Where’s the blog? They
kept asking. Was it hard without Oscar? We can't find the
blog!? They said. I said, hold your bloody horses. Let’s let the memories sink
in a bit shall we? Nobody wants a rushed romantic entry. Scribbled in a wave of
nostalgia. I’ll write a real account when I’m good and ready, I said.
And I did. And here it is. And it was hard without Oscar. Bloody hard. Hard for us but hard for the fans too.
“Where’s Oscar?”
“Aw we miss Oscar!” They’d chirp.
And it’s not that they didn’t like Pat; they loved him. Loved his humour and his humility.
“Bring them both next time!” was the common denominator.
The whole time I was worried about the music and that never suffered. Not one note. Pat slotted in perfectly. As comfortable as an old shoe. It is a huge testament to him and his preparation and ability that I never missed Oscar musically. I missed him as a person. As a traveller. I missed his wit. His warmth. His pragmatism. But the music was good. By the end we were as tight as a drum. It’s always the same and it's always a shame that we arrive home in top form and then don’t play again till the summer ;)
* ... It begins with a bad back. That classic injury when you push a highchair closer to a table. No? Maybe it’s just a Dad thing then. No? Maybe just me. It begins with a rushed chiropractor appointment and my response to his advice to rest up for a few days is to set off on a 2000 mile tour through 5 countries in a 3000 ton truck with 700 kilos of equipment on board. Penzance is everything I love about this band and to showcase it in your hometown is special. Strange to play with Oscar and then to leave without him. Strange for him to play with us and then let us go. Pat is parachuted in.
A smooth landing. He arrives knowing 20 songs and we throw another 7 at him that afternoon. He laps it up and carries on purring. Newquay is strange, we are all a little loose. Nothing to inspire us. There's an angry wind that whips the scarf from your neck and blows your hat away. It's another storm. An Irish one, i've lost count of the names. Bristol is busy; the stage is small and we are carefully placed like figures in a miniature doll's house. It's fun and fancy and at times bordering on the boisterous. We have an afterparty in the van and drink some obscure sprit that tastes of fireworks. It's a lazy morning spent trying to find ways to dodge the emissions zone. It's quite apt that on 'climate change day' we are forced to park our big diesel bus on the outskirts and pile into Mr. Ali's mini cab with all of our gear. London is strangely subdued but we still kick up a fiesta for our Italian fans. In Folkestone the key breaks off in the lock and that's a little scary until we find the spare but by then we've missed the crossing. We arrive in Lille a little late and it's a hard set up, trying to rig a PA we've never used and squeeze into a space that's barely big enough for a duo. The crowd are big and bouncy and there's a lot of drunken singing along to the tunes without knowing the words so we just sing 'la la la' and they seem to love that! Pat's on fire now, throwing off the studious approach, spending less time looking at his music stand and more time with his eyes closed pulling bass faces. We drink some whisky and raise a glass to Saint Patrick; a Cornish band playing an Irish celebration in France! Is that 'odd' enough for you? I don't get swept up in this Americanisation for one minute; it's a massive tourist trap with everyone wearing green beards and giant guinness hats. Instead I raise my glass to Saint Pat, our very own Irish bass player, who's actually from Boston. I drive down into Germany, defying Chiropractic orders, and steer the van over the Eifel Range. It's picture postcard views from every window as we plait around the mountains. Up and down steep valleys. Slow on the hairpin bends and when the wicked sun flashes across the river and blinds you. Rabbit in a headlights. Mosel is a perfect evening; a concert hosted by a generous eccentric in his 400 year old house on the banks of the river in the heart of the Riesling wine country. It's well attended and well received. Jan is a perfect host, sharing his stories and his home and the contents of his wine cellar. We have a day off, spent exploring the vineyards, shooting a music video and drinking more of Jan's wine. Every time we try to go to bed he produces yet another bottle "even more special" and it feels somehow rude to stop. Bonn is next, but not before the German Polizei flag us down and demand we hand over our drugs.
They snoop around the van, threaten us with dogs, check our passports and reluctantly wave us on. We meet Hendrik, host number two, he's got his work cut out trying to match Jan's hospitality, but he succeeds admirably despite the fact that he doesn't know any of us. A friend of a friend mentioned we were looking for a gig so he booked us one, opened his house, made us 5 little beds, fed us, watered us and arranged that his folk band support us to pull in a crowd and then refused to take any of the hat. He is a kind and gentle man and another example of the generosity that make these adventures possible. We are stopped again in Cologne, the polizei check the van's paperwork and then check it again, narrowing their eyes trying to climb into our minds and psych us out. Snooping around the boot convinced they'll find drugs or immigrants. Then they soften, return our paperwork and agree to come to our concert that night. It's a good crowd but a bad pot. We play as well as we can. This is as good as it gets. We're starting to purr now. But money is down, slightly, but just enough to make us think. We're chased out of the city the following morning, an emissions warden asks to see our certificate and I just drive off praying that he hasn't clocked the registration number while the rest of the band pile into the moving vehicle like we're escaping a robbery.
