MIKE MONAGHAN

‘There was a sign hung around my dead cat’s neck. It said “Miaow”.’ – Kurt Vonnegut, Cat’s Cradle

Greetings again one and all, and I’m glad to report that all remains swell over here in quarantine.

I’ve been busying myself with further German lingo practice, rattling on my drum pad (no complaints from the neighbours yet...) and cleaning my quarters. Anything that can be washed and ironed has been so; the drains are sparkling and the backs of the radiators are spotless. I’ll do whatever it takes to avoid breaking into the beer rations before 5:30pm...

This temporary change in lifestyle has been a welcome opportunity to revisit a long-term project I’m calling The Ritter Review. This consists of reviewing, rating and ranking the Ritter Sport catalogue of chocolate bars, and I’ve enjoyed adding a couple more to the tally.

(Trivia: first produced in 1932, the bar was designed to fit into the pocket of a ‘sport’ jacket, thus the name.)

It was some years back that KNUSPERFLAKES scored highest. ‘Crunchy, nice texture and wide dynamic range. Giving. Neither the smoothest nor the meltiest, but that’s an observation, not a criticism. 79/100.’

PRALINE – for many a sleeper flavour – later stole the lead by a single point: 'A joyous journey from start to finish, and a fine companion to coffee. Rich in flavour with an evocative smooth texture that conjures notions of sophistication. 80/100.’

But to my surprise, an excellent recent showing by WEISS + CRISP took it straight to the top of the leaderboard. ‘An excellent suck and a satisfying chew; likely early candidate for the Greatest Hits (feels like a track 3). 88/100.'

It’s still relatively early days so stay in touch for electrifying updates about new additions. Next up: VOLL-NUSS.

I’ve recently been reading Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut and I’ve found it sparky and funny. I first discovered his writing when I started playing drums for a band called Man Without Country. Literary types would often (incorrectly) presume they were named for Vonnegut’s book A Man Without A Country, so it seemed prudent to give it a look to ensure I wasn’t unknowingly aligning myself with some kind of hate manual or anti-Bokonistic text...

(Side-thought: books are incredibly good value for money. Even purchased new, most are around £10-12. Using Audible as a gauge, the average book takes 10 hours to read, making the cost around £1 per hour of page-time.)

(Speaking of Audible, I’ve been considering listening to the audiobook of Donna Tartt’s The Goldfinch in a single sitting. It’s 32 1/2 hours long so I might look for a gap when there aren’t any football games on...)

Anyway, A Man Without A Country turned out to be a brilliant read by a very funny and witty author, of whom I have remained a fan. Cat’s Cradle is no different, and I’ve been enjoying it more with every chapter.

It’s a sort of first-person sci-fi situation whereby the protagonist, an author himself, is writing a book detailing the day the Atomic Bomb was dropped on Hiroshima and sets out to meet the bomb’s (fictional) inventor Felix Hoenikker. (Pretty light and fun so far, right?). Hoenikker has long since died, but the journey ends up taking him from Upstate New York down to the fictional Republic of San Lorenzo in the Caribbean, of which he ends up President. Various encounters ensue, but most of the comedy comes from the cast of eccentric characters he meets along the way.

It’s witty and playful but thought-provoking and an exotic distraction from my quarantine routine. The more I read the more I enjoyed it, and Vonnegut is always very quotable. From this book, I liked ‘Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God’ which, in a strange way, resonates with my current situation…

There’s loads of great stuff with & about him on the BBC Sounds archive; I recommend his Front Row or So It Goes with Josie Long.

Anyway, the book makes a number of references to a Cat’s Cradle (Felix Hoenikker was playing the game when the bomb was dropped). Does anyone else remember doing one? It was a sort of weird playground routine with a loop of string which you passed between two people in a sort of sequence, the challenge being to keep it going.

It turns out there’s also a solitaire edition, so I figured why not spend some time learning it:

Although the temperatures here aren’t what they were a few days ago, the nights are still hot so here’s my current late-night-listen for when sleep is illusive: Len Deighton - The Ipcress File.

I also HIGHLY recommend Laura Barton’s American Road Trip, from which Episode 3 – California Bound – was broadcast again on Radio 4Extra last night. Inspired by the programme, I include today some favourite pics of golden times with golden people in the Golden State.

As requested by a couple of fellow tubthumpers, I’ll share a few drum pad exercises I’ve been working at en Quarantine.

When I began playing ‘traditional grip’, I put lots of time into finger control, but never paid a great deal of attention to the left thumb. I’ve only lately become aware of the weakness, so now seems as good a time as ever to tackle it...

The exercises below, taken from my notebook, might not be technically written correctly, but they should make sense! These are just for the left hand, and only your left thumb and hand should ever be in contact with the stick! No fingers at all.

There are two different strokes: the quavers are played with a twist of the left hand and arm (I’m calling it a full stroke). The semiquavers are made by bouncing the stick using the thumb. The hand shouldn’t move at all for these!

The left page contains separate exercises for each stroke, while those on the right page combine the two:

If you get bored doing these to a click, then I can recommend playing along to Tour De France by Kraftwerk. Music with a steady pulse can be a nice way to keep things fresh in the drum shed...

Time for my daily beer ration! I’ll write again soon…

M x

“The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable” – Kurt Vonnegut, A Man Without A Country

Firstly, thanks all for the kind comments, well-wishes and suggestions about how to keep busy during lockdown!

I enjoyed Amir Suleman’s Friday morning show on BBC Radio Cambridgeshire; he chose an apt number with which to open:

It’s hotty-hot-hot here in Berlin! Having spent much of January peering longingly up at the apartments near the top of my block that bask in direct sunlight, I don’t envy them anymore. While the thermometer outside my window has been languishing at 34º from around 11am each morning, I’m thankful that it’s much cooler inside my shady pad helped by the thick walls.

I’ve been listening to cult-legend Mike Gale’s new solo album Twin Spirit – just released! I highly recommend … we also collaborated on an album called Beachhead Galaxy some years ago, and you can get that here.

I spent much of the day consuming Remoulade... while that could easily be the name of a trendy French electro-pop band, it’s actually a condiment (a sort of herby mayonnaise) seemingly common in Berlin, but presumably French in origin? I had never knowingly had it before moving out here, but now most non-curried foods I eat serve merely as vehicles for the stuff. It’s very more-ish and goes so well on a slice o’ Landbrot with a slice o’ Gouda and a slice o’ cucumber!

1430HRS: Hit a Lynchian streak, showered to a soundtrack of songs from Twin Peaks… spooky vibes in the apartment… perhaps I’ll play it again while I sleep tonight.

Speaking of which, thanks to Astrid for alerting me to this:

Caught a British Football Derby in the evening (I love the term derby when used in football). Trivia: the England vs. Scotland match is the oldest International football fixture in the world, first being played in 1872 (the score: 0-0...). Since then, England have won 48, Scotland have won 41, with 26 draws. Closer than you might think...

I’m struck by how little respect towards referees and officials there is in the modern game: it has largely become a game of deceit. Players are constantly playing for fouls, feigning injury, faking shirt pulls, diving, and generally putting time and energy into attempting to trick the referee into making an unwarranted decision that goes against the other team. They now call it ‘simulation’ but just because it has a name, it doesn’t much seem to be quell’d.

New Rule Idea: ‘injured’ players are treated not by their own physio, but by that of the opposing team. At any point during the game, if a player goes to ground, the opposing ‘physio’ can immediately enter the field of play to ‘treat’ the player in any which way they deem fit, within the vague confines of basic human rights. The game otherwise continues on around them, with stoppages only for visibly life-threatening injuries.

I think this could really motivate players to stay on their feet and discourage rolling around on the floor, faking injuries and wasting time.

Had a dream that my friend Chris Barker wrote a song called ‘Birthday’ and I woke up with it still in my head. It went a little bit like:

“Birthday, BIRTHday, BIIIIIIIRTHDAAY!!”

I’m sure a similar thing happened to Paul McCartney with ‘Yesterday’...

0910HRS: Occurred to me that I haven’t seen one of these in Too Long:

Saturday morning (trying not to count, but: Day 3), listened to Radio 4Extra. I’ve been hooked on this digi-only Beeb Station for years now: it’s a 24-hour mix of radio plays, comedies, dramas, and documentaries, and I often keep it on for days at a time.

They broadcast a three hour special each Saturday and this week the theme was Fathers and Sons. Presented by poets Ian McMillan and his son Andrew McMillan, they brought some thought provoking and entertaining chat while sharing relevant pieces from the Beeb back catalogue: first up an interesting interview with Peter Sellers’ son Michael and then a conversation between Kingsley and Martin Amis from 1989.

Trivia: Peter Sellers played the drums and was an adept jazz player. Likewise, David Suchet (check out his DID). Picture that next time you’re watching Poirot!

Finally, there was a touching memoir by Howard Cunnell about his transitioning son and an episode of Rudy’s Rare Records, a lukewarm Lenny Henry comedy made much better by its evocative setting and appropriate soundtrack: a Birmingham record shop selling reggae, ska and soul.

(I’m just glad they didn’t play Steptoe and Son, easily the most unfunny, depressing portrayal of a father/son relationship.)

Although I don’t strive for a great deal of routine in my life, I would normally enjoy a Saturday morning stroll along Karl Marx Allee to Alexanderplatz, and often onwards to Hackescher Markt to visit my friend Aurel on his liquor stall.

(Photos from said strolls are scattered throughout today’s post.)

It’s a fascinating street, bursting with history. Originally named Stalinallee, the street – more of a boulevard – was originally designed and constructed in the 50’s by the GDR after WWII, when much of Berlin needed rebuilding. Quietly renamed Karl Marx Allee in the early 60′s amid what they call De-Stalinization, it remained the fashionable showpiece of the German Democratic Republic in East Berlin, featuring trendy shops, cafés and plenty of Vietnamese restaurants.

It’s a solid slice of history right on my doorstep and an atmospheric amble with numerous wonderful examples of mid-century modernist architecture and design… an amazing place.

What’s more, the Alexanderplatz end features probably my favourite building ever: the Kino International! I’m missing it today – especially given the warm weather in Berlin right now. But I’ll be back on the streets soon enough!

Kept an eye on the football betwixt paradiddle practise and music making. (Euro 2020 drinking game: drain your glass every time a pundit mentions ‘dropping the shoulder’). So wonderful to see a full stadium of football fans go wild when the Hungarians scored!

Placing an Amazon order in a while, if anyone can think of anything I’ve forgotten then speak now.

Greetings one and all!

An unfortunately-timed visit back to the UK means I write thee on the front end of a hefty 14-day quarantine back in Berlin. Unforeseen by me, Mutti amended the rules and regulations for Deutsch re-entry: the UK is now deemed an AREA OF THREATENING DELTA VARIANT, and it's inhabitants making the journey back to Berlin now the subject of a non-negotiable quarantine...

Hopefully humankind will learn from the current situ and avoid the requirement for such quarantines again hahahahaha🤞🏻😬… so why not record this one for posterity? Who knows, perhaps we'll learn something about each other...

Expect generally-free-flowing train-of-thought streams-of-words, occasionally cohesive, probably not… I'll share some snaps, ponder some things, wonder about other things, talk about kites, share my fav emojis, music I like, and maybe even indulge a little drum chat.

We have time...!

If anyone can think of anything they’d like me to review, make lists of, ponder on, muse about, etc. NOW IS THE TIME. A few I’ve received so far:

- Binge-Watch Coronation Street, Season 1 to Present: 10,230 episodes – will I even have time?

- Collate A Hard Copy of Wikipedia: nice idea, but I don’t have the paper. I don’t even have a printer.

- Live-Stream the Full 14-day Quarantine, Optional: Allow One-Way Spoken Communication from the Viewer to You: yeah, no one wants that. Not to mention my squiffy wifi.

So far, I’ve only settled on Experiment with Your Tolerance for Very Garlicy or Very Spicy Foods and Gamble Online.

What could go wrong?

Caught the end of the Wales/Turkey game in the airport with a pint which was a nice final hurrah afore life in isolation. Once airborne, the pilot proceeded, with great enthusiasm, to update the entire plane on the Swiss/Italy match every fifteen minutes of the journey. Cheers Cap’n!

