Walter

"I think he's broken" said the guitar player as we all looked hopelessly at Walter's large engine. On a quiet back-street in Berlin's Moabit district our luck had finally run out. "We haven't got breakdown cover have we?" There was no reply. "I thought not." We tried again. And again. And again. Nothing, just the faint click of his starter motor. "Let's leave it for a bit" said the drummer. So we stopped staring at the tangle of pipes and bits of metal, of wires wrapped in frayed gaffer tape and shoddy bits of welding. We sat on the curb and wondered what to do. "I guess we could walk to the venue with all our gear?" offered the bass player but nobody seemed overly enthused by this idea. We sighed. And sucked our teeth. And paced up and down. Finally the guitar player cracked, opened the bonnet and began tracing wires again. "Give him another go" he ordered and we tried again. Nothing. The drummer pulled out the starter motor and began fiddling with the wires but it was hopeless. None of us knew anything about merchanics. We were about to give up and load ourselves up like mules, when suddenly there was a crackle and a rumble and a splutter and some noises I can't even begin to translate and Walter burped and roared back to life. "Right, let's just keep him running now for the remainder of the trip" I yelled as we piled in and jolted off down the street towards the venue.

We had known all about Walter's problems from the start. The romantic idea of setting off in an old motor home had completely clouded our vision. He was very old, very slow and very thirsty. Built in the late 80's as a family recreational vehicle, he was used for short leisurely journey's with perhaps a Mum, a Dad, two kids and a picnic blanket. Not a band of 5 males with as many guitars, a drum kit, heavy amps, an enormous keyboard and a weeks worth of clothes, driving 9 hours a day at full speed! As well as needing a new starter motor he needed anti-freeze every morning in order to function. The left indicator didn't work, the speedometer didn't work, the windscreen wipers didn't work and the windows would open but not close. Perhaps his biggest quirk was the need to keep the engine running while filling up! Failure to do this resulted in waiting a hour at the petrol station for him to start again. Starting was always a problem. When I first met him he hadn't started for 3 weeks and we were due to leave the next morning!

"It's hit and miss" said the AA man, "until you fix the motor he'll have this problem. Where are you going anyway?"

"Berlin" I said meekly

"You're bonkers, you won't get past Bristol!"

F R I D A Y 

I left Penzance, 7am Friday morning, panicking about the London emissions zone and how we'd sidestep a £200 daily charge! Our only option was for the drummer to follow us to the zone's boundary, down in Sevenoaks, somewhere on the M25, and then ferry us and the gear into Battersea. This emissions dodge would certainly add a good few hours onto the journey. I called the guitar player, "Realistically we're not going to make the bloody gig, you'll have to leave work earlier!" I barked. "Realistically, I went to work at twenty past five this morning, so I'm doing the best I can!" he snapped back. Tensions were frayed. Walter struggled over a snowy Bodmin Moor; 39 mph up the hills. We screeched into Bristol, I gathered the instruments, picked up the band-mates and sped off again, forgetting the guitar and sending the drummer back to collect it. Sound familiar!? We floored it, maxed out at 55 mph on the flat, no stops, no pee breaks, pee in a bottle! We pulled up outside a pub in Sevenoaks, unloaded our gear into the drummers jeep, tucked Walter in for the night and carried on to London arriving on time for our soundcheck, what are the chances! We took to the stage at The Magic Garden to a lively audience and performed as well as we could, but we were rusty, we'd not played together for 5 months. Still, it was a nice opening night; busy and bustling and we sank G&T's and talked animatedly about the road ahead. If today was anything to go by, it was going to be a bumpy ride. If, indeed, Walter started! I refused to entertain that thought, preferring to believe the ever optimistic words of his owner, "He'll be fine, he's a good engine! Honestly!"

S A T U R D A Y

Saturday was a free day, we were all scattered across the city, taking advantage of the time off. We gathered back at The Magic Garden in the afternoon and then, because we were bored, drove to the next venue 5 hours early for our gig. The earliest I've ever been for anything in my life! We unpacked. Sat around. Had a pie. Wrote a set-list. Had an ale. The piano player had a sleep in the drummer's jeep. And we still had 3 hours till kick off! The old place filled up, lights dimmed and familiar faces gathered. We finally took to the stage and performed a much tighter set. We always play well at The Gladstone and it's always so well attended and well run. The atmosphere was electric and we wrapped to lengthy applause. This was more like it. It felt like the tour had begun. We socialised with our London fans, all of them as excited about the road ahead as we were.

