America part 2

It's midday and the sun is angry. The van has broken down and we're somewhere in the Mojave desert, near the town of Barstow; the armpit of the world. We've been in California for exactly four days and we've already blown all the money we made in San Francisco and we're quickly racking up a nasty debt. None of our phones work out here and we're struggling to get hold of the venue to tell them we're gonna be late. We might even miss the gig unless this bloody van starts. Why the hell did we borrow this dodgy van in the first place? Should have listened to the drummer and hired one with breakdown cover and air-conditioning and a bloody engine that works! Where is the drummer anyway? No wonder he pulled out, he saw the signs; the game was up. The piano player is outside cursing the heat, the tarmac's burnt his feet. "You could cook a fucking egg on this!" he shouts. The bass player's melted away in the back of the van. His red hair like a pool of lava on the bench. I selfishly drink the last of the water and brave the bonnet, cautiously peering into the engine like a man in a horror movie. It's fizzing

the game was up

like a cauldron. "You could cook an egg on this as well" I say. Of course I haven't a clue how engine's work, I have no idea why I am even bothering to investigate it; holding onto a faint hope that something's going to jump out at me like in a computer game and squeak 'over here, I'm loose, give me a wiggle and everything will be fine!'
I guess it's some weird duty to have looked in the engine just so you have covered all bases and you can relax back and wait to be rescued safe in the knowledge that you have tried your best. By nightfall some truckers stop to help us, we scoop the bass player up from the back seat and jump in the cab. In a nearby hostel we make contact with the venue two hours after we're due to start playing, "We were wondering what happened to you!" they quiz, "We didn't have any pre-sales so it wasn't a biggie and the barmaid did a DJ set so it's all good." We stick the bass player in the fridge overnight and we sleep in two bunk beds, it's hot and sticky despite the whirring fan and the noise from the freeway is a constant hum. We're forced to scrap the van the next morning. "Don't worry about it" says my friend, "like I said it's a piece of shit". We take the greyhound bus to LA, piling all our instruments into the giant lockers underneath. Thankfully the bass player has solidified by now and he's just coming round, "what happened?" he asks. "It's a long story, we'll tell you in England." 

-- -- --

This is a cautionary tale, a 'what might have been' and perhaps I am writing it just to make myself feel better about the impending decision to cancel our tour of America. Trying to justify it in some abstract way. 'Yes, we can't possibly tour California because it's too hot and I'm absolutely certain I'd borrow an inadequate van!'

America was always a pipe dream, or a castle in the sky, but the more we explored it, the more we got swept up in the romance of it. I've lost count of the number of times we had a 'business lunch' in the Artist Residence and crunched numbers, hustling further, firing hopeful emails across the pond, most of them missing their targets but some landing and with every 'hit' you'd get swept up again, swallowed by another wave of optimism and adventure. It really was the opportunity of a lifetime, our greatest height, the pinnacle, the holy grail, not only of our musical journey but of our sheer determination and pig-headed stupidity. And it was the latter that was fuelling it. And suddenly we had a tour booked, or half booked, readymade for disaster, all we had to do was sally forth. But we didn't. And it's not even about the money, although that never really added up no matter how wildly we speculated; the cost of flying us out there and keeping us fed was astronomical but we've taken hits in the past and that's never what drives us. And it wasn't even about the lack of personnel. First the piano player pulled out, and then when he realised

that we'd go without him, he pulled back in again! Next the drummer pulled out, that was like someone knocking your crutch, you loose your balance but you don't fall over, and we could cope, we do more often than not. Losing the accordion player was an unexpected blow, like losing your coat in a gale. Myself and the bass player just sat on the fence and waited for something to happen, unaware that we were the ones leading it. Briefly the trio rallied around and for a moment or two it still looked possible. But in the end we dilly dally'd too long. The gig's we'd hustled got cold feet and deadlines were missed. We didn't commit. We were scared. Realfuckinglife won over. The impracticality of it all. Our conscience if you like; leaving wives and babies while we tour Europe for a profit is one thing but crossing the pond and spending all your savings on a whim is another matter altogether. Don't go chasing rainbows round the corner, let alone across the pond. 

And will we regret it? If this was the opening? If this was the door? Then yes I think we will. I know we're trying to postpone it and I have assurances from some parties that the offers are open. Others less so. When you ask a favour and then don't take it, it doesn't come around as quickly the next time. 
Don't cry wolf.

It looks like another notch in the bedpost of How NOT to be in a Band. Spend the whole winter organising a tour in The States without ever really believing it yourself and when the inevitable happens and it breaks down you are left with nothing in its place. An empty year. And not just any year, your decade year, the year you're suppose celebrate in style by doing something groundbreaking. Like going to America! Instead we have an empty calendar. We are as scattered now as I can remember. I am not even sure if the drummer's in the band anymore, he's gone quiet, perhaps he quit again and I forgot ;) The piano player is in Portugal and has "no plans" to return. The accordion player if off on tour with another band and that leaves myself and the bass player sitting on the fence. We are The Odd Folk. And it's from these embers that we rise again, we always do, it only takes a little wind and it's all flickering away nicely. I'm not worried. Sometimes it's good to deflate a little, it makes you realise how much you want it and gives you that spark to go again. I'm confident we'll still make a decent year and you'll all have plenty of chances to see us. And even those across the pond, perhaps when the weather is fairer and we can afford a decent van!