We head north to Utrecht, following a lead for an impromptu gig, and as we are just shy of our estimation, we decide to busk for a couple of hours to top up the pot. We make more in this charming city than we did playing to a full house the night before and it's fun to dance around playing Hound Dog and Hard Days Night. The gig never materialises and so we head to Zelhem a night early. Super-hosts number 3; this is the oasis in the desert, the calming pitstop on the long and bumpy road and it's come at just the right time. Tensions are high, fatigue is kicking in, we have a 10 day hangover and everyone is in need of a rest. And it's like summertime here, a full day off without the threat of Jan's wine cellar. We eat and shower and lull around the large garden; playing cards, fixing organs, reading books. The gig is beautiful, our hosts are perfect, creating the most visually inviting house concert yet. We depart well fed and rested, the last leg of the tour, onwards to the boisterous beer capital of Belgium. Antwerp has long been our favourite haunt, the only venue we return to every year, but lately the magic has been muted, the pot, once healthy, has been falling and perhaps we have overplayed it, outdone our time. But for that first sip of Ename Tripel it will always have a special place in our hearts, and those faded walls are full of memories. 5 years ago on our very first European tour it seemed like the holy grail. We got the biggest crowd they ever had. But the bar was set too high and the years that followed were less fruitful. We play well. The music is good. Well received. Good beer. Good cheer. Hosts number 4, the best of the bunch? Could be! Jan and Lieve, our old friends and they know how to throw a party. A house concert follows at their home in Berchem and it's well attended, well organised and well placed. But it's a strange one, and looking around at my bandmates, eyes closed, ensconced in the songs, I can't help but feel a little sad. The last one. I look across at Saint Pat, owning every note like he's the one that's been playing them for 9 years. The piano player's fingers skipping along the keys, with his eyes planted on me, in the moment, in the music, connected. The drummer, as steady as a clock, the heartbeat of the band. The accordion player, focused, theatrical, charismatic, like a magician; 'and for my next trick I will play the trombone and the shaker at the same time!' We all seem bound to the music. 'Banded' together. 14 nights in a row and the songs are playing us now. And then in a matter of minutes it's over. Put down. Packed up. And pushed back to England... *
It ended with a bad back; seems the Chiropractor was right, skipping off on tour wasn't the best medicine. We arrived back in Penzance at 5am, 14 days later. I was bent over like an elderly man. Shuffling up the road like an old camel. But memory is a medicine too and in the days that followed I found some comfort in the messages that flooded in, the swell of support, the fact that we pulled off another miracle.
So here's to the hosts, all of them, all opening their homes and their hearts, giving out for sake of it, for the love of music. Here's to house concerts and bustling bars, to Bristol and Belgium and Bonn. Here's to beers and bad backs and band mates and being blown away when they made a speech to thank me and gave me a bottle of rum. Here's to recognition after all these years of feeling like a lone wolf. It bought a tear to my eye, in the quiet time. And that will never sleep. And here's to luck, cause you need it. And faith, that you can do it. Here's to friendships and followers and favours. Here's to the future. Here's to climate change and cherry blossom and the criss cross of canals. To police and van parties and playfulness. And here's to Saint Pat, raise your hats, the most professional musician I've ever met with the most disorganised band, a match made in hell. And here's to Oscar, it was like leaving home without your bag and all your stuff and all you know. It was a hard one, this one. But they all are. In their own way. They're the best and worst of all we know crammed into a fortnight of living on the road, on the edge of the seat. Glass half full. Hold your head up. Play your heart out. Tell your stories and once again it's the fallout that's so humbling. Almost more than the applause ringing out in the moment. That's why I never write the blog straight away. You've got to let the memories sink in. Cause there's medicine in them.
And I did. And here it is. And it was hard without Oscar. Bloody hard. Hard for us but hard for the fans too.
“Where’s Oscar?”
“Aw we miss Oscar!” They’d chirp.
And it’s not that they didn’t like Pat; they loved him. Loved his humour and his humility.
“Bring them both next time!” was the common denominator.