Arrived back in Berlin from the UK late last night … here’s a digital reconstruction of the landing courtesy of FlightRadar:

(Songs in this post are those I enjoyed in-flight.)

It’s so much warmer than when I left Germany a month back – Covid rules seem a little more relaxed now (personal situation excepted) so it was nice to see people out and about enjoying a beer en my route home.

Woke up early in my bright room, happy to be home. Morning sun is wonderful!

Had a dream that my friend Ash had a YouTube channel in which he filmed himself furiously charging around random shops, Supermarket Sweep style...

Listened to the morning show on BBC Radio Merseyside. Apparently there is genuinely a (rugby?) stadium in the north of England called Totally Wicked Stadium.

“We need to appeal to the kids.”

Contemplated the name Barry. People don’t call their kids Barry any more.

Kieran Trippier really is a fantastic name.

Also, Nora Barnacle.

Barry Barnacle?

Practiced some paradiddles, sent some emails, discovered that the Ukranian national anthem is called Ukraine Is Not Dead Yet, perused the Kaufland magazine and then watched the fridge defrost …. 🎨.

Chickpeas for dinner. Curried, naturally. (S/O to Dennis for the delivery!)

Will write ye again in a day or two.

London to Kandy to Nuwara Eliya

It’s early on a rainy Thursday afternoon in January when I leave Oxford. Even under grey skies it still looks beautiful but I’m glad to getaway all the same. As per tradition, my January is fairly empty work-wise — the musician’s quiet month — so Harry ‘Deaco’ Deacon (bass player with Razorlight and Willie J Healey, among numerous others) and myself are heading east to Sri Lanka!

Two weeks of freedom in ‘The Land Of Serendipity’ is a tasty prospect – even without mention of the food. So to Heathrow I go, where a Thai waiter called ‘Servinio’ serves up my final taste of England - a passable fish pie - at The Curator before I board Sri Lankan Airways flight UL504 and we soar up to 31,000 feet.

↑ For your own safety and comfort please stow your bongos securely

It only takes American Sniper (better than expected) and half of Django Unchained (I‘ll be back for the rest) before I pass out. Deep in slumber I remain for the duration of the 10-hour flight before waking to a tasty Sri Lankan fish breakfast and a rapid descent into Bandaranaike International Airport.

Inside the airport it’s clinical and clean and the staff all wear white – though ominously a solitary Pizza Hut greets us before even reaching Passport Control… hopefully not a sign of things to come.

It’s early on a sunny Friday afternoon as I emerge from the terminal, dazed and disoriented, into the frenzied bustle and hustle of a Sri Lankan street. A hundred tuk-tuk drivers spy my pale skin and circle like vultures... airports are heady hunting ground for grifters the world over and it takes a feat of negotiating to convince a rickshaw driver to take me to the nearby bus station for less than the cost of my return flights...

Deaco has been out here for a few days already and has journeyed as far as Kandy, a small city in the middle of the island. It’s a four-hour passage to get there by bus and we meander along at a fair pace, slowly picking up elevation as the journey progresses. I’m a little weary but it’s an enjoyable ride – and very cheap too at 162 rupees (70p)!

There’s barely a junction or a turning to be made on the route east, just a long winding road up into the mountains, flanked by huts, houses, schools and shops. As they say in Asia: Same same but different. And despite being on another continent, many of the characters on the bus are familiar: a group of young mums gossip, school kids play, and my new friend and seat-mate Hashan, on his way to visit an Aunt, promptly falls asleep in my armpit.

The bus pulls in at Kandy station and Hashan peels himself from my underarm. I disembark and hop in a final tuk-tuk up to the pre-emptively named ‘Best Hostel’ where Deaco awaits. It’s his Birthday today! Many Happy Returns to the chap, and after a joyous reunion, we enjoy a celebratory dosa in town with a third travelling companion, Tom, from St Louis, MI.

Kandy is a vibrant little city popular with tourists and centred around a man-made lake. There’s a wiggly road that skirts its perimeter and I can’t help but think it would make for a great tuk-tuk Grand Prix – or at the very least a Kandy Lake track level on Mario Kart.

Harry takes me to see all the tourist attractions – which is kind, given he’d already been to see them before I arrived. We start at the Botanical Garden, a scenic spot with an impressive suspension bridge and a beautiful display of different grasses (who knew there were so many). We bump into old friends of his too: an odd pair of Russians with whom he shared a hostel earlier in his trip. The tourist trail is a well-trodden one and bumping into familiar faces hundreds of miles down the road is a common occurrence ... I suspect it isn’t the last time we’ll see them.

Next we enjoy a display of ‘Kandy Kultural Dancing’ (plate-spinning, back-flipping, fire-walking and some enthusiastic drumming) before heading over to The Temple of The Tooth, the centrepiece of the city and one of the biggest attractions in Sri Lanka.

As the name suggests, the focal point of the large Buddhist temple complex is a single tooth mounted atop a magnificent gold shrine. And not just any tooth! Indeed, the famous fang is allegedly one of the Buddha’s very own, pulled from the funeral pyre of his body back in 543 BC. It has a chequered history and the controversial canine has already been responsible for more than one war...

We barely catch a glimpse of the shrine, let alone the tooth itself, which as it turns out is safely tucked away inside a box within a box within a box within a box within a box within a box within a box. Only a handful of people have ever seen the holy fragment which leads one to wonder whether the tooth is literal or simply more a state of mind...

Tooth or no tooth, there’s a lively atmosphere in and around the Temple as night falls, while tourist and Buddhist alike are harmoniously integrated in a melange of worship, ceremony, prayers and music.

Feeling a little more spiritual, we rise early the following day and head to Kandy station for the 0847 train to Nuwara Eliya. It’s another small city further south in the hill country of the Central Province. The scenic journey that will take us there is apparently the stuff o’ legend and needless to say we aren’t the only ones with the idea. The platform at Kandy station is soon teeming with tourists – including a pair of familiar Russians!

First Class has long since been reserved by the coffin-dodgers on the package tours, so it’s a tight squeeze in the Second Class compartment. Not concerned with seats, we locate ourselves by an open door for the duration and take it in turns with our fellow travelling companions (the usual suspects – Aussies, Germans and more Russians) to hang out the side, take pictures and wave at those who call this beautiful land their own.

↑ Third Class can be found at the rear of the train, attached by rope

The train canters along at a pleasant pace, weaving in and out of tea plantations while the native folk enjoy their peaceful Sunday in the beautiful Sri Lankan hill territories. With much more rain up here, the scene is more colourful than the sandy beige of the lowlands, with plants, trees, grasses, shrubbery and foliage in every shade of green. Many of the quaint little stations (my favourite is called Ohiya) along the way have a distinctly English feel, reminding me with fondness of the Malton-Scarborough route oft ridden in my youth.

After 4 idyllic hours watching the country scroll by and chatting with new friends, we disembark at Nanuoya Station and our friendly cab driver Pryantha (+94 778 880213) takes Harry, myself and a handful of Aussies into Nuwara Eliya to drop us at our respective hotels.

At least that’s the plan, except Pryantha nor anyone else that he asks has actually heard of the ‘King’s Lodge’ and when we eventually arrive at the hotel in the picture the staff there don’t recognise the name either.

All the same, it’s such a pleasant spot overlooking the town that we decide to stay anyway. They show us to their last remaining room, a ‘triple’ which one presumes would surely contain at least two beds given that a triple bed doesn’t exist. In Sri Lanka however, it does, and it looks like tonight Harry and I will be sharing a bed, albeit a large one. (It’s good to know that the liberal Sri Lankans consider a three-way relationship quite normal and are prepared to cater to that in the design and manufacture of both beds and bedding.)

We wander into town for a bite, passing a sign for Grymsby Holiday Bungalow. As a Mariner myself, it’s nice to feel close to home – despite the misspelling – and a passing stranger poses with me for a photo, insisting that it was his Uncle who named the hotel and that it really is named after “Grymsby City in Engerland”.

We’re rapidly becoming fans of the cheap local eateries where the food is always fast and fresh (and there are lots of vegetarian options too). In Nuwara Eliya town we spy a vibrant spot teaming with locals and lay out a mean £1.70 on a dinner of vegetable kotu, egg rotis and dhal curry.

Nuwara Eliya isn’t called Little England for no reason. That night an almighty rain unleashes an unrelenting torrent that bounces off the roof and fills our room with a resonant 80dB of white noise. It’s not until daybreak that the downpour ceases – apparently this happens most nights – and I grab 6 minutes of uninterrupted sleep before heading down to breakfast.

We’re taking a tour of the surrounding area before training down to Ella later in the afternoon and our friendly hosts have hooked us up with their friend Hamza to show us the sights.

He rolls up bright and early in his well-kept rickshaw complete with rain flaps, CD player and anti-marijuana stickers. He’s the happy-go-lucky sort, with enough spoken English to get by and a friendly demeanor. It’s only when he smiles his generous smile that I first glimpse the most rum set of gnashers I’ve ever seen. There’s a section of ill-fitting false teeth, a couple held together with string, and some that barely look like teeth at all. If the Buddha’s canine was anything on Hamza’s I can see why they keep it locked up inside seven boxes.

First stop: Ramboda Falls. The journey alone is a thrill: an endless vista of tea plantations as far as the eye can see. These hill territories are carpeted with them and it’s easy to see why, after the overnight downpour.

Our rickshaw winds its way along the mountainside on a road peppered with pretty stalls selling fresh vegetables: aubergine, potatoes, curry leaves, onions, green chillies, carrots and unexpectedly to me, leeks, which it turns out are a delicious feature in many Sri Lankan dishes.

We swing a final right in a sharp descent and are suddenly confronted by 109 metres of sheer waterfall, a magnificent sight, and in fine thundering voice after the long nights rainfall.

Ramboda Falls holds the claim of being the 729th highest waterfall in the world, a fact which massively undersells what is actually an impressive spectacle. There’s a dangerous and slippery path which snakes up the rocky mountain face, and Hamza insists that it’s well worth climbing for a closer view of the natural wonder. Thankfully I had my Loake brogues only recently re-soled...

While our nature-loving guide takes a moment to scrawl our initials into a tree, an elderly native appears in the undergrowth. The water supply to her village some 5kms away unexpectedly stopped, so she traced the pipe halfway up the mountain to the spot where it was broken and is undertaking a repair job.

The descent is even more deadly, made all the more tricky when two Chinese schoolgirls wearing flip flops execute a reckless overtake and I almost lose my footing. Luckily I needed no dramatic rescue because Hamza’s attention was entirely on Harry. “I like your hair” I overhear him say to my friend. “You look like Robin Hood...”

The next stop on our tour of the Nuwara Eliya district is the Blue Field Tea ‘Factory’. It was opened in 1921 and has changed very little since. Everything is still done by hand and much of the machinery originates from Lincolnshire, Birmingham and Belfast. It’s atmospheric and rich in Colonial, vibes which I love!

Our tuk-tuk swings into the ‘Damro’ factory next but we’re done tea-tasting and ready for something a little more substantial, so Hamza takes us to his favourite buffet. The food is delicious, however, our respective understandings of the term ‘buffet’ are quite different. After sampling a little of everything on display (dhal, different kinds of rice, mackerel, swordfish, curried aubergine, egg curries, sweet and sour vegetables) it’s to our dismay that we’re charged the full price of a meal for every dish! Thankfully the food is so cheap that it doesn’t amount to much.

Finally we’re dropped off at the train station. It’s been a fine day in the company of our friendly tour guide and his willingness to shuttle us around from place to place without constantly asking us for more money is refreshing. Your teeth may be among the worst I’ve ever seen, Hamza, but we’ll miss you.

Part 2/4 follows shortly!

USA and Canada ‘18

We pick up the tale in Port Huron, Michigan where our band of intrepid musicians find themselves on the I-69 headed west to a soundtrack of Glen Miller.

