We have lost men and women.
Brothers and sisters dear to us. Their courage and buoyancy will never be forgotten. God bless you, where ever you may be. Each and every one of you.
Before our great loss we harnessed the last push. I don’t know how but we got to Brussels. We ate fish, Nathan got sick. We got to Amsterdam. Biff got stoned. We got to Berlin. We all got Adler.
We are all dead here, or at least dieing from it. Only surrender will help us now. If we surrender to the death and languid exhaustion we may be able to slip away unnoticed and jump a plane to Paris. This I’m sure we can do. My fear now is what will be waiting for us at the end of the flight. To finish us off. To send us to the packing factory – Strip us of our sanity and paint our naked, frailed skin in a harlot frenzy, pumping us furiously out of vending machines to hapless consumers all over France.
I have only ever watched television and from this experience alone I know that it is not for the faint hearted. But in it. On it. For it. Fuck my Balls! And French tv too.
Its best I think to leave thought alone for a while. Its warm where we are, dark and silent in parts. We should just enjoy this fleeting tenderness now while it envelopes gracefully.
What will come will come. Soon enough…
I applaud anyone who attempts to put their finger on Italy, Berlusconi excepted.
There is a tangent here…A Nation concerned only with the here and now. It is 1997. We are in Faenza on the East coast of Italy. Originally a Celtic and Etruscan settlement known as Faoentia – translating ‘I shine among the God’s’. Funny then that everyone is wearing neoprene bubble coats that glitter in the new sun.
They will dress us to boot as is so.
Gus wears a black lacquer poncho and motley tweed hat. Biff is in a silk flurry and buttons. Liz Green – Justin Timberlake. Hannah Moulette wears Faberge tidings. They dress me in war and a pink scarf. Thankyou Faenza because last time we were here you dressed me in a backless robe, attached heart monitors to my nipples and covorted me round the local hospital with a saline drip stuffed into my veins. Then you released me and my wreckless wreckless heart with a pouch full of barbiturates, a head full of barbaric Italian invocations and no diagnosis. This is true. Last year I was a sick puppy. I thought I was dieing and our patron saint Morena held vigil over my poor lungs until the devils day break. This year however I am as strong as a bird as we feast on Pumpkin Mouse, chestnut ravioli and noisette parfait. Its pinball from here on in…
Milano is no. It is not something but a chain of diabolic recess. A blurry maybe that never quite happens but we are here to do a job and we may be professionals yet. Now we eat dry pasta and sweetcorn, the olives amidsst this hearty supper gorge themselves on capers and bits of red pepper and we can only be satisfied with the efforts we have made to be on time. We shall never be Italy. Here it is the ninties, it may always have been and may always will be. The Lighting Seeds blare through our sorry minds, Bryan Adams is amongst us. Escape is necessary. It is imminent
When we finally play we are all drunk. Us, them, the whole catasrophe. It all makes sense. It all makes sense. We cheer. They cheer. We dig in. They dig in. We are displaced and for them, I hope it is no longer decades ago and that we have decades to go. Yes Milan
When you play for Liz Green you play for the scene, and the scene plays back…
BASEL: Now that we’re leaving Switzerland we’ll have to face the Lah di dah.
A crowd can be the main focus of a concert just like the presence of nothing can be the main focus of a canyon. On the other hand a crowd can stimulate the performers to reach new heights in the same vein as the booking of a concert across the alps can stimulate our Sprinter to reach new heights.
Switzerland is very generous and before hoiking us south it gave us some of it all. In one place there is a lake and there is some stone steps with a crack in them and there is a catholic with a crack in him. I feel safer near the steps so I run. I run toward the lake until I become marooned, marooned in both senses of the word. I am pouring sweat and I feel guilty because the beer they filled us with last night is local and tastes of lovely and now it is running off my face, down my back and onto the ground and it is wasted…
Now we find ourselves on a bridge. We’re still not up to date but a whole day and night in a van leaves you with a body clock like crumpets and insides to match. We will get there, I promise.
People came from very far places to watch us. They joined in, they signed up and then they left. We still had work to do. Gus worked very hard. He had to stay up all night to get his work done but he managed to get square. You could tell because in the morning when I joined him he had work all over his shirt and he was still laughing.
The people who left us did so with alarming effect. I for one have been left astonished – worlds have collided, they have smashed definitions and left big open spaces to fill in. The only thing left to do is join, sign up. Live in the tree house, pick flowers, cook on the alps. Good food, for now goodbye…
We are long off the boat, long gone from Zurich, in the middle of nowhere. Somewhere.
Last night we played the Gonzo club. It got weird. They called Nathan an island monkey and told us to go cook ourselves. Later I crossed the street with the promoter. He hung from a woollen scarf in a drunken haze. Whilst he bashed the doors of a high class apartment block, jabbing with his impotent finger at the row of buzzers on his right, his girlfriend wrestled violently with a ring in her lip. She twisted, she glared, she hated. With all the ferocity that one could gather from a perfect stranger she hated me. Because I had left my bag in the top room of this apartment block and now I was making her wait in the street whilst people up above threw cold piss down on us in floods.
Zurich has always been good to us and as usual they played exquisitely…
A short time will pass. Then we shall pass.
I am in the kitchen ready to embark on a human tour of the european world. I can only imagine what horrors and delights await.
This will be an account in the bravest sense. It may not even reach the pages…
We all have our big boy shorts on.