S U N D A Y

It was an early start on Sunday, myself and guitar player crammed into the drummer's jeep and drove cross-city to Sevenoaks. Walter was unharmed. Sat shinning in the morning sun. He started first time too. Easy. We loaded up and pulled away. We were early and the sky's were smiling. This was perfect. Walter offered us space and a stove to cook tea. I was glad we'd taken him. I never doubted you, Walter. Who need's a windscreen wiper when it's sunny! The mood soured somewhat when the piano player and bass player missed their train and our careful time management was put to the test. We sped onto Folkestone, convinced we'd encounter no end of problems at customs, due in part to our resemblance of the mobile meth lab from Breaking Bad! But we were spared the stop and search and boarded the train. The mood soured further when the guitar player realised he'd lost his wallet containing all the tour finances. We really were at the mercy of the gods. We had to make enough money tonight in Antwerp in order to continue.. There was no contingency cash. Quite literally we were playing for our petrol. We crossed into Belgium and it started to rain. This could be interesting without a windscreen wiper. We pulled over for lunch; an overpriced burger, boycotted paying for the toilets and peed in a bush. We bought anti-freeze and a hi-viz vest and started Walter up. At least he was behaving. We chugged away and then as if by magic the wipers started working. We arrived in Antwerp, were greeted by Henneke as we had been a year earlier, offered Edame beers and began setting up in ernest. With the piano player on a real piano our ears were primed for a good sound. We checked well. Added Haul Away into the repertoire and then bizarrely decided to play The Wolf for the first time in 3 years just cause we knew a fan was coming and it was her favourite song. Cafe Den Hopsack filled up and we played well enough, were well received and sat around indulging our fans. We sold 28 CD's, a record, and garnered a healthy collection pot. Many fans stayed around as the conveyor belt of Belgium beers began, many of which, like the Westmalle Tripple, were 10% in strength. We got drunk. It didn't take long and was inevitable. Our host, Jan, was infectious and his sons were equally as thirsty. We sat around signing albums. We knew we were pissed when we started signing beer mats, just cause they were passed our way. Rock stars. Back at Jan's house and his wife Lieve had made us French fries and Joppi sauce and we sat feasting and talking animatedly about waking early and exploring the city.

  

M O N D A Y
We woke late. Spent hours sitting around the kitchen table grazing through the feast that Lieve had made for us, drinking numerous cups of ginger tea to shake the hangover and sooth the vocal chords. We left the house at 1pm, rode the tram into the centre and ate waffles in a Belgium cafe. We all felt a little ropey. The piano player had lost his voice. We snapped some pictures of the cathedral, frowned at the grey skies and wondered whether the windscreen wipers would work today. We fed Walter his morning pint of anti-feeeze and he started easy enough. We collected our gear from Den Hopsack, promised to return next year and then pulled out of the city in the driving rain. The guitar player took the reins, guiding Walter across the boarder into Holland. All of us slept in the back. Every now and then we'd hear him chuckle to himself at the many quirks; the wipers stopping mid-wipe. The window stuck half open. The engine roaring like a tractor on steroids as we hurtled along the smart Dutch roads. We were late arriving at The Phoenix in Apeldoorn and a hive of activity greeted us. It was a large dance studio not used to housing live bands; it had no PA system or stage and the choice of a room too big or a room too small. "How many are you expecting?" I asked the proprietor, exploring the idea of using the smaller room and creating a nice acoustic sound. "Anything between 30 and 70" she replied. Not the answer we wanted. We bickered amongst ourselves before plumbing for the larger of the two rooms and hoping the larger number came. Mid soundcheck a dance class entered the space and began warming up, and then dancing around the room. It was one the most surreal experiences I've ever encountered. The bass player, who often stands in the middle of the room to check the sound was suddenly engulfed by dancers skipping round and round him like he was the maypole! So, this would be a dancey affair we thought. Wrong. Upon announcement that we were about to begin, the dance class all grabbed a chair and sat in neat little rows like diligent school children. More and more people arrived, a healthy chorus of our Dutch fans and we began. It was a hard gig. Not bad at all. Just hard. The piano player lost his voice mid show and the sound wasn't great, but the crowd were appreciative and very focused. Many of them bought CD's and the collection pot was generous. We were very grateful. Grateful for all the right reasons; that people found enjoyment in our music, that they felt compelled to help us out, NOT that we'd promised ourselves Apledoorn's collection pot would be spent entirely on booze in Berlin!