This is my third US tour. The first was with Man Without Country back in 2013 and the second being the Saint Etienne ‘Home Counties’ tour of 2017 (all documented in detail here on VFTDS!). Both were dominated by epic road journeys and it’s easy to forget how conveniently proximous major cities are back home in comparison to the spacious lay of the land out here. We’ll clock up a cool 400 miles today - the equivalent of driving from London to Glasgow - and that’s by no means a long one.

But it’s a beautiful country to travel in; the pastel tarmac, green fields, colourful outbuildings and blue sky...

In Kalamazoo, we check in at the Best Western (in true American fashion the rooms are obscenely huge and feature a kitchenette) and head straight out to the finest Italian this side of town: Erbellis!

We enjoy a round of radioactive Catalina Margaritas and contemplate the menu...

With easily hundreds of dishes to choose from there’s lots of contemplating to do and options include ‘Be Careful Not To Choke Pepperoni Shocker’, ‘Meat Monster Mania’ and ‘The Rhino’ which contains SEVEN different types of meat. (I can barely name seven different types of meat.)

I opt for the calmer sounding ‘The Greek’ (feta, tomatoes, olives etc.) on a Chicago style crust. What I’m presented with might be better described to an Englishman as a pie, only with pizza base instead of pastry and a topping of marinara sauce in place of the gravy. It’s as ambitious as it sounds and a more typically American experience than an authentic Italian one.

Nonetheless it’s an experience and in search of more of the same we head straight to the nearest bowling alley! Revel and Roll in Kalamazoo is a modern affair with half-price drinks and a scoring system that incorporates photographs of each players face into funny little animations between frames. It’s hilarious and a welcome palette cleanser after the gigs and travel so far.

Tour manager and bassist Joe opens the strongest taking victory in the first game with a decent score of 125. It’s only a shame he couldn’t stay for a second as I know he would have been proud to witness my impressive followup: a courageous score of 128! Three whole points more than his 125! Thus I win overall, and beat his best score.

(I’m not saying that I like to gloat but I’ll admit I posted a printout of the scoresheet under the door of his hotel room...)

The following morning and riding high on the sweet taste of my bowling victory by three points (“The real winner here is bowling” I lie), we reconvene in the hotel lobby and drive into Kalamazoo centre for a spot of brunch (at the Studio Grill - classic American diner fare albeit lacking a huevos rancheros).

Our next stop is the very reason we even chose Kalamazoo as a destination in the first place. (It’s not the longest train curve in America, although I hear it’s a big pull.)

As many musicians know, Kalamazoo is the birthplace and spiritual home of Gibson Guitars! We drive a few blocks over to the original factory, located beside a railroad on the northeast side of town.

Orville Gibson founded the company here in 1894 and originally specialised in building mandolins. The Les Paul, 335, Explorer, Flying-V and SG all followed and in the 80’s, having inevitably outgrown this original facility, they relocated to Tennessee. The few employees who didn’t fancy the move stayed put, founded Heritage Guitars, and still operate out of a modernised portion of the original factory to this day.

The majority of the building is now abandoned and boarded up however. But despite the dilapidated appearance it doesn’t feel like a sad place and it’s magical to think of the great impact on rock ‘n’ roll - nay popular culture as a whole - that the instruments which have emerged from this factory have had.

Alas one of Michigans lesser-celebrated fames is the poor quality of its roads and the journey to Chicago is at best bumpy, and at worse skull-shaking. Eventually, with a final rattle and jolt, we cross the state line - pick up Central Standard Time, gaining an hour - and moments later pass by Michigan City itself ... which strangely happens to be in Indiana.

Entertainment on-route is provided by the billboards of the I-94, my favourites including one for a strip club (’All the liquor, none of the clothes’) and another for a vasectomy clinic (’Buy one testis, get the other free’).

Eventually we roll into the beautiful Park End West venue just as Via Chicago by Wilco finishes in my headphones - what could be more appropriate.

We played here on the last tour, I loved the venue then and I love it still. The crew are friendly and professional, the gear is great and the comfortable backstage is packed with fresh rider and cool beers. It’s the perfect venue to catch a gig too with room at the front for those who wish to stand and dance, booths in the middle with waitress service and stools up by the cocktail bar. I could happily bed down here for a year, get a job on the bar and befriend all the locals.

(Pic by James)

A few weeks back while playing Victorious Festival in Portsmouth with Gaz Coombes, I got chatting to one Paul Von Mertens. Paul is Musical Director and wind player with Brian Wilson and mentioned that he was from Chicago. We chatted for a while, I told him I’d shortly be in town with Saint Etienne and he said he’d love to come. True to his word he came to check out the show and was kind enough to regale us with tales of life on the road and in the studio with Brian, Wilco and many others. (Appropriately the title of the Good Humor album that we’re touring was inspired by a picture of Brian Wilson...)

The following day we spend traveling and our party takes a plane down to San Francisco ahead of our penultimate show of the tour at The Chapel. The route takes us over the Rockies and the view through the window is another mesmerising one. I’ve said it before but America is one beautiful country from the air…

While the Northeast, Deep South and Midwest of America all have their charms, none quite compare to California for me and in particular the sparkling vibrant glorious dazzling sunlight which comes beaming through the cabin windows as soon as we descend below the clouds.

We check in at the La Quinta Inn & Suites in South San Francisco and dive across to Denny’s - it’s busy on a Friday night but they now serve beer so the wait is bearable. James and I fancy a nightcap and fortunately there are drinkeries just a couple of blocks north. Unfortunately - given the American tradition of driving everywhere - they’re totally un-walkable so we have to take a 90 second Uber instead…

The Armstrong Brewing Company are a friendly bunch but their output doesn’t amount to much and we found only one of their 10+ beers vaguely palatable. Most of their creations lack subtlety and are often far too strong to be enjoyable, although they more than make up for it in friendly hospitality and are eager for us to stay even after closing time.

Show day in San Francisco! I’m on the hunt for huevos rancheros once again and have high hopes for California based on reputation, past experience and proximity to Mexico. Once in the Mission District I head to San Jalisco on the recommendation of some Saint Etienne fans. It’s certainly an authentic experience - the food isn’t paired down for our taste and half the clientele is Mexican. There’s even a guitarist who provides an authentic soundtrack, though he’s not exactly Santana. Thanks for the suggestion folks.

I walk off the large lunch around the streets of the Mission District enjoying the glorious Californian light with my film camera. I’m not the only one and when I stumble come across our venue for tonight I find an elderly gent wandering down the street bearing a very old looking 16mm camera. His name is Nathaniel Dorsky - I later learn a much celebrated experimental filmmaker who has exhibited his unusual silent films around the world. We both have a love for film and share an inspiring conversation right there on the street that will stay with me.

The promoter at The Chapel is charming and not only does the epic rider contain some swanky desert pieces (and later cocktails), she’s even brought her dog along to help out! Some of us also receive a generous gift from a fan called ‘Adam’. Wherever you are, whoever you are, Adam I thank you for the four bottles of aftershave. I smell sensational.

San Francisco is always a great show for Saint Etienne and tonight is no different. The venue is packed out and the stage time is put back on numerous occasions because half the audience are still queueing up at the merch stand. When we eventually make it out, the crowd are rabid and one eager fan (is it Adam?) leans over to chat, shake hands and generally hang between every song. Which would be much more welcome if I weren’t in the middle of an indie dance show...

As per last year’s Home Counties US Tour, our final stop is Los Angeles and the Henry Fonda Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard. It’s an easy journey down by air and we’re back at the 101 Coffee Shop on Franklin Ave in time for lunch.

Their huevos rancheros are probably my favourite on the tour too. The 101 was the diner that first turned me on to the dish and it’s fitting finale fare for the final day of the tour.

Chuck E Weiss is in the house too, favourite of Tom Waits and the muse to the classic Rickie Lee Jones song ‘Chucks E’s In Love’. Listen out for the iconic drum part from Steve Gadd...

Back to the Fonda Theater on Hollywood Boulevard. A familiar setting with a familiar crew, gear and backstage too. It’s a wonderful joyous gig and the crowd brings top energy to help us over the line.

As some may know, I periodically play drums with Gaz Coombes and as it happens a number of his band - including numerous VFTDS alumni - flew in this evening ahead of a TV appearance later in the week! The aftershow party was not just a celebration of the tour but also a reunion with familiar faces from both home and away. This Is Your Life!

Shout out also to Dan and Mike who not only attended the Chicago, San Fran and LA shows but did so in their homemade Home Counties suit jackets! Having seen them down the front every night it was great to finally meet them for a quiet and civilised chat...

While the rest of the gang head home (business class, naturally) I’m staying on in LA for a few days. Thanks for the good times USA! You’ve been great as ever. The gigs have rocked, the band has been great and the crowds buzzing with no exceptions.

I’m off to watch the Dodgers with some pals… see you soon!

Mike

USA and Canada ‘18

11am in Danbury, CO and in the ballroom at the Crowne Plaza forty eager scrapbookers are back at their workstations, already an hour into another glorious day at the grind. I dip my head in - my cap in my hand - and bid the girls goodbye. They’re friendly, if a little relieved that I’m leaving.

Our drive into Boston takes us through Sandy Hook, an idyllic looking American small town that’s sadly best known for the shooting at their elementary school just a few years back. It’s a reminder that despite appearances, all may not be what it seems beneath the surface - in life so much as in America.

We roll up outside the Brighton Music Hall and I dive into a Mexican - ‘Habanero’ - next door for a quick bite. No sign of a huevos rancheros but their quesadilla is delicious. The street that the venue is on has sports bars, cheap takeaways and convenience stores and looks straight out of an episode of Forensic Files (I love it!).

I head to a Thai takeaway before the gig and while the Shrimp Tom Yum Soup is good, the characters that come and go in the short time that I’m there are even better.

Last year we started the tour in Boston and it’s great to return. The crowd are fun and afterwards I meet The Doc; herb provider, spiritual adviser and friend to musicians the world over, including our friends from home Ride!

And despite a minor debacle with a cheese sandwich we make it to the hotel in time to catch Texan preacher Joel Osteen on TV. His late night sermon is broadcast live from his own Lakewood Church in Texas where a congregation of 52,000 people attend his services every week! Not surprisingly he’s reportedly worth $40-60 million … religion is big business in America.

The following morning we set our sights on lands anew: destination Canada for shows in Montreal and Toronto! From the La Quinta in Salem, New Hampshire we head north on a road that takes us past some familiar places including Manchester, Colchester and St. Albans.

We continue through Vermont, more previously unchartered territory for me. The scenic winding freeway north is flanked by forests and mountains and scenes from Donna Tartt’s The Secret History (much referenced in last years tour diary) flash before my eyes. It’s another atmospheric drive and after a few hours we stop in at a desolate deli-cafe near a place called Derby for a late lunch. In true American style not only is there a gun store next door but upstairs is a sex shop with a balcony that boasts the most epic valley panorama of probably any adult store anywhere.

Only a few minutes further north is the Canadian border. In the US it’s not just expensive but also a logistical and administrative nightmare getting a visa to come play music in the country. Canada however requires little more than a valid passport and a promise not to smuggle any fruit in or out. We agree to their terms and Canadian border guard Officer Pontbriand welcomes us with open arms (much to the delight of Debsey and Sarah with whom he’s a big hit).

As we drive into Montreal I’m struck by just how very French everyone and everything is. I figured there might be some influence but I had no idea that people would literally be speaking french everywhere. And to our delight the backstage at the modern Théâtre Fairmount venue is packed with quality edibles, including delicious regional cheeses and fresh baguettes.

After the show - another good one - I get chatting with Sheenah who tells me about her band The Besnard Lakes. They recently toured in North America with none other than… Ride! Loz and the gang’s second appearance in as many days and I suspect not their last…

The next day and we set a course WSW for Toronto. It’s another 5 hour drive and to kill the time I read John Niven’s new book Kill ‘Em All (the sequel to Kill Your Friends). It’s amazing how quickly you can tear though a 300+ page book on these long journeys, especially as there isn’t a great deal to see out the window. We stop in a dead-end town called ‘Napanee’ for an unexpectedly decent pint of Guinness at The Waterfront Pub and Terrace, but beyond the boozer the place is otherwise boarded up and bleak.

