PART FIVE
Thursday - Edinburgh:
Up and out early for the four hour drive to Edinburgh. The Brits we talked to seem to think this is a long drive. Nope. Memphis to Chicago in one day is a long drive. Or Atlanta to New Orleans maybe. Which has been a common occurrence for us in the past. This ain't nothin'.
The drive is a good one. It takes us through Newcastle (Toons!), and up the East Coast past Lindisfarne and Berwick and into Sctoland. Just south of the border we stop at a pub I've actually eaten at several times over the last ten years or so. I went to college in Edinburgh and this was a convenient stop on the way to or from town. In fact the band stopped here last year and received that same pub food and pint re-fueling that we love so much. The fireplace almost keeps us glued in place but we press on.
An old college buddy, Rocky, is our host for the evening. Not only is he putting us up for the night but he booked the show for us as well. I get to meet his brand new daughter, Daisy, and then we head on the club.
The Seven Sisters doesn't usually have bands but it is a great room. A sinking feeling begins to come over us, though, as we realize that there is only a p.a. for a DJ, not a band. Gracious and valiant attempts on the part of the staff to secure a p.a. prove fruitless so we are posed with a choice - bag the show altogether or do it totally unplugged in one of the smaller rooms. We choose the latter. A quick set of our more acoustic numbers and then we can just enjoy a nice evening in Edinburgh. Which we do. The owner of the club, Kenny, is apologetic for the mis-communication about the p.a. and buys us all a bunch of drinks. Southerners and Scots understand each other. Yes, we do.
The evening is salvaged as we sold enough merchandise to have a nice kitty for a night on the town in what is arguably Britain's finest city. I'm not biased at all, un-unh. Kenny has even put us on the guest-list for a late-night club down the road that he owns.
After a quick turn 'round to "The Canny Mans" (one of my favorite haunts from the old days) we head to the late-night place. Roven and I get separated from the rest of the guys and carry on late into the evening. This is a common dynamic. Single guys huddle together and stay out late, while guys with gals huddle together and go get food.
Friday and Saturday - Helensburgh, the Highlands and Glasgow:
Helensburgh, Scotland? Where?
After a full day of doing the tourist/nostalgia/find-Roven-a-cello-string thing in Edinburgh we do, indeed, find out where Helensburgh is. And what it is.
Where it is, is on the Firth of the Clyde River about 40 miles west of Glasgow. What it is, is a totally cool fucking town with a great club, the Clyde Bar, and a totally fucking cool promoter, Paul, who speaks very quickly and with an incredibly strong Scottish accent. Subsequently, anytime he'd tell us anything the band turned to me for translation. I don't speak Scottish that well (though better than most) but with a year in Edinburgh and several Irvine Welsh books under my belt, I do understand it. It's almost as good as my 'restaurant' Italian.
This is the biggest crowd we've had thus far. We sell tons of CD's and have an excellent time. Despite the fact that I've lost my voice and stubbornly sing anyway.
Crack-o-dawn the next morning. We decide to take a long drive up into the West Highlands. We figure we can make it to Glencoe and back to Glasgow (Glasgee, ye ken) in time for our soundcheck. We need to make it to the club before 5:00 which is when the England vs. Scotland Euro qualifying match is finished. Ye ken, fitba. Soccer we call it. If Scotland loses the authorities fear massive riots. We want to be safely barricaded into the club well before the fun starts.
The drive is awe-inspiring. And, at least, when Chris has mounted a two hundred year old highland nag, very entertaining. And yes, we have pictures.
The obligatory pub-lunch is more dramatic than usual. We sit outside at the foot of the huge mountains of Glencoe. Being of Scots descent, John and I are particularly moved, as not five miles from that very spot in 1714 the Scots fell prey to their mortal enemies - the Scots. One set of our Scots ancestors, the Campbells, massacred another set of our Scots ancestors, the MacDonalds. We really enjoyed our Haggis and beer.
We time our return to Glasgow perfectly and drive unopposed directly into the center of town. As we pull up outside of the club a tall, very concerned looking fellow bolts purposefully out of the door and begins to hurriedly wave us inside. He is looking around as if he is trying to spot snipers and hustles us into the Chambers Bar. Apparently there was a bit of a scrape on the street earlier between English and Scottish football supporters. The game is almost over and Scotland is losing. He wants us inside lest anything else sparks up. I'm thinking that the 700 riot police within my own limited sightline will probably serve as an effective deterrent. I don't know though. They take their football (fitba)seriously over here.
As it turns out this is Tom, the show promoter. He is a firefighter by day so I reckon he must have a fierce inclination to protect and serve. I will say that the moment I saw the concern in his eyes, simultaneously comical and touching, I knew this guy would be a friend of Jolene's for years to come. It doesn't take much to incur our loyalty. Or wrath for that matter. If it was the nineteenth century I'd be challenging a number of dis-honourable bastards to duels.
Tom (last name Hamilton, like the bass player for Aerosmith, to whom he bears no resemblance whatsoever - I think I'm gonna go put on "Rocks" right now. Just for old times' sake.) and his girlfriend Gail have organized the show splendidly. The Chambers Bar is probably the best sounding room we've played in yet and has a warm intimate vibe. Chris was right when he said "there was a lot of love in that room". We were well adrenalized after the show so John, Chris, Roven and I made our way out to a late-night dance club and did a little booty-shaking. Rodney went to get a cheeseburger. Decorum prevents me from telling you what happened after the single guys split from the married guys.
Tom and Gail put us up for the night,
make us breakfast in the morning, drive Roven to the airport (he had to
go back to his real job - coz' everyone knows being a musician isn't a
real job) and send us on our way back to London with our spirits soaring.
And several good book recommendations.