T U E S D A Y

After a wonderful night's sleep at Gerbrandt and Imke's house - where we each had a separate room and woke to a table full of breakfasts - we started Walter up and pulled out of the quiet Dutch suburb of Arnhem. Next stop Berlin. 6 hours in a normal car. Walter would take at least 8. The drummer took the reins and we roared along the pencil straight roads sounding like an angry mosquito. In the back the rest of us played the card game Rummy, with the guitar player cleaning up despite having never played before. I took over driving duties somewhere in the late afternoon. It was more hilly now, Walter could gather more speed on the slopes, at one point we got him to 70 miles an hour! But it came with a price; chugging back up the other side and we were down to 39! We arrived in Berlin in the early evening; sliding up beside the 2nd of our Berlin venues, The Hole, where we'd arranged to store our gear, but it was closed. We parked up and went into the bar opposite to thaw out, and get beer, in that order. We sat on the radiators and drunk mugs of Pilsner while trying to establish contact with Elena, our host at the second venue. 2 pints down and we finally got a reply, so started Walter up and followed her through large crowds queuing for a techno night. We squeezed through a narrow tunnel, through a barrier and arrived in the backstage car park. "You can store the instruments in our warehouse upstairs on the 5th floor" said Elena, and then after seeing the fatigue in our eyes, "there is a lift!" She was striking and small, shaven headed with dark eye makeup. She studied Walter for a while and then, "Wow, it really is a shitty vehicle!" We pursued her upstairs to a very large workshop/warehouse called The Mindpirates Collective, all brilliant white and echoey. We stored our gear behind the bar area and followed Elena and her identical girlfriend back into the lift. "This is strange" I said to the guitar player under my breath. "What's strange?" asked the girlfriend who's ears were sharper than I'd thought. "Oh... nothing, it's been a strange day, we umm... err..." I countered and trailed off leaving the guitar player to charm them back. We thanked them and followed them out of the tunnel and into the bustling streets, perhaps a tad over-smiley and over-wavy. We parked Walter up by the river, grabbed our night bags and walked an hour to our hostel, passing endless cosy bars and dodging cyclists that sped along the pavement/cycle paths. A quick shower at the hostel and we bounded out into the city lights, umming and arring over which cosy establishment to dine in. We settled on a nice place with a name i've since forgotten, and were served by a large camp waiter who took a shine on the piano player. While the rest of us drank beers he was umming and arring over what beverage would best serve his broken voice, "What you need is a tea, dear!" said the waiter in a thick German accent, "come with me, I show you everything!" and he propelled him up and marched him off to the tea counter. We ate well, all except the piano player who had food envy and man flu. He had another tea and then cycled home like a rockstar. The four of us settled up, thanked the waiter and went to the bar next door for a couple more. After that, we found a rum bar and sat giggling and swapping tales. It was like sitting in an ashtray. Everybody was smoking indoors. We endured it for so long because it was a novelty. That, and the rum. And the pretty barmaid!

W E D N E S D A Y

"I'm not drinking today!" I groaned from my bottom bunk. The room smelt like a bonfire and none of us had even smoked. The bass player opened the window to blow away the 5-man fug. It was glorious sunshine outside. "Let's hire bikes!" he said. "Best way to see the city". And it was. We steered into the centre. Past the Fernsehturm tower and the Berlina Dom. We paused and rested while the piano player and bass player nipped into a market and then we got bored of waiting and drove off separately. It was inevitable we'd split. 5 men making decisions is my kind of hell. We had no knowledge of this city and no clue of where to head so we devised a game; at each junction whoever was in front would choose the direction. We approached a roundabout, I went straight. We hit a cross-roads, the drummer turned right. We hit a fork, the guitar player veered left. This random navigation managed to steer us to all of the main attractions. We arrived at the Brandenburg Gate, The Reichstag, Charlottenburg Palace, the Gypsy memorial garden, where we parked up and stood in silence for some time in reflection. It was a very powerful city, very emotive. More than once we were overcome by the magnitude of it's history. While cycling through one central neighbourhood where buildings still harboured dozens of bullet holes, the guitar player remarked; "Shit got real here!". Crossing the river and back into the old eastern block we encountered a large section of the Berlin Wall, now an art gallery. We followed it for a while trying to imagine it, trying to picture our lives with walls through the middle of them. "Shit went down here too!" he remarked again. We arrived back at the hostel and all fell asleep for an hour or two, exhausted by the physical activity after days spent in Walter's charge. The piano player and bass player arrived back eagerly swapping tales of the same sights in a slightly different order. They'd booked us a table at a floating restaurant on the river. We showered and slipped back out. "I'm not drinking tonight!" I reminded myself as I ordered a large bottle of red wine and looked out across the water. We ate well. Another bottle of wine meant we drank well too. We cycled around trying to find the rum bar so we could passive smoke again but a 100 identical streets meant we gave up the ghost. We drank Fernet-Branca instead but it tasted like cough medicine so we turned in for an early night at 5 past 1!

