Dear Bagels and Muffins
It is the very early hours and I’m slumped in an easy chair, staring myopically around the walls of my recently refurbished studio. The world around me is silent as I watch a spider lower itself silently on an invisible thread from the cupboard that holds my girlfriend's collection of comedy vibrators. The little creature stops in mid descent and eyes me suspiciously as if to say ‘What are you doing up so early you stupid git? This is my time and you’re scaring off all the food.’ He/she is indeed correct on this count as I have no right to be up this early save for one inescapable reason.
I have jet lag.
I sit there in the semi darkness and review what has happened to me over the past few weeks with a feeling that is half satisfaction, half exhaustion. I have been in America with my band and we have been exercising our gigging muscles.
The invite to perform came from those upstanding individuals from EvO:r who’s origins lie with a man called Charlie and his ability to convince others that Corporate Music Companies aren’t quite as good as the magazines, adverts, press releases, articles & TV promos, might suggest. Both his idea and website have made a huge impact with other artists and their collaboration has made it one of the most impressive independent movements to have occurred in the music business since the owner of Sun Records said “Let’s get that Elvis kid in for a sing-song.”
Thinking quickly, I called each member of my band in tern and activated the long dormant ‘You must go to America and play music with me’ clause in their retainer contracts along with the ‘You must pose nude in a well know women’s magazine’ just for fun.
Rehearsal took place at the house of Tim Eyles (my guitarist and inventor of the all over body blanket). The tea was warm, the company excellent and the songs sounded as though they might one day be listenable.
With such musical fumblings out of the way, we embarked on our epic voyage of discovery which began in a huge queue at Heathrow’s Terminal 4, just in front of Victoria Wood (honest!). Seven hours later we arrived in the land of the free. Robert ‘Blues Harp’ Ramsay, Paul ‘Big Bass’ Worwood and I ‘First person’ Godfrey sat at the side of the customs office while we watched Victoria ‘More Famous Than Us’ Wood breeze through immigration. Meanwhile, Tim ‘body cavity search’ Eyles tried not to make eye contact with the Customs staff.
We lodged with an old friend of mine called Dan in Union City (New Jersey) and a mad Cuban called Carlos who spoke just three words of English but could paint like Leonardo and play guitar like Hendrix.
“Thanks for putting us up.” I said.
“No problem.” replied Dan.
“Cunt” said Carlos.
Dan’s house was just across the river from Manhattan and after a night’s rest, we hit the town with a vengeance. Unfortunately after ten hours straight drinking, we realised that Manhattan could hit back with even greater force and that we were boxing well above our weight, we made for the ropes and an inflatable bed.
The next day was spent dodging Dan’s collection of pets (two boa constrictors, one iguana, two stunt cats and a very stressed out budgie) and rehearsing.
“Hey, those songs sound quite good.” said Dan.
“Thanks.” we replied.
“Mother fuck.” said Carlos garrulously.
The weather was great and we took advantage of this fact by doing the American thing and driving everywhere. We thought of visiting sites of great historical interest but plumped for shopping instead. British Airways kindly transported Robert’s baggage (which contained all of our CD’s and more importantly, all of Rob’s Harmonicas) to Pluto. This meant a quick tour of NYC’s music shops where Rob bought some replacements and Carlos got a job (showcasing the latest Fender ‘Cunt’ Guitar).
Dan’s intimate knowledge of the area coupled with Carlos’ talent for swearing made them a formidable team when it came to swinging us a good deal on clothes, records and hookers. We returned before the night’s show, laden with both the milk of American mass production and the stains of human contact.
Our first date on this one date, non-stop, early to bed, hell-raising tour was located at a club in New Jersey called Images. We staggered through the door slightly ragged ‘round the edges and took in the scene before us. Bloody hell, were in America. Everything screamed America, from the neon beer signs to the thirty foot long bar filled with every drink ever invented (and a few that were slowly evolving into new beverages due to their age).
The club could be best described as narrow and uphill. The bar sat at its base with a set of tiers that headed skywards culminating in a mirrored space that held the stage. All around us sped various technicians and musicians, who seemed to be vacillating between, testing equipment and swearing loudly, proving that where ever you go in the world, gigs are always the same.
The evening was compared by a guy called Frank Cotolo who shook my hand enthusiastically and steered the evening like a raft through white water. Actually that’s a crap metaphor; Frank deserves better so let me give that some more thought…
The show was opened by a very talented band called Gate 18 and was fronted by a lady called Lynn Ann. She immediately became my favourite artist of the evening simply by owning exactly the same guitar as me AND playing like a creature possessed. Fantastic.
…steered the evening like a helicopter flying through a flock of flamingos…er..
We hit the stage and whistled through our set at breakneck speed. The audience were very into the whole evening and appreciated that we had travelled a long way to play (thank you guys and girls). Dan sat at the side and encouraged us with his usual brand of wit ‘You’re shit, get off’ and ‘Your mother won the Derby’, bless him. Carlos stalked from one side of the stage to the other, camera in hand taking pictures and yelling random abuse at anyone within earshot.
…like a Border Collie worrying a flock of sheep…oh bloody hell….
Act upon act got up and gave it their best (cue the stars of the show, the Suicidal Poets, followed by a be-titted girl group, then a introverted singer/songwriter, a bluegrass trio, and finally a jam - all fantastic entertainment for my band, who cheered enthusiastically or hooted derision depending on the quality and the amount of beer ingested. Finally however, the show was over.
We made our farewells and swore oaths of undying brother/sisterhood knowing that the chances of us meeting again (outside or reincarnation) were virtually nil, still there’s always hope Centurion.
The last few days were spent in shopping and sightseeing heaven/hell (depending on each band member’s particular point of view). All of human life seemed to be living in this part of the world and everyone was attempting to either sell up something (how wonderful) or trying to out drink us (not such a wise idea).
Eventually and very reluctantly, we boarded our plane, taking one last look at America. Sadly, there were no crowds of screaming women waving banners with ‘SIMON, SLEEP WITH ME, I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND THAT WILL JOIN US.’ But on the other hand, there were no terrorists training heat seeking missiles at the plane so maybe I should be content with my lot.
Touchdown in Blighty was uneventful and familiar so I will not bore you with any description save one: "Bollocks."
So there you have it; New York City, a world of opportunity, adventure, crap beer, great clothing, fantastic skylines, swearing Cubans, clean subways, rubbish jay walking laws, big toyshops, big everything in fact, great food (except Indian), long opening hours (see; crap beer), girls who ‘love’ your English accent, guys who don’t, great breakfasts (thank you Carlos), big cars (thank you Dan) and is located too far away for me to get tired of it.
It’s getting light in the studio and the spider has become bored of my glum expression. He/she buggers off under the mixing board where the light has yet to penetrate, walking with a swagger that suggest that a fly isn’t going to see another lunchtime window head butting session. I’m finally getting bored too, so I turn off the computer and slide, snakelike, between the covers and up behind the outline of a small woman who is snoring like a bastard.
Sleep is the last thing on my mind….
I remain, partially erect.
Simon Walsh.