majestic and I took his picture. We went back to the van and were chattered at by a swarm of teenagers on a field trip, “you american?” “yeah we’re in a band” “you ever had a cheeky nando?” “speak english”. The kids laughed and waived as we drove away, what a pleasant place this must be to grow up in. Nearing Bristol, Chris filled us in on its vibe, “Its a University City”, is how he finished his description. The cynical side of me instantly drifted towards white dreads and drum circles, manifestos obfuscated by resin smoke and interpersonal conflict. Of course it was far from the case when we pulled up to a bike shop/vegan cafe called Roll for the Soul. We parked around the corner and waited to load in until the cafe closed and had some wander-round time to see the city and move our bodies. I opted to stay at the cafe and gorge myself on a mezza and tried to drink enough coffee to function. It’d been a minute since I’d had jet lag and it was hitting me like a ton of bricks. England is a trip; I feel as though I looked English enough, at least my features do, so no one was the wiser that I was actually an American trying to get a feel for the average Bristolite. I saw crowds of dressed up young professionals getting dinner, drinking coffee, women in flowing cotton body suits everywhere I turned. My love for feeling alien in a space captivated me again and kept me from straying too far from the cafe. After a while of wandering and enjoying the cold rainy weather I met with the crew and we unloaded the van, Chris showed me a strange harmonica accordion that he had acquired, this in relation to the other artifacts he had in his apartment led me to believe he had been a very worldly antiques dealer in a past life or possibly would be one in the near future. All of us in a sleep daze, "my tummy hurts from coffee” I remember Corey saying as we unloaded our gear into the street, we hustled our gear out and put it in the venue. It was at this time that the cursed guitar, a modern looking red epiphone with a bigsby jimmy rigged onto it, IF YOU SEE IT EMAIL ME [email protected], was swiped from the street. It was later argued that it might have been left at the Montague Arms in London, but that information is in the ethers at this point. While loading in and setting up we encountered the first punisher of tour, a local poet who took it upon himself to show up wasted and make bird noises whenever someone female bodied would bend over to pick something up. A majority of the people working the show/playing the show were female bodied and so this happened every 5 minutes or so, punishing. The staff asked him to leave so he pissed in front of the venue in rebellion. He showed them. Mike would take to calling him bird man and made seagull noises while flapping his arms at the him, if you can’t beat em, make them feel strange. Lower Slaughter played first, they sounded a lot like the Jesus Lizard and had a warbling vocalist that could be heard over the big amps they were playing through. Up next was Artefact, they played cold chorus soaked post punk.

 We got up to play and Mike asked if he could use the first band’s guitar head, which I protested instantly because using other people’s gear is generally a nightmare. We got through two songs before the very expensive Ampeg head started smoking and we were left to play the set at half the volume with half our amps, it still sounded tight. I chatted up our hosts for the evening, our friend Sarah from Olympia’s parents had retired there and had offered us a place to stay. We were invited to go dance with our new friend Shona and company. We dropped our stuff off and headed to the pub. We rocked in and bought drinks, MJ and I descended onto the dance floor and slow wined while Chris, Mike, and Corey chilled n drank with the locals. Corey had been given free weed by some starry eye’d boy, which was another pleasant reoccurring theme on tour. There was a live trumpet player and a DJ playing some deep dub cuts that captivated everyone so well that no one cares when he took massive pauses to flip over 45s. We were left standing in an ancient cellar chatting about the violin player that had been pushed all the way back towards the bathrooms. It was apparent that people couldn’t appreciate live violin over dub, sorry. We crashed in our friend’s parents massive nautical themed (or at least that is how i interpreted it) flat, I instantly acquired a choice position on the couch: fuck the world its now or never gotta get your quality of life locked down. Corey got the booty end of the couch, sorry Corey that’s life, although she eventually pinned my feet to my chin in my sleep and won the battle, but this wouldn’t be the end of the war. Our hosts made us a smashing breakfast and I chatted with Marsha (one of our hosts) about growing up catholic, understanding the enjoyment of corporal punishment and perpetual guilt, we both agreed that growing up with dads raised catholics were the key. 

live photographs by Hannah Saunders