T H U R S D A Y

We broke our fasts in the cafe opposite the hostel as we had done the previous morning, and like the previous morning we ordered eggs benedict and a ginger tea, or coffee, if you were the guitar player. We sat in silence with our thoughts. Our two day holiday was over, it was back to work tonight. We took the bikes back, faffed around at the hostel and then fed Walter an extra large helping of anti-freeze and drove cross-town to Moabit. We were early. The venue was closed so we drove around the empty neighbourhood worrying that nobody would attend our gig that night. We parked up by a playground and played football. Headers and volleys. We were joined by Fat Maradonna and his friends who never passed the ball and shot on sight at every chance. In the end we refused to pass to them until they got the message. They sloped off and we sat on a bench and caught our breath. The drummer and bass player played on for a while, reliving the games of their youth; Grimsby vs Botallack in the World Cup Final! The piano player, the guitar player and I (the original band) decided to stroll to the venue to see if the doors were open but walked 20 minutes in the wrong direction. Hot and bothered we met back at Walter and it was here that he wouldn't start. It was on this quiet back-street in Berlin's Moabit district our luck had finally run out. Well, as you know by now we repaired him somehow, thanked our lucky stars and drove along the empty streets to the club. We met Kini our host and unloaded into the old venue; a Guardian top 10 for live music in Berlin. We soundchecked and then went in search of an eatery of sorts. We walked 20 minutes down another of the district's empty streets and ate in a falafel's bar, by now convinced we'd count the night's audience members on two hands. We didn't know a soul in Berlin, and nobody knew us, perhaps we'd even count them on one! But back at the Kallasch& Moabiter Barprojekt we were pleasantly surprised, very pleasantly surprised. Why you couldn't count them on 16 hands, it was maybe even 20 hands deep, some 80-odd cool, young, hip Berliners crammed into the music room and further into the back bar. We started up with Franz Kafka and soared through our set, swapping jokes with the audience, and wrapping to healthy applause. It was an incredible feeling. Having so many people turning out to see us, in a city we'd never been, nor had any roots, nor ties. And of course the venue was well-run and well-loved, and that counts for a lot; people trust the venue and so trust the band. The guitar player's cousin tapped me on the shoulder, "Great gig mate!". He just so happened to be in town on a work's do and had bought 8 of his clients with him. We drank at the free bar; entertaining a stream of new fans and groupies. We chatted long into the night, drinking yet more peculiar shots and when the venue closed we followed the groupies to a nearby jazz bar and ended up playing a impromptu gig on the stage with the venue's equipment. Well it's the first time I'd played electric guitar since I was a teenager. We thrashed about a bit, played some of our numbers and then settled on a rap song for half an hour with a drunken South African taking the mic. We left at dawn, walked 40 minutes in the wrong direction and then took a taxi home. There were many drunken moments, what goes on in Berlin stays in Berlin and all that. This is a respectable medium, a censored platform for you to read about us. You don't want the gory details do you? Oh you do? Well the piano player went in for a kiss, she dodged it, he tried again, she sidestepped, and he pecked at her again and again like a goldfish on a waltz. 

F R I D A Y 
We woke in the bonfire, in a 5-man fug. No words. A bit of moaning. "I'm not drinking today!" mumbled under the breath. We showered. This did nothing to alleviate the pain. We ate in the breakfast place. Eggs benedict again. Ginger tea/strong coffee. We took the skyrail down to Neukölln because we'd heard it was good. It wasn't. Or perhaps we were in the wrong part. It was like being in Enfield on a weekday. We looked for a cafe in which to eat in but couldn't decide which one. We walked into one, looked at the menu and then walked out again, returning 20 minutes later and asking to eat again but being refused entry this time! We ducked into a Japanese restaurant and ordered food. The waiter was friendly but didn't speak a word of English. We did a lot of pointing. The food took ages to arrive. The guitar player had ordered a bowl of egg-fried rice. 45 minutes later he received a tiny bowl of cold boiled rice. He was too tired to argue, so sloshed on some soy sauce and ate it in one mouthful. We took a cab to Moabit and collected the gear. Walter started thankfully. Cross-town and we unloaded at The Hole, Elena and her identical girlfriend were nowhere to be seen, and we were instead looked after by Johnny Depp and Chewbacca! We set up and sound-checked and then slunk out to find an eatery. We settled on a Mexican restaurant, had a pokey mojito and a chicken burrito and were cleared off the table by the eager waitress before we'd even finished and almost manhandled to the door! Needless to say we didn't tip them. Back at The Hole we were again surprised to see a large audience. Almost too many to fit into the venue. Familiar faces from the night before too. We played our best gig I'd say. Not just in Europe, but ever! We had the audience in the palm of our hands. It was a great atmosphere that contained pin-drop moments and loud raucous whooping, both at their appropriate junctures. We tried to prop up the bar again, myself and the guitar player trying an array of different cocktails. I smoked a cigarette indoors just cause it was novel. We networked a little; entertaining far-flung fantasies of all moving to Berlin. The piano player and the bass player went out to a techno club. The drummer went home. Myself and the guitar player followed, a little worser for ware.