As we pull up at the Mod Club in Toronto there’s already a buzz in the air and the decent sized venue has almost sold out before we arrive. After setting up and soundchecking I head next door to an outlet of Toronto Public Library where the peaceful ambience is a welcome counter to the pace and hubub of touring life. I read the final few pages of the Niven book - Debsey and Robin both read it before me and it’s wholeheartedly recommended by us all.

At showtime we’re met by a large enthusiastic crowd and it’s a really memorable gig. Afterwards the fans are particularly friendly and I meet one from from Reading, another who wears a magnifying glass around his neck and Josh who runs Saint Etienne Disco fan site! One man tells Debs and myself about a coffee table book that he’s compiling featuring photos of women punching him in the face... keep an eye on the shelves for that one.

As is the case most nights on this tour we’re staying a little out of town at a Holiday Inn Express south-west of the city and we arise bright and breezy the following morning to maintain our course WSW to the border.

Again there’s a distinct lack of originality with the place names in this part of the continent. We see signs for Cambridge, Kent, Oxford, countless Woodstocks and even a Delhi - at one point we drive past London and then cross the River Thames!

Jash the breakfast hostess back at the hotel was the Nicest Girl in The World and along the way I sample delights from the breakfast hamper she packed me - an apple, a banana, a muffin and two yoghurts, one in each flavour! Touring can often provide a tantalising glimpse into Other People’s Lives and a part of me would love to settle down in the ‘Burbs of Toronto and work the desk at the Holiday Inn Express.

Alas, whether I chose this life or it chose me there are gigs to be played so we keep on keeping on towards America.

My first trip to Canada has been enjoyable albeit brief - so oft the way. But I’ll remember the country for the black squirrels, the numerous Tim Hortons (a fast food chain founded by an ex-ice hockey star), unending maple leaf motifs and scratch n sniff money (maple syrup, naturally).

As we approach the border, talk among the girls returns to the handsome Officer Francois Pontbriand. Might he just possibly be working the Sarnia border where we’ll be crossing today...? Predictably he’s not, given that his last sighting two days ago was over 500 miles away. All the same we make it through without a hitch and our curt US border patrol agent ensures our passage back into the land of milk and honey is smooth and easy.

American soil again; I can already see the Golden Arches.

It feels like coming home… next stop Kalamazoo!

Mike

USA and Canada ‘18

After our first gig in New York our second is just across the East River in Brooklyn so with no long drive and only a mid-afternoon soundcheck to make I head into Manhatten for lunch with my friend Heather.

Boy it is HOT right now in NYC - easily 30 degrees Celsius in the sun. Thankfully Isaac the taxi driver has the cabin nicely chilled and we chat sports while stuck in traffic on the Williamsburg Bridge. Although I’m a baseball fan he’s more keen to talk English football - indeed the steady rise in popularity of our national game here in US is something I’ve noticed since my first trip and it shows no sign of stopping.

On Heathers suggestion we meet at Cafe Mogador in the East Village which serves up a fine Moroccan Eggs, somewhere between a Middle Eastern shakshuka and a Mexican huevos rancheros with two perfectly poached eggs in spicey stewed tomatoes and pitta bread. Delicious eats in good company.

Our second show of the tour is at Warsaw, an atmospheric social club-come-venue in the Polish-American district of Greenpoint. Most the staff are Polska diaspora and the bar serves Tyskie and authentic Pierogies (“Where Pierogis Meets Punk” is their tagline).

On the guestlist tonight is an old friend of the Bennett Bros and myself, one Mr Jason Russo. We were all involved in his project Common Prayer some years back and the album There Is A Mountain was the first LP I ever played on. You can listen below and - max props to JR - it’s a fine work.

Next up we head down to Washington DC for the last in our opening trio of gigs. Our van cuts a route south through New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland and Virginia before pulling up at the Capitol Skyline Hotel, a beautiful building of a brutalist bent built in the early sixties and situated in downtown DC.

We play at Union Stage, a newish venue by the Waterfront with an in-house kitchen (I recommend their ‘White Pizza’). Hobart Paving, a favourite song of mine in my teenage years, finally gets an airing for the first time since I’ve been playing with St Et. Pete and I stand at the side of the stage and it’s wonderful to watch not only Sarah and the band but the audience too: all are enraptured.

The next day is free of gigs but we’ve a long journey north to Connecticut. Before hitting the road we take a brief detour down the National Mall where its claimed “The Mother of All Rallys” in support of The Donald is taking place.

As if on some strange safari we crawl along in our blacked-out Mercedes van, scouring the streets for real life right-wingers. There’s a handful of flag wavers and some guerilla militia seemingly in charge but all in very few people - despite what you hear be assured by this first-hander the Mother of Rallys tag is fake news.

A long day in the van and the road back north. On these long drives I most enjoy looking out the window but once we get beyond The Big Apple it seems apt to put on Buffalo 66, the brilliant 1998 film written, produced, directed and starring Vincent Gallo alongside Christina Ricci. It’s atmospheric to watch it as we drive through New York State even if we won’t get quite as far north-west as the films setting. Highly recommended.

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Show four tomorrow is in Boston so we get to Danbury, Connecticut and check-in at the Crowne Plaza. In the hotel ballroom just off the lobby there’s a ‘scrapbooking convention’ taking place. I had no idea that scrapbooking was a pastime worthy of a convention but the room is packed, forty-odd forty-plus women each at a separate workstation, furiously cutting, licking, stapling and sticking.

Ever-eager for a new experience I wander in and strike up conversation with Linda and Sue who walk me through their accessories, templates, special acid-free lignin-free papers and, in the case of the latter, about three dozen photographs of her deceased husband.

I should add that the Captains hat was back on by this point - accompanied by my Texan bolo - and I’m unsure whether they found my look endearing or slightly alarming.

After an eye-opening introduction to a world I never knew existed I join the rest of the gang at the hotel bar/restaurant. It seems that every city, town, hamlet and rural crossroads in America needs some association to hang its hat on. And in Danbury it’s hats. For a short period at the start of the 20th century it was allegedly the centre of the hat-making industry in America. Over a hundred years on and they’re still milking it for all it’s worth - even the bar/restaurant in the hotel, built in 1981, is named for the city’s claim to fame...

After a pint or two of their special ‘Harpoon Flannel Friday’ ale, I nip back to the Crowne Ballroom where the scrapbooking continues with a religious fervour. Interaction between participants is minimal and the only sounds are the light twinkle of a Disney soundtrack and the occasional slurp on a styrofoam Big Gulp. It’s an intriguing insight into the middle American housewife, a demographic clearly fond of such sedentary pastimes as evidenced by their sheer size.

I learn that they’re here for three full days and will be hard at work until 2am every night! When I ask Linda why they work so late she stares me straight between the eyes and with a hysterical smile replies “THATS JUST HOW MUCH WE LOVE IT!”.

I can’t recall if it was either my fifth or sixth visit but eventually the head honcho has enough and comes storming across the room, informing me in no uncertain terms that the event is actually private one and my drunken drop-ins are no longer welcome.

She’s probably right. Bedtime for the Captain.

Next stop Boston!

USA and Canada ‘18

The return of Saint Etienne to the great United States, a year on from our last transatlantic adventure. This time we’re touring to celebrate the 20th anniversary of the album Good Humor on a route that visits a few familiar spots and a few new ones including a trip up to Canada for shows in Montreal and Toronto.

A quiet pint on the eve of departure with friends at the Half Moon in Oxford however goes a couple Guinness deeper than it should of and I awaken the following morning in my digs on Abingdon Road with a sore head and a hazy memory of something awry. There’s a lingering hole in the hallway the size of a bike and I recall a journey home from the pub that shouldn’t have taken anywhere near as long ... alas my precious bicycle! In typical Oxford tradition it was thieved from the front of Sainsburys on The Plain, the only remnant as I emerged from the pub: the lock, discarded on the floor.

But America is calling so I’ll put my bicycle woes to the back of my mind for a few weeks and cab out to Saint Etienne HQ and then on to Heathrow. Manager Martin honours me with the Captains Hat, more a token position than anything that involves any responsibility and I endeavour to wear it until landfall in USA (perhaps Notes from the Captains Log might be a more suitable title for this account).

Despite my headwear I’m hastily turned away from Crew Check-In at the airport and have to join the back of the line with the civilians. At the end of this tour I’ll be staying on in L.A. for a few days which means that my flights are on a different booking to the rest of the gang, a detail that would soon prove unfortunate...

When we arrive at the gate my boarding pass is scanned and wouldyabelieve I’m ‘randomly selected’ for additional screening, testing, swabbing and checking. And with the contents of my case strewn across the table and security guard Ian elbow deep in my undies (I’m travelling on hand luggage only) the rest of our party swan by with screams of delight: for the entire party has been upgraded! With one exception: he on the separate booking.

Security man Ian, sympathetic to my plight but thorough in his work, having swabbed every last pair of pants eventually allows me on board where I find the rest of the gang lounging comfortably, champers in hand, in what Virgin now ominously refers to as ‘Upper Class’.

Meanwhile it’s the long walk back to coach for Captain Mike, still daubed in ironic hat, where I’m met by my seat-mate Betty, a seventy-something from Gravesend who informs me that her favourite way to pass a 7 1/2 hour flight is by chatting...

We’re barely over Ireland and already we’ve covered the full medical history of her five grandchildren, her favourite TV shows (Designated Survivor, Naked And Afraid, Emmerdale Farm), and played a fun game in which I had to guess her favourite blind singer from the sixties (it turns out to be Roy Orbison...).

When she briefly departs to the restroom I seize the opportunity to don headphones and explore the in-flight entertainment. Sarah nips back with a glass of champers and it’s a fine compliment to Alan Partridge’s Scissored Isle (if 17 year old me could see me flying to America with Saint Etienne while Sarah Cracknell brings me back bubbly I’d eat my hat).

Contrary to most I love flying and have long done so. Watching the world drift by from even coach class comfort at 35,000 feet is a pretty spectacular way to travel. And despite her compulsion to converse Betty, a non-drinker, has taken to slipping her white wine allowance sideways, softening the bumps and easing any turbulence woes.

The view from the plane seat brings back fond memories of the first time I flew to America back in 2010. I went out to LA on a whim and spent three memorable weeks at a friends place in LA before a couple more in New York City. Contrary to what the atlas might suggest the route from London to the west coast comes in over Canada and cuts down right across the American heartland - I couldn’t tear myself away from the window that October day and can still recall my first sight of the great US of A: circular crop fields, towns in grids and straight roads as far as the horizon. And then as we descended into LA I saw for the first time baseball diamonds, enormous highways and the palm trees! Palm trees everywhere - who knew it would be so exotic.

But we’re flying to Newark in New Jersey on this trip and eventually we come in over the east coast of Canada. It’s a more natural scene than the heartland of 2010 and from such great height you can I can see rivers and sandbanks, mountains, valleys and lakes. It’s humbling, inspiring and a vivid contrast to Betty’s mumblings in my right ear about Dot Cotton.

Thankfully, as if on cue Pep appears from afore with a glass of business class Baileys and we prepare for descent.

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There’s a favourite Mexican dish of mine called Huevos Rancheros and it’s my intention (in life as on this tour) to sample them where possible. The dish can vary greatly from State to State, restaurant to restaurant with the general consensus being that it should contain eggs - normally a couple fried - along with a few Mexican staples: pinto beans, sour cream, guacamole and a tortilla or two.

My first of the trip comes at Jimmy’s Diner in Brooklyn. It’s a trendy little spot full of fashionable ephemera, craft-brewed refreshments and hipster folk with hipster tattoos of the outline of their home state. But their Huevos Rancheros is a welcome opener to the tour with a home cooked vibe and a sensible portion size. I look forward to many more.

Our first show is at the Bowery Ballroom in Manhattan. Not only did we play there around this time last year but we stayed in the same hotel so it’s a deja vu of sorts. We’re playing the Good Humor album in it’s entirety on this run followed by a short interval and then a second set of hits, crowd pleasers and fan favourites.