The whole time I was worried about the music and that never suffered. Not one note. Pat slotted in perfectly. As comfortable as an old shoe. It is a huge testament to him and his preparation and ability that I never missed Oscar musically. I missed him as a person. As a traveller. I missed his wit. His warmth. His pragmatism. But the music was good. By the end we were as tight as a drum. It’s always the same and it's always a shame that we arrive home in top form and then don’t play again till the summer ;)
* ... It begins with a bad back. That classic injury when you push a highchair closer to a table. No? Maybe it’s just a Dad thing then. No? Maybe just me. It begins with a rushed chiropractor appointment and my response to his advice to rest up for a few days is to set off on a 2000 mile tour through 5 countries in a 3000 ton truck with 700 kilos of equipment on board. Penzance is everything I love about this band and to showcase it in your hometown is special. Strange to play with Oscar and then to leave without him. Strange for him to play with us and then let us go. Pat is parachuted in.
 |
| Incoming... Saint Pat |
We head north to Utrecht, following a lead for an impromptu gig, and as we are just shy of our estimation, we decide to busk for a couple of hours to top up the pot. We make more in this charming city than we did playing to a full house the night before and it's fun to dance around playing Hound Dog and Hard Days Night. The gig never materialises and so we head to Zelhem a night early. Super-hosts number 3; this is the oasis in the desert, the calming pitstop on the long and bumpy road and it's come at just the right time. Tensions are high, fatigue is kicking in, we have a 10 day hangover and everyone is in need of a rest. And it's like summertime here, a full day off without the threat of Jan's wine cellar. We eat and shower and lull around the large garden; playing cards, fixing organs, reading books. The gig is beautiful, our hosts are perfect, creating the most visually inviting house concert yet. We depart well fed and rested, the last leg of the tour, onwards to the boisterous beer capital of Belgium. Antwerp has long been our favourite haunt, the only venue we return to every year, but lately the magic has been muted, the pot, once healthy, has been falling and perhaps we have overplayed it, outdone our time. But for that first sip of Ename Tripel it will always have a special place in our hearts, and those faded walls are full of memories. 5 years ago on our very first European tour it seemed like the holy grail. We got the biggest crowd they ever had. But the bar was set too high and the years that followed were less fruitful. We play well. The music is good. Well received. Good beer. Good cheer. Hosts number 4, the best of the bunch? Could be! Jan and Lieve, our old friends and they know how to throw a party. A house concert follows at their home in Berchem and it's well attended, well organised and well placed. But it's a strange one, and looking around at my bandmates, eyes closed, ensconced in the songs, I can't help but feel a little sad. The last one. I look across at Saint Pat, owning every note like he's the one that's been playing them for 9 years. The piano player's fingers skipping along the keys, with his eyes planted on me, in the moment, in the music, connected. The drummer, as steady as a clock, the heartbeat of the band. The accordion player, focused, theatrical, charismatic, like a magician; 'and for my next trick I will play the trombone and the shaker at the same time!' We all seem bound to the music. 'Banded' together. 14 nights in a row and the songs are playing us now. And then in a matter of minutes it's over. Put down. Packed up. And pushed back to England... *
It ended with a bad back; seems the Chiropractor was right, skipping off on tour wasn't the best medicine. We arrived back in Penzance at 5am, 14 days later. I was bent over like an elderly man. Shuffling up the road like an old camel. But memory is a medicine too and in the days that followed I found some comfort in the messages that flooded in, the swell of support, the fact that we pulled off another miracle.
So here's to the hosts, all of them, all opening their homes and their hearts, giving out for sake of it, for the love of music. Here's to house concerts and bustling bars, to Bristol and Belgium and Bonn. Here's to beers and bad backs and band mates and being blown away when they made a speech to thank me and gave me a bottle of rum. Here's to recognition after all these years of feeling like a lone wolf. It bought a tear to my eye, in the quiet time. And that will never sleep. And here's to luck, cause you need it. And faith, that you can do it. Here's to friendships and followers and favours. Here's to the future. Here's to climate change and cherry blossom and the criss cross of canals. To police and van parties and playfulness. And here's to Saint Pat, raise your hats, the most professional musician I've ever met with the most disorganised band, a match made in hell. And here's to Oscar, it was like leaving home without your bag and all your stuff and all you know. It was a hard one, this one. But they all are. In their own way. They're the best and worst of all we know crammed into a fortnight of living on the road, on the edge of the seat. Glass half full. Hold your head up. Play your heart out. Tell your stories and once again it's the fallout that's so humbling. Almost more than the applause ringing out in the moment. That's why I never write the blog straight away. You've got to let the memories sink in. Cause there's medicine in them.
Made me cry. It's so brilliantly written, "here's to luck, cause you need it, and faith, that you can do it" so true, I've played in bands all my life and you guys capture the magic of it so well, this needs a bigger audience.
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