S A T U R D A Y
We didn't eat at the breakfast place. It was closed. Maybe because we were early rising. We split up, the drummer and I walking ahead to The Hole and dining in a vegan cafe. I then realised I'd forgot my passport and had to walk all the way back to the hostel. Standard. The Hole was closed and there was no answer on Elena's phone, or Johnny Depp's, or indeed Chewbacca's. We were stuck waiting. And waiting. I eventually went round to the car park behind and chanced a lift up in the elevator. Floor 5. The Mindpriates Collective. The brilliant white workshop/warehouse was awash with mindpirates, males and female, all decorated in dark eye makeup. There was some photo shoot going on and people were busy. "Too busy to answer the phone!" said Chewbacca as he flicked his long hair out of his eyes. Eventually someone escorted us downstairs and unlocked The Hole and we were able to retrieve our gear and pack Walter for the journey ahead. We bid farewell to Berlin at midday and drove straight to Antwerp, scared to stop in case Walter may play up again. We fizzed along the black roads straining the engine, trying to beat the 70 mph downhill, "I just got 71! called the drummer from his perch in the front, wrapped in a blanket, Walter's heating having broken. At least the windscreen wipers were semi-functioning as the rain splashed down. We landed back at Jan and Lieve's house at 9pm. We ate Chips and Joppi sauce and all went to bed; well all except the piano player who went out with their sons and didn't return till 8.30am in the morning, about the time we left for Calais.

--

We returned to England in one piece. More or less. Our heads were reeling and our fingers aching, we'd played our socks off. Burned the candle at both ends. Lived the life of rich rockstars without the money or fame. We conquered Berlin, and in doing so left a piece of our hearts there. For a band like us to travel out into the great unknown on a whim and come home within budget, heck £45 a person richer, is a real achievement and one I'm proud of. And I hope it gives other small bands the confidence to follow their dreams. You don't need an agent or big bossy manager picking and choosing your gigs. Just find a venue that suits your style and fix it up yourself. Find a bus. Plan your route and go out and play for your supper, you'll come home a richer man, in more ways than one. Europe is friendly. It's treated us well. And we're blessed to have a decent following in Holland and Belgium, but Germany is a complete unknown and we played to double the crowds. It was an awfully big adventure, the biggest we've done and one hard to better. And dear old Walter, we couldn't have done it without him, and it wouldn't have been quite so much fun in a regular smart van. He wouldn't start again at the customs check point in Calais, 10 frantic minutes spent trying as the clock ran down and the horns blared behind us. He was searched as well across the channel in Folkestone; English customs believing him to be smuggling refugees, that or harboring a meth-lab! And perhaps the funniest of his ailments came just 30 miles from home when the driver's door broke and wouldn't clasp shut and so I had to hold it closed while driving along the A30. I parked him up and tied the door shut from the inside and left him for his owner to collect. I heard later that he wouldn't start for 3 days.

Dear old Walter.

The boys and Walter in Berlin..

An awfully big adventure

2600 miles in an old Hymer motorhome with a dodgy battery. We have enough money for the ferry and the rest is left to chance. Temperatures in Berlin are down to -2 with a chance of snow. We can't afford breakdown cover and we haven't played together for 4 months. Sound familiar? In case you'd forgotten we are The Odd Folk. 

"It's going to be an awfully big adventure!" said an old friend as we sat nursing a cup of violet tea on a windy January night.
"Yeah, our biggest yet!" I reckoned.

And it will be. And perhaps our most foolhardy too. Unlike the tour of Holland and Belgium, where we have a strong fan-base, in Germany we are unknown. It's a total stab in the dark, we're on blind faith, all in the name of adventure. And an awfully big one at that!

Since the turn of the year, it's been quiet, understandably, but quieter than usual. In fact I'd say the tour was a direct result of the silence that fell about as the new year struggled to find it's way.
 
"Nothing's happening!" I remarked more than once to the guitar player.
"It is for me, my business is booming, I can't even take a day off in winter!" he replied. "And I'm expecting a baby!"
"No, in terms of the band. I'm getting itchy feet. Shall we go to Germany?"
"No."
"Come on!" I pleaded.
"No. Final answer." 