Tonight is the first time we’d be attempting the Good Humour portion of the set but despite our collective apprehension the response is rapturous and there’s a great vibe on stage. At the interval we return to the backstage and celebrate like the team that won the trophy.

Other than a minor post-show incident involving my headphones and an ill-placed pot of garlic mayonnaise dip, it’s a solid start to the tour! Next stop is Warsaw in Brooklyn.

For now,

Saint Etienne European Tour, Part I

Albeit not fully recovered from the American tour, the drum stool beckons me back for another run with Saint Etienne. This time it’s Europe: we’ll start with some Scandi dates, head home for a week, and then do a second run south from Helsinki.

All too early on a frosty autumnal Monday morning we meet in east Oxfordshire, five persons and enough keyboards, guitars and musical equipment to open a shop. Our ride to the airport is with friendly South-African taxi driver ‘DimiPapaUk’ who, when he isn’t driving customers in his cab uses it to host ‘taxi raves’ which he broadcasts live on the Internet. (Catchphrases include “Love, peace and muthafuckin’ chicken-grease” and “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh SHIT!”). His YouTube channel is really worth a look…

There’s an extensive (and intrusive) renovation being undertaken at Luton airport which makes the process of passing through the facility painful and uncomfortable. Like a gallstone. We locate the rest of our party on a concourse littered with sleeping families and workmen heaving: it’s a scene from a news report put to a soundtrack of pneumatic drills and circular saws.

Beyond security the nomads and crowds loiter, the type of people that you don’t seem to find anywhere else and I wonder whether they’re actually travelling anywhere or whether Luton airport is simply the place these people come to quietly exist, freed from citizenship, like Tom Hanks in The Terminal.

Most of the flight (2 hrs) I spend sleeping or reading (Cider With Rosie) and eventually we touchdown in Copenhagen to be met by our man-on-the-ground Leuven.

He looks more like he belongs at sea than in the music industry, decked in thick woollen jumper with a magnificent scar on his cheek and at least two teeth missing. I sit up front with him in the rental van for his guided tour of the city as we make the short journey to the venue. He’s an enthusiastic host and a knowledgeable tour guide, if only he didn’t insist on poking me constantly with his calloused sea fingers every time he speaks.

“Hey man look at all the copper roofs!” A jab to the chest.

“37% of our citizens cycle to work!” He digs at my rib.

“Check out this church - it’s non-denominational!” He bruises my wind pipe.

I make a mental note to sit in the back next time.

One of the interesting and unusual things about Copenhagen is that they have the worlds second-oldest still-active amusement park slap bang in the middle of town. Tivoli opened in 1843 and because of the limitations in space most of the rides go up and down more than they go round and round. But there are still four rollercoasters, including a wooden one that’s so old an attendant has to ride in the front carriage and operate the brakes with a lever!

The venue, Pumpehuset, is also right in the centre of town and as we roll up outside a woman waits by the stage entrance, autograph book in hand ... I recognise her! It’s the same autograph-hunter as greeted the arrival of Man Without Country in town some years back! She must have quite a collection by now.

It’s been a long day but when show time comes around we’re all excited to play together again. Given the hysterical crowds we became accustomed to Stateside it was no surprise that the Danish audience demonstrated their enthusiasm somewhat more tastefully, though they were many in number and long may that remain.

We’re staying right across the road at the Hotel Ascot, a mere stumble away after the inevitable post-show back-on-tour merriment. It’s a civilised lodging, despite some confusion over stray knickers we’ve been finding under beds and on the stairs ... maybe there’s some Scandi-noir murder mystery situation in our midst and we should be paying more attention to these saucy clues...

Breakfast is vast and a welcome change from the tasteless beige of the American hotels (I almost always skipped). Fully fuelled - and with a boiled egg in the pocket for mid-morn - we board the van and venture first east, crossing the Øresund Bridge into Sweden and then turn north.

Above us sore enormous flocks of birds in giant V formation, sometimes hundreds in number, their aerodynamic choreography a site to savour and we crane our necks to get a sight of them out of the van window.

Suddenly everything starts to look distinctly... Swedish.

Our fellow road users are positively glowing, their skin a deep orange of questionable origin. And given the number of Burger King restaurants that litter the E6 road north to Gothenburg they’re also surprisingly slim.

In a service station we find a chocolate called a Plopp and another called a Kex. They’ve a way with words the Swedes, I’ll give them that.

Almost all of the vehicles on the road are Swedish-made Volvos too, their lights beaming out come day or night in accordance with Swedish law. The road is bordered much of the way by great slabs of rock covered in subtle shades of moss and I’m sure some rich autumnal hues linger beneath if only for a decent glimmer of sunlight. It’s beginning to dawn on me how unrelentingly dark it is up here. It’s only October but already the sun doesn’t get high into the sky and the type of light that breaks through the clouds is an impotent powerless one.

The backstage at ‘Stora Teatern’ in Gothenburg is welcoming - albeit forgivably IKEA - with the kind of rider I spent most of the US tour dreaming of. EU riders are famously good - there are fresh vegetables, plentiful fruit, cheese and cured meats, boiled eggs, weird and wonderful chocolates, snacks and interesting breads, freshly brewed coffee, and of course the obligatory houmous. (Early in my career a promoter told me if there’s ever no houmous on the rider something is very very wrong, advice I’ve carried with me since). After soundcheck we also find two iced buckets full of wine, Cava and organic beers and cider, which are tasty and preferable over a mass-produced (or even micro-brewed) American effort any day.

The venue itself is among the most grand and impressive I’ve had the pleasure of playing. Originally opened in 1859, the theatre has a large floor, dress circle, upper circle, grand circle and boxes. But the entire audience are seated and once settled into the first song it’s surreal to look up and see them sat there, so serene, several hundred pairs of eyes peering up expectantly and a peal of polite applause after each song. It reminds me of the opening scenes from Wes Anderson’s The Life Aquatic.

Gerard is suitably attired for such a grandiose venue in a dashing suit with ruffled Beethoven shirt. It’s particularly fitting for the glorious baroque intro to Whyteleafe and in the dim light of the stage his black sleeves become invisible and the sight of his cuffed hands dancing across the keyboard reminds me of Thing from the Addams Family.

Albeit clearly enthusiastic, the seated crowd are slow to stir and it’s wonderful moment when a solitary girl on the front row gives in to primal urge and stands to dance through the final few songs. Thankfully by the encore I’m the only one still seated and they’re rewarded with a spirited rendition of You’re In A Bad Way.

The hotel is a boutique Italian affair and they offer check-in with cheese in the form of a huge Parmesan block which patrons are encouraged to pick at while they wait. It’s fair to say they’re enthusiastic to have Saint Etienne come to stay, and they produce an LP from behind the reception desk for the band to sign. Not only do they also furnish all of our rooms with handmade chocolates, but generously decide not to charge our party of 12+ people for dinner - no meagre act considering Scandi prices…!

The following morning and we take to the road once more for the 5+ hour journey from Gothenburg across to Stockholm. The rain today is persistent and I have to keep wiping the window to remove the misty condensation that keeps forming.

Having barely been here before I had high hopes for a haul of memorable photos - perhaps Sarah by a fjord, a panoramic Scandi city scape or Bob and Pete in an epic Nordic vista. In reality there’s been so little in the way of mere colour since we arrived, and the journey is again notably devoid of any hue: even at 1pm there’s barely enough light in the van to read a book. I’m starting to crave a bright colour: perhaps a firey orange or a rich red.

(In desperation I try changing my specs to a different pair but it makes no difference.)

Todays gas station discovery is a CD called RASTERBILLERSHITS Vol.2. But as intrigued as I am to know what a Rastterbillershits sounds like, everything is expensive in Sweden of course and I wasn’t prepared to stake the £22 to find out.

Instead I plug into my iPad where there are albums of Eagles songs and a playlist of country music from our recent tour of the USA ... it’s difficult to comprehend that mere weeks ago we were in sunny California - the cultures couldn’t be further apart (other than the abundance of Burger Kings). I settle on Black Celebration by Depeche Mode instead.

After what feels more like 50 hours we finally disembark at ‘Sodra Teatern’, and enter a labyrinthine venue of meandering corridors, claustrophobic catacombs and anti-chambers too numerous to keep track of. Unable to find anything that constitutes a music venue I find myself instead stumbling into a kitchen deep in the heart of the operation. A sous chef busy shaving cucumbers is pleased to have a companion - he shouts some things in Swedish, poses for a photo and directs me down some stairs, through a passageway and I eventually emerge into the backstage.

The rider tonight includes some interesting additions including a repulsive-looking repulsive-tasting appropriately-named Swedish sweet called Salt Skum. Ever the experimental eater, Pete tries combining it with other rider-items (banana, carrot stick, cheese) in a bid to make to find a companion flavour that might make it more edible but to no avail.

After soundcheck we’re led up to a restaurant on the top floor where we’re served four courses of nouvelle vegetarian fare. It’s utterly delicious and a somewhat more successful attempt at flavour fusion that combines, at various times, coconut foams, raw mushrooms, nuts and spices, and a slice of hot pineapple, all served on clay plates.

I hadn’t seen anything of the crowd before we walked on stage and though I’d heard the show had sold well it was a pleasant surprise to walk on and find a room packed to the rafters, bursting with excitement, people up the stairs and on the balcony, necks craning just to get a glimpse of the action.

It’s another fine show and a great way to end the first short leg. The band are in fine form these days and we’ve come a long way (in every sense) since the tentative first promotional dates of the Home Counties campaign.

It’s been a whirlwind of a trip, enjoyable as always and I look forward to returning to Sweden and Denmark in the future. But the grey’d aesthetic was disappointing albeit atmospheric and I don’t hold out much hope for those few times that I did pull the trigger on my Pentax.

It’s still raining when we return to the airport the following morning. But when the plane takes off we rocket up through the clouds into a pastoral blue sky and a burst of pure golden sunlight comes streaming through the starboard porthole, bathing the cabin, flooding my retinas and laying to rest any woes, cravings and longings.

Alas, part two of the EU Tour will follow … here’s hoping for some more sunshine!

Until then,

Originally posted on MikeDolbear.com, 15/10/17

The last few weeks have flown by in a whirlwind of eggs-over-easy, weak coffee and, thankfully, a big bunch o’ badass American gigs.

I’ve been abroad with Saint Etienne traversing the glorious United States of America on a tour that began up in Boston, bounced around the northeast, dipped into the midwest before landing in Seattle and heading down the west coast to Los Angeles.

I flew out a bit before the rest of the band and spent a fun few days acclimatising and exploring the coastal road north out of Boston. Hours of peaceful scenic drives around the beautiful national parks of Maine and sampling their signature lobster roll (you can buy one in McDonalds up there!) proved a welcome pretox.

Inevitably I always have an eye out for a drum shop and managed to visit a good few over the course of the trip. As per American cliché, the music shops are also way bigger Stateside - particularly when it comes to vintage gear and the quantity, quality and value is much better than here in the UK.

My first stop was in Portland Maine at the (creatively named) ‘Drum Shop’. After a little cryptic back and forth between the staff and myself, I passed the unspoken test, gained their trust and was beckoned out the back of the shop and into an enormous warehouse stacked to the rafters with more Slingerlands, Trixons, Rogers, Gretsch, Ludwigs and Leedys than I’ve seen collectively in my life up to this point. If you’re ever up that way tell em Mike sent ya and check out the mother lode for yourself!

Likewise I loved the Portsmouth Drum Center in New Hampshire where they even have a drum museum! Featuring a number of prominent, prestigious or otherwise of-note sets I was astonished to find an identical kit to my precious ’74 Rogers Butchers Block!! I’d never seen another one in the flesh so it was a surreal moment and I chewed the ear off anyone in there willing to listen to me yap on the matter.

Further drum shop visits happened in Chicago (Drum Exchange) and on the very last day a final pre-flight shopping call at the Pro Drum Shop in L.A. (they really need to work on those names).

Again it’s a more vintage-orientated affair and the walls are covered in posed promo pics of the drummers of yesteryear (Note to self: could this tradition be resurrected?). There’s also stacks of original drum heads from the likes of Charlie Watts, Louis Bellson, Tré Cool, Elvin Jones and even one of Buddy Rich’s actual Slingerland kits! Needless to say I’m in my element and buy a memorial agogo to celebrate.

