I took this tour on as I figured a man could have a lot of adventures in Europe during the course of 5 weeks.
I was right. It has begun.
Yesterday was one of the surrealist days of my life. Even if you didn't factor in the stop and search at the Italian border, the remarkable scenery and the crippling long drive, the day got increasingly weird as the night drew close. The support acts were two guys who toured together but played separately - the first was the Ian Curtis of the guitar world. A man whose music came close to simple noodling, short atmospheric strumming punctuated with the occasional blast on a harmonica. What made him fascinating was that his leg would compulsively jiggle with every chord he played, and with each jiggle he looked like he was about to cry, He was, however, an entirely charming Frenchman and I bought his album at the end which is really quite good.
The second act, his partner in crime, was a middle aged American who most resembled Allan Ginsberg. He also played solo guitar, but his songs were a bizarre cross between 70's childrens television and cliched hippy optimism. Each song was accompanied by a kids drawing, and most of the songs were about 30 seconds long and comprised solely of sub-Jim Morrison style poetry. Simon, and in fairness many others, had to leave the room for fear of laughing too loud.
The gig was played, we hung around for several hours talking to locals and waiting for the man whose house we were staying at to stop getting horrifically drunk and leave. We followed the pissed man as he drove at scary speeds through the unlit Italian countryside, pursued by the two support acts in their live-in camper van. The drunk Italian, who we shall name Trotsky, lived in a remote village farmhouse about 20 minutes outside of Mirandola - which miraculously contain 9 fully-prepared and made up beds for us all to sleep in. The supports acts went to bed where Allan Ginsberg read a map of Italy from cover to cover, occasionally laughing to himself. Us, we went outside to drink a nightcap and watch shooting stars... it was very beautiful, in a Texas Chainsaw kind of way.
Woke up the next morning to find Trotsky was meant to be having his entire family over for lunch, but had decided to meet them elsewhere - leaving us with an unlocked farmhouse and two banjo playing hippies. We took a walk, smoked a joint and played with the cat which turned out to have ticks. Playing Frenchmans album of improv jazz we sped to the next venue, stopping off in Palma for pizza and church visits. I am now sat on the fire escape of an old farmhouse turned arts centre cum venue cum sports hall watching the sun go down over an open meadow. It's about 8 at night and gorgeously warm, my face is numb from sun and I've just been given a free beer.
There are people I miss at home, and there are things I'd like to be able to do. But right here, right now, there is no better life.
currently listening to: 65daysofstatic play live
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