A month later and it was all booked up. I don't know how I persuaded him, but deep down the pull was still as strong. Because, despite the business and the baby and the building of his house, he was, at heart, a musician, and a musician is somebody that is willing to give their entire life to a moment, to a melody, to a lyric, an interpretation that will stir the audience's soul. That and the fact I had to offer him a free week's labour! The others were quicker to jump on board. The piano player, on hearing Germany was good for paintball sales, was the easiest to recruit. The drummer, still between jobs was next to commit and the bass player the last to sign up, but perhaps the keenest, a big fan of Berlin and the only one of us that knew someone there. 

And so, we return to type. On a whim. With no money and no fan-base. It's the adventure we are after though, the open road, the unknown. Landing in a new city and playing for our supper is terribly romantic. Seeing how our music and our stories can touch people and turn strangers into friends... it's all about the experience. That stays with you longer than a paycheck. And you enjoy it much more. 

We have long debated whether to take our friend Karim (the cameraman) along to film another trans European documentary, but we've decided to ride solo this time. A combination of many things; the tour is just too long, we'd come out with a feature film which would take 3 years to edit, by which time we'd have finally succumb to grown-up jobs and dis'band'ed. Also, it's been done, you watched it last year! Plus we've found a better opportunity for our third and final film, more on that later. Without a camera, we will live the experience a little more, we'll be ourselves, and there is a chance of more drama. Don't worry I'll write all about it.

The itinerary reads... 

THE MAGIC GARDEN
FRIDAY 4th MARCH

 Here we begin, in a wonderland, a festival bar, full of magic and bright lights... 
 

THE GLADSTONE ARMS
SATURDAY 5th MARCH

We'll pose on the roof at the famous Gladstone Arms, and dress in black and white clothes and shoot this on a really grey day.

CAFE DEN HOPSACK
SUNDAY 6th MARCH

Having crossed onto the mainland, we'll arrive in Belgium cross-dressing as women and playing accordions and wearing checkered shirts.

THE PHOENIX APELDOORN
MONDAY 7th MARCH

Across the boarder in Holland we'll all dress as Morris Dancers as we take the stage at The Phoenix, a famous dance school cum folk house.

KALLASCH& MOABITER BARPROJEKT
THURSDAY 10th MARCH

Finally in Germany (if the bus makes it that far) still cross-dressing and having acquired a double bass, we'll take to the stage in one of The Guardian's top 10 live music venues of Berlin!

MINDPIRATES - THE HOLE
FRIDAY 11th MARCH

In the heart of the famous Kreuzberg district, at the Mindpirates venue, from our hiding place behind the drums, we'll turn the camera on the audience..

So there you have it, 6 gigs in 8 days, in 4 countries, covering 2600 miles.
We have a box of CD's, a bag of random-sized T-Shirts. We have 30 songs, 10 of which we don't know. 3 of us can drive. None of us speak German. We'll probably forget something and then leave something else in every town we pass through.
We are completely unprepared for a journey of this nature; borrowing a rusty old motorhome that takes two men to steer and an indicator that only turns left. We have no money. No contacts. No idea of what to expect. But, that, my friends, is exactly how we like it!

And so do you!

Oh what a wonderful year! (2015)

The clock struck midnight and myself and the piano player were driving south on the M5 an hour shy of Bristol. All around fireworks rose from the distant towns and illuminated the sky. It was a new year; full of opportunity and resolution. "It's gonna be a good year!" said the piano player as he swigged Leffe. "We're making a new album! I think we should aim to get to America this year!" he slurped again, "There's no reason why we cant! It can be our resolution!" I sucked another travel sweet and pushed harder on the gas. I didn't want to burst his bubble. Later on, in a cosy bar in Bristol, we met up with the guitar player and made merry; dancing and larking long into the shoulder of the night. Warm with drunkenness, it was quite possible by then I too believed we'd get to The States; buy an old van and drive from town to town. The optimism was infectious, even the guitar player, usually so pragmatic, was starting to consider it as we wobbled along the curbs at dawn. The next day was spent under the claw of a hangover, with the optimism of the 'Eve' all gone. Our 'resolution' hadn't even made it to February, the American dream was shelved on New Year's Day.