The shows all went well and the reception for Saint Etienne was nigh on hysterical at times. Having not played in the Americas for a half decade the demand was palpable and many people traversed the country with us attending multiple shows!

In terms of equipment I took very little with me - mainly just the electronic elements of the hybrid setup I’ve been using with the band. The backline for the shows was provided by rental companies and I was struck by what great quality it was. The kits were all Ludwig’s with new heads as per my Coated Emperor request and normally came with a 402 and a Black Beauty to chose from...! What luxury.

But the hardware was mega heavy duty. My own gear at home is favoured for it’s luggability given the frequency that I’m pulling them in and out of my car (and the dearth of roadies in my career so far!). But a rental company are far more interested in indestructibility and the DW9000 stands - seemingly an industry standard - I find cumbersome to manoeuvre and visually clunky.

In addition the drums came in enormous flight cases which were fun and convenient but weighed more than the kit inside...

All the same I can’t complain and most importantly the spec’d rental K’s and Ludwig tubs always sounded great.

Indeed what a pleasure and a joy to travel the glorious United States and play the finest drums with a great band to an appreciative audience every single night! The venues were all interesting and charming and a little bit different to what I’m used to, including a memorable night at the famed Fillmore in San Francisco.

For anyone interested in even more gnarly details from the tour I wrote a great deal over on my regular blog. Over the past few years I’ve got really into record-keeping and there are long term rewards to recording the many exciting adventures and eccentric characters that inevitably befall one. And as many who may have experienced life on the road may know, the travel and pace and new experiences can make it a whirlwind of a time and I find that putting pen to paper regularly is a great way to maintain focus, avoid temptation and ground my chakra.

I’ve long been hungry to see the world and I’ve been lucky that music has proven the vehicle to show me some of it. And I hope that those who may have similar aspirations can take some inspiration from my tales and know always that anything is possible if you stick at it long enough and keep working hard.

Next up: a run in the Scandi’s and beyond…

Mike

The Glasshouse in Pomona is a nice spot on the outskirts of L.A. and the venue contains within it a stylish cocktail lounge. I love the sparse modernist design and sometimes when I close my eyes I see myself sat at the bar...

Support for the show comes again from friend-of-the-family Shawn Lee who tonight is joined by Mike (aka P-Boo) from the band Eels.

The fans are eager including an odd couple who take it in turns to invade the stage before being thrown out. A strange thing to do after paying $30 apiece for tickets. Likewise I’m oft struck by the number of people watching the gig through their phones - it happens every night and I’ve counted as many as thirty held high at a single time, the eyes of the beholder glued to the screen, us lost to them and frustratingly them to us.

We stay in the Comfort Inn not far away and despite the lure of wine in the lobby I decide to relax back in the room and flick between more Forensic Files and something called ‘Pro Pulling League’.  

The only Pulling League I’d encountered previously was the one my friend at University kept pinned to his fridge with a magnet from Magaluf. The pulling is a little more literal in this league and involves a souped-up tractor hauling an ever-increasing load along a mud dragway, the winner being the vehicle that pulls the farthest. The teams are mostly made up of family members, the daughters more often than not piloting the machines, and most speak in cartoon hillbilly accents with names like Mae-Paisley, Savannah-Daisy and Jessie-Mary-Gretchen-Jancie.

America always thinks of something new!

The following morning and I arise somewhat grey’d in the knowledge that today we play the final gig of the tour. (As alluring as the thought of 6X pint at the Beehive is I could happily go around again). In a bid to warm my mood I hop into the shower - alas Comfort Inn clearly don’t consider hot water part of the comfort deal so I dance around under the lukewarm dribble to try and get wet and then decide to have a shave. But the cheap blade dug in, and I watched the blood fall to the sink, a lazy shade of pink. Unable to stem the flow I resigned myself to the little piece of toilet tissue stuck to my face, a glamorous look for the drive across L.A. to our final lodgings of the tour at the foot of the Hollywood Hills.

But first we dive into the 101 Coffee Shop, a stylish L.A. diner complete with Columbo stone walls, stylish veneer tables and upholstered 70’s diner booths in tan leather. Not surprisingly it’s featured in a few films including 90’s classic Swingers and their huevos rancheros is among the best yet.

Tonight we’re at the Henry Fonda Theater on Hollywood Boulevard. When I was young and I first came to L.A. some seven years back I frequented an Irish bar a block to the west so it’s a reassuring symbol of sorts to be ending the tour at a venue of some personal significance.

After soundcheck Gerard and myself take a walk up the boulevard while the sun sets for the final time on our trip; a glorious luminescent pastel fade to the west while we ponder the stars above us and those named on the sidewalk below. For a dollar each we have our fortunes told by Zoltar (from ‘Big’!). “Many a fine man can be found beneath a shabby hat” he tells me (though I suspect the reverse is more often true). Meanwhile Gerard receives advice about remaining youthful in spirit which is slightly wasted on a man who despite being twenty years my senior is more youthful in spirit than I.

The crowds have been loud and enthusiastic every single night of the tour and as we step up to the stage for the last show of the run the Los Angeles crowd are no different.

Of particular note - indeed my standout character of the tour - was the chap at the front left who I genuinely believe was in the region of 9-10 feet tall. For the first half of the gig I thought that he was stood on a chair and it was all the weirder that he barely moved amidst an otherwise spirited crowd!

Alas another tour over. But a fine send off and it was nice to see so many familiar faces afterwards too.

Back to Palais de Peppiat aka Room 412 for the Hollywood after-after-party. There have been many calls to see the suit from day 10, both among the band and the Internet at large and I finally unveiled it to overwhelming approval - and much relief. (Despite being exceptional value, I did unfortunately discover that the suit is made of 100% polyester and did get very hot very quickly).

A welcome lie-in the following morning ahead of our late-afternoon flight home. The evocative hotel is decor’d furiously with movie memorabilia, photographs and autographs and the bathroom alone is about the size of the entire suite in San Francisco. There’s a walk-in shower with a window that looks down on the courtyard below, framing a California cross-section of white-washed walls and clear-blue pool and a brush of leaves that sways slowly in the Santa Ana winds. It’s all very Hockney.

Hit the 101 downstairs for a final eggs-over-easy (they’re never the same back home) and the waitress tells us that her husband is in The Sweet - how very L.A...

Professional Drum Shop is 10 blocks south on Vine and with an hour until our final call time I manage to drag Debs, Gerard, Joe and Pete along with me. The walls are lined with bass drum heads, vintage drummer promo pics and paraphernalia from the greats ... Watts, Hamilton, Shaughnessy, Jones ... they even have one of Buddy Rich’s latter Slingerlands and I invest in an agogo to memorialise the visit.

Despite Parking In Rear, Pete Wiggs and I nip out front so he can take my portrait for the cover of Drum Legends Magazine.

“Hey Mr!” comes a ladys voice and we turn in unison to see a broken-down red Chevy holding up the traffic. “I just gotta get this piece o’ shit going...”.

Picture Pete and I puffing and heaving in the 30 degree heat, a backdrop of Hollywood sign and Hollywood Hills. There are echoes of Bukowski (maybe she was Linda) and doesn’t dither when the car fires into life, leaving us coughing in a plume of fumes in the middle of Vine. It’s beautiful, funny and somehow quite poignant; a final scene of sorts and in my mind the credits roll.

A Guinness in the 101 and then we load up the van one final time; cross cross Hollywood; steal a final glimpse down Sunset, Fountain and Santa Monica; head south on Gower; pass Paramount Pictures and cut across Melrose while Peaceful Easy Feeling by The Eagles plays. Down beyond Beverly Boulevard and through central L.A., a flash of a domestic scene through a mock Spanish colonial archway, another final glimpse into Hockney’s Hollywood.

We depart LAX early evening UTC-08:00, traverse time and space in a whirlwind of memories, characters and concerts, landing back in reality some time tomorrow.

Thanks Bob, Pete, Sarah, Debsey, Gerard, Pep, Robin, Joe, James, Sylvia, and JMac. Thanks to the great USofA and all those endlessly amusing and inspiring people who reside in her and who provided so much to write about - Donny, MarkO Pizza, Brian of Bar Harbor and even John Wood. Unfailingly odd but unstoppably brilliant.

And finally my gratitude to you cherished reader and all of those who sent positive messages about the blog over the past few weeks!

My suitcase still smells like Lovleys Motel up in Newport, Maine and I’m already missing the blue skies and weak coffee. But as they say all good things must come to an end and I suppose I’ll end where I began - I’m off to the Beehive for a 6X.

Until we meet next,

MM

Our final internal flight is from Seattle down to California and it’s a much more casual affair than flying international. Sat on the back row next to Lynn from Taiwan I trace the course of the Pacific coast, a clear view in a cloudless sky through the starboard porthole.

Back on Californian soil! I was last here a year ago with my pal Willie J Healey. He and the boys are back out on tour in the UK with Sundara Karma as we speak and as lucky as I am to be here I am missing the craic with the laddies. But I’ll be seeing them soon for the last couple of dates.

Meanwhile back in San Fran the air is warm and there’s a wonderful softness to the light. It’s another city that needs to be seen to be believed - the streets slope up at gravity defying angles (has anyone played Crazy Taxi?) and I hope the park brake on the rental van is secure...

We check in at the Casa Loma Hotel on Fillmore Street, one of the less glamorous residences of the tour but probably my favourite: it’s rich in California vibe and strikingly similar in name and ambience to the Alta Loma from Ask The Dust by John Fante.

However the wonky floor and sloping beds combined with the rolling San Fran streetscape meant I’d have to wait until we were beyond the city limits before I would really know which way was up again.

JMac (FOH) finds a restaurant a few blocks north and some of us head down the hill for dinner. The Alamo Square Seafood Grill is a family owned fish joint and the waitress does a glorious job of remembering all 6 of our starter, main, dessert and wine selections by memory. I have pear salad, grilled snapper and split a peach cobbler and a floating island with Gerard washed down with a few glasses of Napa Valley Grenache. The food is probably the bestest freshest of the tour so far and the restaurant is the perfect blend of quality fare and fine wine but with a comfortable casual atmosphere.

Afterwards we head back up towards the hotel and stumble across ‘Originals Vinyl’ on the corner of Fillmore and Hayes.

Watching Bob Stanley in a record store is witnessing Bob Stanley in his natural habitat. He fingers the records with speed and finesse, his digits rifling rapidly through the racks, eyes scanning the sleeve and his brain computing and analysing the results, cross-referencing artist, issue and condition against his mammoth internal database.

A sparkle in his eye - and his haul of 12″s tucked firmly under his arm (I hear rumours that his house started subsiding on the end that he kept his record collection...) - he leaps between Country and Soul, pauses over Rock to recommend me a Louden Wainwright III, before darting to Disco to dig out that illusive early Bee Gees seven-inch. There’s something almost athletic about his manner, and it’s clear I’m witnessing a master: like watching Picasso paint, Ronaldo in the air or Taylor at the oche.

The rest of the evening I spend back in the casa with the windows open, the cool Cali evening air wafting gently while the Yankees play the Twins on the TV.

Awaken the following morning to a room bathed in soft California sunlight that streaks through the blinds and bounces about every white surface. Gerard, Silvia, James and myself head first to ‘Brenda’s Meat & 3 Three’ for a southern-style breakfast followed by a long walk to the northern coast of the San Fran Peninsula, heading down Fillmore Street, west on Broadway, down the Lyon Street Steps, through Presidio park eventually emerging to gasps and guffaws beside the Golden Gate Bridge.

Yonder to our gig and it’s our biggest show of the tour at the iconic Fillmore. They have a tradition of designing custom posters for shows at the venue and much of the interior wall space is filled with the colourful pieces - the Grateful Dead, Tom Petty, Led Zeppelin, and The Who. Wilco, Sigur Ros, Radiohead, and among them even two for past Saint Etienne shows...!