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JANUARY was unusually busy for us; normally we'd huddle into knitted jumpers and hardly talk to one another, but this year we had to be on the ball. We'd successfully raised a pot of gold to make a new album, secured the services of a famed producer and written a clutch of new material. We spent two weekends in succession crammed into a rehearsal room learning our new songs. We were taking 3 old classics with us and had written 8 brand new ones, it was a lot to learn, too much too soon. In hindsight we should have began writing new material 6 months previous, not the night before the final rehearsal, when spurred on by chateauneuf du pape, I'd helped the guitar player craft his song, Haul Away. We were behind schedule it was obvious, half the material hadn't yet got lyrics and many songs were too cluttered. Still, on the final day of January, eager to showcase some of the new additions we took to the stage at The Golden Lion, Bristol, to a healthy audience, we played 4 new ones with varying degrees of success but it was the old classics that stole the show. The Lion was not the best venue for showcasing our more acoustic side, it's a rowdy venue and our Bristol fans wanted to celebrate the completion of their January detox by stomping their feet through the floorboards, they were Whisky Drunk, they wanted to find Kayleigh Jane and string her up!

And so it was that on the 6th of FEBUARY we drove up into the mountains of mid Wales, to an old shooting lodge with no hot water and a ghost in the attic. We filled up on food and ale, lit the fire and kept it burning for 10 days solid. It was our lifeline, our only heat, its crackle became our comfort, and it fragranced our recordings. In the mornings; usually the drummer, first up, would lay some twigs on the dulling embers of the night before and wait till they flickered alight, add a couple of logs and we were away, burning for another day. This is not the right medium to fully do justice to that fortnight up at Belan Hall. I could and should write a book, to delve into the highs and lows of that cuddle of days. Outside a blanket of snow, the eager spread of the pine forests and the ridge of mountains like a fringe above us. Inside, our songs clipped and changed and re-arranged, the weight of 14 hour days, ego eruptions, phones balancing on the top window sill in the hope of a shaft of signal, and on the rare occasion that they buzzed they dislodged and fell to the floorboards below. The largest bath in the world that needed 10 hours of a kitchen fire to heat it, and then 10 kettles to top it up. The clink of ale bottles, the buzz of electric blankets, the oasis of a girl arriving to play the cello after 9 days of male fug. The atmosphere of those late night sessions, with the fire purring, the aroma of a palo santo* and the darting flicks of candlelight. It was an incredible week, one none of us will forget, nor the producer I believe! In many ways, it was How NOT to record an Album and I don't mean that as a witty punchline, nor as a failing, but more as an eye-opener, an enormous opportunity that we just weren't quite ready for. We made a really good record, I strongly believe that, but we could have made a great one! We were a little shy and unschooled, a little under-cooked. But it's all part of the process. 

'MARCH brings breezes loud and shrill and stirs the dancing daffodil'. I remember little about the weather though, since the album had finished we had retreated back into our own little world's, it was tuck, tail and run time, like hermit crabs into their shells. The end of February and the beginning of March was a time for solitude and reflection. In many ways it was the January we never had. As the month matured, we took a gig at The Fleece, Bristol's most famous music venue. It will forever be known as the £12 gig on this medium, and has it's very own blog entry! The gig very much spurred us into life again and we began the rather arduous task of recording overdubs with a producer who was as busy as a centipede in a toe counting contest! That said myself and the drummer did manage to pin him down and drove to Birmingham for percussion and trumpet overdubs. The bass player laid down additional mandolin and kora parts in London and the piano player slept through his piano overdub session in Cornwall.

APRIL and MAY were largely fallow months. I took a theatre job in Norfolk and the rest of the band were left to their own devices, with the guitar player's shift from insurance to gardening the biggest career move! Contact was minimal, we chased the producer for mixes but received none, confirmed a few gigs for the summer but plans for a launch were impossible with no end product in sight. As May drew to a close, the theatre job finished and I drove 10 hours from the wrap party to a gig at Don't Wake The Fish with very little sleep. We took to the stage at this gorgeous Cornish ale festival and delivered a barn-storming set to some 500 fans. It was a welcome return to the fold, on home soil and very refreshing to see the boys again after a two month absence. The following weekend we drove to London for gigs at The Underbelly and The Gladstone, a chalk and cheese affair, a tale of two venues, with the latter a far superior establishment and one we will always look to return to, and the former, though it has served us well in the past, we have out-grown it now and the chances of a return are slim.

"If a JUNE night could talk it would probably boast it invented romance!".
It was a quiet month (romance aside!) with the album completion continuing to delay. The artwork did begin, but that too hit a snag as we didn't know which songs were going to be included and couldn't all agree on an album name. The guitar player launched his gardening company, employing the piano player as a skivvy, the bass player went litter picking at Glastonbury Festival and the drummer turned 40!

JULY was a much busier affair that saw performances at Trehake Mill and Shilstone House before we completed the second of our pledge gigs at the Sea, Salts and Ale Festival in Mousehole. All three were achieved without the drummer. Now whether this was due to work commitments (a particularly big flour order!) or the fact he was smarting at turning 40 remains to be seen ;-)We used the guitar player's cousin, an eccentric live wire replacement who learnt 14 songs in a day!