Afore the show JMac and myself head out to catch the thrilling finale of the Diamondbacks/Rockies wildcard game but have to leave before it ends to catch Shawn Lee’s set. Shawn produced St Et’s recent ‘Home Counties’ album and will be supporting for the final three shows of the tour.

Sarah is in fine voice tonight and we have one of the best shows of the tour. It’s a touching moment when she hands her feather bower to a fan on the front row while all around him celebrate his acquisition and share in his joy. I felt like I was witnessing the very happiest moment of someone’s life and it is was a poignant reminder of just how much these gigs mean to people (another fan turned up in a home-made embroidered ‘Saint Etienne - Home Counties’ denim jacket!).

After the show Pete, John and myself head across the road to the Boom Boom Bar which is a classic dark Cali dive bar where the unseen of San Franciscan society gather to dance to the fantastic house band, a five-piece who’ve been playing here for twenty years. Pete has a hazy deja vu of a night in the same bar some years earlier and I swear there’s a twinkle of recognition in the bass players eye when he spots him sipping a Mojito on the dance floor...

Arise early, a little more shabby than normal, for the long drive down to Pomona Valley, in Los Angeles County. It’s a 6 1/2 hour drive (without LA traffic...), 410 miles: about the distance from London to Glasgow!

Stop at Denny’s for a round of their signature ‘Sizzlers’ followed by a gas station in the middle of Hicksville, CA that sells bumper stickers that say things like “Trump the chumps”, “Obamacare makes me sick” and “One Big Ass Mistake America”...

Continue south to a soundtrack of Jackson Browne. Fruit fields, oil derricks, farm land, a fleeting glimpse of a real-life twister and then more endless brush while an epic hazy mountain skyline scrolls slowly left to right on the horizon like a painted Hollywood movie backdrop.

Eventually the road rises up; traverse a final scenic mountain range; softly softly the rural becomes urban and finally we drop down via the I-5 into the Greater Los Angeles Area.

See signs for Santa Fe, San Bernardino and and Santa Barbara. Something called The Garlic Crab and something called Lemon Cuisine Of India. Pass the Rosebowl as featured in Depeche Mode’s 101 and the Santa Anita Raceway, Bukowski’s favourite track. Moments, snapshots, and characters from all of the greats: Paris, Texas, The Graduate, The Maltese Falcon.

A glimpse of a college football game. Modern American architecture and apartment buildings with communal pools. The LA river. Shopping plazas and strip malls. Interstate 10 and Highway 71. ARCO, Texaco, Petco, and AAMCO; hotels, motels, 7Eleven and Circle K. Endless suburbia, the most epic of all sprawling metropoli, people and their stories everywhere you look. The Tortilla Curtain; Columbo. Liquor stores and a coin laundry. Pawn shops, gun shops, El Pollo Loco. ‘Cadillacs of Crestview’. Palm tree upon palm tree and long shadows on pastel grey sidewalks.

It’s been a long day and it’s not over yet as we round a final No Right On Red and greet the stylish Glasshouse venue! Yours at last from LA, MM

I was last in Chicago in 2012 (see VFTDS #4) though that visit was so fleeting it barely qualifies. So with the morning off ahead of our flight to Seattle I seize the opportunity to wander the streets and see what finds me.

One can read of a city ad infinitum but until you actually set foot on the tarmac and see for yourself its impossible to really know what a place is like. As ever I was amazed by how much I was amazed! Within the space of an hours walk I wander through markets, traverse luscious parks, hustle under an interstate and pop up among the looming skyscrapers where the Windy City lives up to it’s name.

There’s also a big stretch of beach right by downtown which I wasn’t expecting. But Chicago is the only seaside city I’ve been to that isn’t on the sea at all. It actually looks over a really really big lake which, surrounded as it is by a man made lip and neat little ladders, ends up looking more like the world’s biggest swimming pool...

All too soon it’s time to head west to Seattle, a new one for me. We board a very compact little Chevrolet rental minibus and drive over to Chicago Midway where Southwest Airlines now offer curbside check-in! We don’t even need to drag our cases (of which there are MANY) inside the terminal which is just fine by us.

Head through security and bed down in an Irish bar called Reilly’s Daughter where the most un-Irish but wildly helpful barmaid of the tour so far pours the pints and then we board flight 1424 direct to Sea-Tac International.

I sensed something distinctly Forensic Files about the man sat next to me on row 31. Having clocked up eleven full series of my favourite trashy American programme my instincts proved correct and Dustin is indeed a forensic scientist on his way to a conference about DNA in Washington State.

Flight attendants Charmaine, Sandy and Cindy look after us like we’re their own and we arrive on the west coast for the final run of the tour at 2015 local time, pile into our second Chevy minibus of the day and roll cross town to the hotel.

The journey is glorious and the I5 cuts through the city, high up on stilts with the vast metropolis all around. There’s the Space Needle! And hey isn’t that Safeco Park, the Mariners baseball stadium?! The Eagles play there tonight! Exciting times and new encounters.

I’m oft struck by what a beautiful country America is to drive in - I’d say it’s best seen from the comfort of the driving seat, the country radio blaring and the windows down.

Indeed the following morning despite having a day off a few of us hit the road again, taking a ferry across Elliott Bay to Bainbridge Island from where we drive north.

It’s a scenic journey, the rural roads bordered by deep green conifers with a backdrop of mountains. It’s all very Twin Peaks...

We end up at Port Townsend, a charming hippy town (there are lots of hippies and lots of homeless in Washington) with a fifties diner and some interesting shops. In one of them the patron tells me that her husband is a drummer in a band too - Modest Mouse no less!

(Coincidentally back in Chicago at the Drum Exchange the staff member who served me was also the brother of War On Drugs sticksman Charlie Hall!).

I awaken obscenely early the following day and unable to sleep don shoes coat and scarf and wander out into a misty Seattle early-morning. Stroll a few blocks in every direction, the city slow to rouse to a new week. A few students hover on street corners, bleary eyed as they wait the eternal wait for the Don’t Walk light to change. Not for the first time on this trip I’m reminded of Donna Tartt’s The Secret History.

I end up at the Porter Cafe for huevos rancheros again - thanks to Piney Gir for introducing me to the delicious Mexican breakfast!

We’re in the ‘University District’ of Seattle and there are lots of book stores. Indeed there are many in America as a whole and they often stock more eccentric, niche and interesting titles than English book shops. Magus Books is no different and I skip sections starting at The Occult to Practical Sailing to Native Americana, picking up ‘The Indian Tipi: it’s History, Construction and Use’.

While later perusing the Washington University book store I notice the clerk sporting a compass on his wrist. He explains that it’s his survival bracelet, and it also features a whistle for attracting attention, flint and steel for starting fires, a mirror for signalling passing ships and a strap made from 30 feet of braided paracord. It’s an impressive piece but what on earth he thinks may possibly occur in a book shop on a Monday morning that compels him to wear it is beyond me...

Tonight’s venue is conveniently located right across the road from the beautiful Art Deco ‘Hotel Deca’ where we stay and when I return they’re putting up our name on the old style American tiled cinema sign out front.

Alas the day takes a darker turn as word filters through about the shooting in Las Vegas closely followed by the news of Tom Petty. Closer to home Sarah is unwell and we have to pull this mornings KEXP session with doubts over tonight’s show.

Thus I return to bed for a few hours and sleep to the Mississippi cadence of Donna Tartt reading The Secret History...

But by early afternoon the sun is shining once again and confirmation arrives that the show is on! The gear is coerced across the street on a trolley by Robin and Pep and wheeled right up to the stage in the beautiful Neptune Theater.

The interior is quite dated (I love it) and there’s a ye olde timey nautical theme to the decor backstage with seafaring paintings and miscellany ... after soundcheck I read a fascinating chapter in ‘The Romance Of The Sea’ about the Mary Celeste...

And despite the earlier scare the gig goes smoothly with a supportive and sympathetic crowd who help Sarah with the singing and cheer from start to finish.

Alas it’s been wonderful to see Seattle for the first time and I look forward to my return already.

But first: yonder to San Francisco!

California calling...

We're in Washington DC at the U Street Music Hall for the next show, a smaller venue than most on this tour and located in an unusual suburb of DC overrun with otherworldly characters who mill around the streets and hover on the corners.

The promoter gives us a special box of cupcakes when we arrive at the venue though I'm in the mood for something more substantial and end up somewhere called 'Ooohs and Ahhhs' a block down where rap music plays loudly and patrons and staff alike dance and sing along unabashed. I order mac and cheese for takeout but as the attendant opens the lid of a pot and starts scooping up an alien yellow substance I question whether my choice was the best one. Indeed by the time I've completed the journey back to the venue - a minute's walk at most - it has congealed into a yellow block, oozing grease and sliding about gently inside the pot and I can only stomach a mouthful and replace the lid.

Show time and another fun gig, albeit plagued by technical issues. But the audience react as well as ever and the queue to meet Bob, Pete and Sarah after is a long one.

Hunger still unsatisfied a few of us head out to a restaurant-come-bookshop nearby and their Greek salad is fresh and a pleasant antidote to the macaroni melee of earlier.

Afterwards we meet a group of locals outside, one brandishing an enormous sign that reads FUCK TRUMP and it's interesting to hear their take on the American situation, one even bursting into song - and this barely a few blocks from the Presidents abode.

We hop back in the van to head to the hotel, but not before a brief detour to see some sights as I finally tuck into one of the cupcakes (it's delicious). It's almost deserted at night and we circle the centre taking in the Obelisk, the Washington Monument, Abe Lincoln's Memorial and the Smithsonian.

Alas Disaster In DC as somewhere between the Capitol Building and the White House the box of cupcakes takes a tumble, expelling it's gooey chocolate contents across not just the van floor but also my favourite Kipling bag!

Once back at the hotel I filthy a nice white towel in cleaning up the sticky chocolate mess and spare a thought for the poor maid who will find it...

We depart the hotel the following morning and all go for a pleasant brunch (huevos rancheros with brussel sprouts and quinoa) at the 'Silver Bullet Diner', Jonny Mac (FOH) and myself indulging in a Mimosa too - today is a travel day after all.

We nip across the road to a small shopping centre where Pep points out a very extravagant looking suit shop called 'Why Not'. They've got some smart suits, socks and shoes in the window and their sharp three-piecers are priced very reasonably at $149 ... and attendant Leon King (the Lion King) tells me that today only they're BOGOF! I'm not sure if it was the Mimosas or the sensational value and swanky patterns but Jonny Mac and myself can't resist, picking up a suit each in subtly different plaid design. Why Not indeed!

Ahead of our evening flight from Newark in New Jersey, we head up to Asbury Park on the New Jersey coast to see the sea and wander on the sand for an hour. The town has lots of music heritage and we park up outside the Stone Pony club where Asbury Park native Bruce Springsteen famously recruited the members for his E Street Band.

Arriving just in time for sunset the flare of orange blue yellow green pastel shades on the horizon is beautiful and makes for a wonderful and memorable touring moment.

Catch a late flight to Chicago and head to our home for the next two nights, the Lincoln Hotel. Out front I meet a friendly young Canadian called MarkO Pizza, the self-professed International multi-platform social media kingpin and Managing Director of Pizza Media. He's in town to usher at his cousins wedding tomorrow. (Wedding parties are a popular pastime in Chicago it seems and numerous pass in and out from the moment we would arrive to the moment we left).

It's great chatting with MarkO and as engaging a character as he is, I make my excuses and head out with JMac for a late cold one. It's 1am and the Irish pub is closed but 'Burton Place' down the road is still kicking and a band play from the classic American College Radio songbook (Counting Crows! Weezer!). When we're joined by Joe Bennett our one rapidly becomes several. Good times in a wholesome American bar - at one point a fight breaks out and for the first time on this trip briefly reminded of home and The Beehive...

Slightly bleary eyed the following morning I hop in a cab and driver Kwesi, a Ghanaian who is keen to show me his self-penned song Touch Me, drives me across town to the Chicago Drum Exchange so that I can ogle the kits and yearn for the cymbals.

Much to my surprise I see a familiar face out front - it's Pizza Media top banana MarkO! He's one exceptional man and I'm intrigued to learn that he's currently balancing six jobs! Not only is he a social media guru but he also sells high end shoes, glass sculptures (which double up as bongs), plays drums, does something I can't remember and occasionally works as a labourer... that thing hanging around his neck? It's his teleportation key.

The venue today is called Park West and sits as you might expect on the west side of the Lincoln Park. It's a charming stylish venue that feels a bit like the set for a movie - patrons have the choice of standing at the front, sitting in the Hollywood-bowl-esque cocktail booths (with waitress service) or sitting on stools by the bar.

It's a really large room that's almost custom made for the 2017 Saint Etienne live show: a huge curved corner stage that suits our 8-person horseshoe setup, two enormous screens either side and a great sound system to keep JMac happy.

The rental gear is lovely too - a 70's Ludwig with Black Beauty and Zildjian K's - even my request for flat base stands is fulfilled.

Before the show a few of us head to Stanley's Bar across the road, where Bob Stanley samples a Stanley burger and we watch the Cubs play Cincinnati in the baseball. (Frustratingly we don't have a chance to catch a game live on this tour - when ever we get an evening off the team are playing out of town).

A big enthusiastic audience again tonight, and they get the double-encore again! The crowds here are bigger and louder than on the UK tour and especially seem to love the songs from 1998's Good Humor album. As a band too we're really cooking too and the energy flow throughout the shows gets better with every gig.

Head to the rooftop bar on the hotel for a night cap - and a final cameo from MarkO Pizza, now daubed in full usher-attire who wants to check I received his Instagram message before departing into the night.

It was good to meet you MarkO.

To bed! Another fly day tomorrow - destination Seattle! First time in Washington State for me so I look forward to reporting back with some new experiences.

Until such time,

After Boston it's the Bowery Ballroom in Lower Manhattan which has sold out in advance and as we roll up some of the more hardened St Et fans are already waiting out the front with cameras.

The venue has a grimey-New-York-in-a-good-way vibe and after soundcheck Robin and I head out for a bite to eat and a wander. It seems that we're in kitchen-hardware district and shop after shop sells cookers, stirrers, grinders, mixers and blenders en mass. Despite being surrounded by all the equipment required to make dinner we still had to chip across a couple o' blocks to actually buy a taco.

The show was great and I'm really enjoying songs like Kiss And Make Up and Like A Motorway. On the record they're drum loops and breaks and it's a rewarding challenge to honour their feel.

My friend Heather Willensky comes down and it was great to see a friendly face and catch up. She brought her Swedish pal Andreas along too, a Spotify employee who has just invented the technology to remove the vocal from any recorded track - apparently it's destined to revolutionise the Karaoke industry...

Sleep a few hours in a hotel up in the Bronx and then arise early for a session at WFUV (you'd think American radio stations could come up with more catchy names...).

Contrary to our Boston experience the host knows EVERYTHING about Saint Etienne and even notices Deb's new hair cut as soon as we walk in. We play three songs in their nice modern studio and Pete and Sarah head into the booth for an hour of in-depth discussion and analysis.

College radio is a big thing in the States and WFUV is part of Fordham University. On the pitch the baseball team train in full maroon kit whilst out the front students laze on the lawn reading from text books and chatting between class: it all reminds me rather of The Secret History by Donna Tartt (check out the audiobook edition where she reads it in her alluring Mississippi drawl).

Tonight we play the Music Hall of Williamsburg, which is owned by the same people as the Bowery Ballroom. Weirdly the layout inside is almost identical to its sister venue and it's a strange deja vu walking in.

During a gap in soundcheck I nipped out to grab a snack and end up at an overpriced Mexican around the corner. I have mixed feelings about trendy Williamsburg in Brooklyn. These days it's wildly expensive and seems to be full of dull people. For me the real magic of New York lies back across the Hudson in the heart of Manhattan.

Before the show I meet up with my old friend Courtney who I met in Austin, TX back in View From The Drum Stool #6...!! We head for a couple beers at a place called Rosemary's ($6 for a drink - cheap by NYC standards) and it's great to hear about her old life in Austin and her new life in the Big Apple. She's the Midnight Cowgirl!

Another great show and a wild crowd - they scream and cheer and so loud that they get a second encore and my ears are ringing when we're done.

A few civilised beers to celebrate and then back to the hotel.

The following morning and we load up the van, head back into Manhattan, across China town, traverse lighting-shop district and then Little Italy ... disappear down the Holland Tunnel for a while and eventually emerge into New Jersey, my sixth state of the trip so far if my calculations are correct.

An hour out of the city and it feels like we're back in America again. New York City is a world unto itself - no other city I've found comes close. It's been a fantastic couple of days and I wave another goodbye to Statue of Liberty as she disappears behind a wall of skyscrapers and out of sight once again. See ya soon, I'm sure.

Next stop: Washington DC for the U Street Music Hall!

Bump into James (lights) in the hotel lobby. It’s nice to see a familiar face after my Maine odyssey and nice to finally feel safe after the Lovley Motel. Technically speaking we’re in not quite in Boston but Cambridge, Massachusetts and Harvard School Of Law is a block up. There’s a faux-classical vibe to the Ivy League architecture which is an interesting prospect for a guy coming from Oxford.

Next I see Robin (guitar) and Joe (bass and TM) and head next door to Christopher Bar for a Guinness (pronounced ‘Juinness’ according to a waitress back in Bar Harbor…).

It’s a busy one at the counter but there’s a single free seat. And while the chap to my right struggles to contain his Tourette’s, Jennifer to my left strikes up conversation. I had been wondering why her face was so pale and sparkly and she reveals that she is a Living Statue, impressing tourists and locals alike with her talent for staying still for very long times. Trading as 'Angel Fairy’ in eye-catching silver sparkle with wings, she tells all about the dog-eat-dog world of human statueing and even shares a few moves right there in the bar (apparently the trick is to keep your elbows lower than your heart…).

Sometimes I wonder if I find them or whether they find me.

John (FOH) and Pep (Mons) appear next and it’s great to be back in the company of friends - by the time Gerard (keys and MD) and Sylvia (merch) arrive I’m practically giddy.

The following morning and I head for a wander and barely a block down bump into Andy’s Diner. It’s the classic American diner of your dreams, the waitresses gossiping while the boys in the kitchen watch the baseball and I text Pep to come join. The eggs are over-easy and the coffee is classic American weak and warm.

Word of a good thing spreads fast and soon the remainder of the party appear (I should have negotiated myself a commission). Great to see Bob (Stanley), Pete (Wiggs), Debs (BV’s) and Sarah (Cracknell) too.

Drive into the city for a radio session at WEXR which goes smoothly despite the hosts’ struggles to pronounce the important words 'Saint’ and Etienne’. Amusingly they ask us each to sign a contract forbidding the utterance of any word from their explicit and detailed list of banned words.

It’s an eye-watering viewing.

Typically Boston looks beautiful in the Sunday morning sunshine and reminds me of some of the west coast cities. There is grass and happiness and there are lots of parks (and lots of statues - I keep wondering if one could be Jennifer).

First gig of the tour is at the ONCE Ballroom in Somerville and tickets have already sold out. It’s a beautiful older venue with an old-fashioned upstairs bar straight out of Columbo.

I’ve got a rental kit for this tour which comes in enormous flight cases but sadly doesn’t include the roadies to carry them. As Joe Bennett points out when it’s your own gear you seek for it to be as light and convenient as possible but rental companies only care for it’s indestructibility. Thus the hardware is all DW’s high end 9000 line which is like scaffolding and more hard work than it needs to be. But the drums are lovely modern Ludwigs in classic Blue Oyster Pearl (think Ringo) with new heads and with a little tuning they sound great.

Boston is a great gig, the crowd are frothing with excitement for the return of St Et to the United States and the vibe in the band is really good.

A long day with lots of lugging and loading but it’s great to be back in the bosom of family.

The next morning we’re off to New York City! Much of the interstate is raised up and the views down through Massachusetts and Connecticut are glorious. Driving is practically a leisure activity here, the views are vast and it beats the M25 on a Friday afternoon any day.

Next up: Bowery Ballroom and Music Hall of Williamsburg!

MM

Having seen much of what I wanted to see in Maine (I conclude that 'Southwest Harbor' on Mount Desert Island bears the closest resemblance to Cabot Cove) and with no accommodation booked for the last night of my solo adventure I'm a freewheelin' Bob Dylan from here in Bangor back down to Boston. Saturday night I'll meet the rest of the gang down in the city and then commence work Sunday.

I tap into the SatNav for the nearest place to bowl and find myself at Old Town Bowling Lanes on the outskirts of town. From the outside the place is beautifully run down and looks straight out of a documentary about the birth of teenagehood or the history of the jukebox.

I've barely set foot in the place, and the proprietor starts to shout at me. "Candlepin! CANDLEPIN!" he screams and with no idea what the old chap is howling about I purchase a game.

John Wood, who is very old and very deaf, tells me he's been working at the alley since it opened in 1965. The decor has surely not changed since with a stylish sixties colour scheme of pastel blue and off-white with a well-worn pine approach and overhead-projector style scoring system. And there is the jukebox, offering the latest hits by Chubby Checker, The Drifters and Roy Orbison.

The only slightly odd looking part is the bowling itself. I'd never heard of Candlepin but it turns out to be a New England variation on the familiar 10-pin game. The balls are much smaller and and you get to throw three each frame while the pins too are much thinner. It's really fun and pretty addictive - I hurl the balls down the lane with abandon while John Wood screams words of encouragement at me over the baseball game blasting out of the TV. "HIT THE F*****G PINS!", "YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG" and at one point simply "YOU'RE SHIT!!". It's astonishing to think that this man hosts kids parties here.

I end up staying for three games, my score improving with each and I feel like Vincent Gallo in Buffalo 66. Not one other person enters the entire time I'm there: 6:30 to 8pm on a Friday evening! Not that John Wood seems to mind.

Asking how I got along, I show him the 102 on my scorecard. He stares into middle distance and speaks the first words he hasn't shouted all night: "Not bad..."

Bless you John Wood.

(Edit: I later read that John Wood used to hold nude bowling nights here in the 80's. What a remarkable man.)

I drive south and pick up a room at the 'Lovley Motel' (sic) in Newport. I take the name to be ironic when I see the room and meet my neighbours. Davey in Room 5 may be showing signs of a crystal meth addiction but his restaurant recommendation comes up trumps and the fish and 'chips' (fries) at the Anglers Restaurant are tasty and fresh.

While paying at the counter I'm approached by a slow-talking middle-aged character in full camouflaged hunting paraphernalia who has overheard my English accent. Contrary to appearance (and my cover-judging) Donny (I'm not making this up) is a knowledge on British music from the New Romantics right up to modern day indie. His favourite band are The Wombats and wouldyabelieve he even knows Saint Etienne!

It's been a day of great characters and I retire to bed at the Lovley Motel, still fearing for my life but happy.

Saturday morning now and I arise easily and early again. It's the long road back to Boston today but I stop in Waterville for breakfast, York for lunch and Portland in between to visit another Drum Shop! There's some unspoken back and forth between us and after some covert questioning I gain their trust and they beckon me out back to see their warehouse.

Glorious vintage drums as far as the eye can see! So many old Slingerlands, Ludwigs, Rogers, Leedys that they barely seem to know what to do with them all. It's like stepping into one of my dreams...

I could've stayed their all day but the time is ticking on my rental return and I make haste for Boston.

I'm sad to return my trustee Chrysler Pacifica to the boys at Budget though - she's been a beautiful ride and I'll cherish that times we spent together traversing Acadia National Park. My only slight qualm would be the location of the aforementioned shifter which is right where you expect the volume control to be - on more than one occasion I've tried to slam it into reverse while doing 80 on the Interstate when my favourite Luke Bryan song comes on. But the steering wheel with all it's buttons and dials has been great - I wonder if Oakeys can fit one on my Vectra?

We totalled 709 miles in our four days together. Not a bad score.

Head to the hotel in Boston to meet up with the gang. Business commences early tomorrow with a session at WERS and then the first gig of the tour at the Somerville Ballroom!

Until next time,