"The AUGUST clouds suddenly melt into streams of rain". After dry and lean months of no progress on the album, suddenly it began raining; the producer starting sending in mixes, the artwork starting coming together, track listings, duplication costs, it was all go and we were drowning! We still had time for two gigs; Dan Gill's Wedding and our much anticipated return to the wonderful Shambala Festival both rather lovely affairs and both casualties of streams of rain!

 
SEPTEMBER was fraught and pinched. Months of idle waiting were replaced with days of stress, the dread of the deadline, all the loose ends finally being tied up, but it had been so long we'd forgotten what knots to tie! Again it felt rushed, just like the recording, it felt unprepared and out of our hands despite our best efforts. Suddenly we had to make huge decisions on songs we hadn't yet heard mixed, overdubs we hadn't imagined included were all layered in, but did they work? How about a little more of this or that? But time was angry and because we'd been waiting for Godot all summer, we were behind schedule and it was crunch time! The artwork and illustrations by the beautiful Mae Voogd was ticked off, the duplication all ready and waiting but the mixes themselves were going back and forth and with the producer about to disappear into the busy oblivion again, we had to act fast. The bass player took on the last few mixes himself and after a madcap dash to his London studio we made the print deadline by the skin of our teeth. But why was there a deadline at all, why was there this pressure you may ask? Good question. It was a combination of having kept our funders waiting for almost a year and the fact we only had a limited window of launch opportunity ourselves; jobs, pre-booked holidays, cousin's aunt's weddings, paint-ball conventions, the usual! If we hadn't made this window we'd be forced to launch in the new year (i.e NOW! 15 months after securing your money!) That was just too long to wait, and a notoriously bad time in the music industry. As September reached it's end, myself and the drummer donned our postman caps and drove around Cornwall hand-delivering the new record. And then spent over £200 posting the remainder to the mainlanders and oversea's fans! We took a benefit gig at The Long Road to raise money for the Calais refugees and then took a well earned rest!

"Chicago is an OCTOBER sort of city, even in spring!" Quite the most bizarre quote i've come across but it'll do for us. We've never been to Chicago so we can't possibly comment on whether this is accurate either. England however was a mixture of sun and rain and hailstones and wind, all in the same day. It was a similar month to January if truth be told, both in its weather and the fact that we had to re-learn all of our new songs in preparation for the upcoming launches; in Bristol and Penzance. With the album cut from 11 to 10 we had 7 brand new songs to practice, songs that hadn't been played since recording had finished in February. We'd strategically left them out all year so that when we released them they'd retain that brand new quality, that never-been-heard-before magic. But that meant we couldn't remember how to play them, they were very rusty, they were still foreign bodies to us, plus we couldn't physically play all the instruments we used in their creation. So we drafted in an extra pair of hands, Louis Gulliver King, a multi-instrumentalist and one of nicest people I know; he came in and added banjo, wurlitzer, electric tremelo and mandolin. Two heady days cooped up rehearsing in the studio and then we took to the stage at The Fiddlers, in Bristol and The Acorn in our hometown of Penzance. Haul Away was finally launched!

NOVEMBER and DECEMBER were rather anti climactical months if truth be told. We never had any plans for November, but its older cousin was very much in our forethought. We had long talked about a 3rd helping of our very popular Merry Folking Christmas show but the venue doubled booked itself with a Christmas panto, and despite the panto company agreeing to share the space with us on the proposed date, the venue manager refused to allow this and we had to walk away leaving many of you disappointed. And so, we ended the year, our 5th as a band, with 14 giggles, bringing our total rather neatly to 100! 

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It's been a big, big year; the recording of the dreaded second album was eye opening, but it was post production that really pushed us to the edge. We've seen career changes, redundancy, a £12 gig, a 500 strong chorus of Whisky Drunk, we've welcomed 4 new performers under the odd folk umbrella, received royalty cheques from prime-time radio airplay and can name Noel Edmunds as a fan! And yes, we haven't clocked up as many miles this year and reached those dizzy heights of 2014, but we've kept this ship afloat through some stormy weather! It's like when Arsenal pumped millions into a new stadium and had to go through a period of austerity while remaining at the top of the league, so we've ploughed time and money, blood and tears into a new album while retaining a live presence. It's been a year of pulling together and I must take my hat off to the drummer here, for despite going awol in July he really rallied us together in the closing months and kept this ship from sinking. Being the newest member of a close-knit foursome and being the only one from 'up country' has had its hardships, but he's got a good steady hand on the tiller and he can set a good course for the year ahead!