Current page: Concert Diary 2009
Current page: Concert Diary 2009
As if by magic Autumn has rolled a multi-coloured paintbrush across the land. This is England, and to be more, and comfortably precise, the North of England. It is the winddown time when the ashes of Summer are rolled dancing across the forest floor and along the winding roads before the East wind.
We who entertain, are lucky enough to straddle the world, but it still amazes me that you can hurtle in a steel tube across the blanket of the dark, a seemingly impossible height above the earth and believably unreal. Unreal? Yes. You sit in your seat in a tiny point in the sky, cursing the financially driven designers or penny pinching airline moguls who, if they had but granted us poor 'Economy' class drifters two more knee inches, life would have been so much easier. Buy more records folks, then for me, a man of millions of miles in the sky, it is a welcome respite to journey 'Business Class'. Would I not feel sorry for my cramped fellow travellers? No way. Life is a jousting ground and the winner takes all- as someone once said.
So. Where did I leave you? I think it was with a sense of relief that initially voiceless and all, Tom and I artistically blew them away every night. This was not a contracted tour. It was depending totally on who came in for the 'famous name.' Indeed, because of 'Lord of the Ages' as it is in South Africa, they'll come- if they know you are on. With a black majority government and riddled with the corruption we come to expect from Governments, white artists do not get the publicity. It is a point of fact.
Tom was good. Very good (for a Celtic wimp) and went teetotal down the tour (I respect his reasons) so, you will all be relived to know, I made up for him wherever possible. Anyway, together with the man whithout whom the tour would have been a disjointed affair, Ulrich, we rolled back the miles down the Eastern Cape. The audiences came in to pack out and sell out. For the first six dates we had Themi and Cheryl, two gorgeous people with a great sound system who also booked in the B&B's. Heavens, you just have to check out SA B&B. They are the most hospitable people in the world. A beautiful place sunk in tropical gardens like Bamboo, in Knysna would cost you around £22 a night, Jayne Court was mine hostess. Try that in England. The host, Eugene, had been an oil rigger, world traveller and tour manager for Ray Charles. Then in George, where we sold out the Arts Theatre. John was on sound. So very good. Ray did backstage; the lady whose name escapes me sold it out by working on it. And Ian was front of house.I met him and said 'hi' from last year. His foot in bandages. Why? Someone had dropped a piano on it.
The following morning, I am wallowing in a bath.The crew had moved on. I look out of the window and there some 300 yards away (note yards, none of your metric twaddlle) I see giant waterspouts climbing a fair height before diseminating on the ocean wind. Up come the flukes, and I yell to Tom, 'Humpback whales blowing just of the shore'... that is South Africa. Oh readers, how do you roll the score without engendering on your patience and reading time? Concert after concert. All memories beyond belief. Eugene's tiny Pascall Theatre and the couple that drove down Africa to see us- and each other. Elsa, driving at a speed light years of anyone around. I'm not saying a photographer in the Annie Liebowitz class (which she is) but my stomach joined me after the second set. Where would we have been without her.
Wonderful Kevin who took time off to drive us to gigs then spoiled it all by being yet another Celtic tosspot... his braai (BBQ to the civilised) and me shearing on his axe head for all time.
And as ever on this strange life of the road (which I was giving up on May 11th)... friends. Just where would I be without them? Steve and Sue roll in from Yorkshire at the sold out Barleycorn. Old South African friend, John and the gorgeous Astra. 57 years since I first met them in Harrogate Grammar School. In Cape Town, John invites us to a rugby game into his private box. Wow. No lover of organised sport, unless it is watching the Scots getting stuffed at Culloden (joke) we rolled back the years and later a braai at his beautiful home and invites for Cathy and I to head on down there sometime. Oysters and calamari in the Bell, Kalk (Chalk Bay). Lone surfers out on the tide. The impressively long list of those whom Carcharion Carcharia (the Great White Shark) has added to his dining habits.
This coming Sunday, Cathy and I head for Singapore. November 5th. we arrive in Brisbane to meet up with my old friend Eddie Odden, originally from Fishoek in SA. He and I sailed a catamaran 17 miles across False bay (so called because the old time mariners thought it Table Bay). Great white sharks have taken a formidable toll of victims there. Phew!!
And on. Table mountain with Kevin. Rock rabbits and the 'table cloth' down- which means icy winds. More concerts. De Boer. Jurgen. Sold out. What a sound man. What a night. Cape wine. Janine looks after us and - another leg up on the gig list... I'm losing track now without my diaries...
De Boer again. A fine band called Mcully's Workshop. Good. I load on board enough for me and Tom, (it is a night off), and then after one false start, 'Honky Tonk Women', with a supposedly impressive list of my personal anecdotes about the Rolling Stones. Great,- except, I got all the names wrong!! BUT... they were all up on their feet... oh, dear, and ah, well, in the words of Mick and Keith, (I know, its only rock n' roll, but I like it).
Up to Bloemfontien to be met in by Hein and we play the Vulture Club. This is Bush. And audience to die for. Tom now deeply wracked with the chest demon that has assumed him to be home for too long now (Celtic wimp). Dressing room sunk in deep cushions outside. Freight trains running past in the night with that oh, so soul wrenching whistle like a soul out on the loose. Another gig to die for.
Home to the B&B. Tollie Van Vuuren's place on Exton Rd. He and Susan just hospitality ordained. Tom, as ever, heading for the headsack, and sweet dreams of home. Me, the ol' roadman, hanging out with Tollie. He demolished red wine like no tomorrow. I left him around 4.30. deeply sensing the ghost of a young woman I heard was true the day after. Bed.
In the morning no sign of Tom. I get up. I wander through a house in exotic style and ambivolent in taste. Tollie wants to pour me a kingsize glass of wine for breakfast. NO. Really. Yep. Off with Hein, who drops in to top up his morning coffee with liberal shots of rum. Off to a Cheetah park. I stroke one who has a 'lump' (ladies will understand and men with embarrassing extemporal excursions will despair) and apart from a superb art gallery, this where Prince Philip proposed to our Queen. To Cheetah park with young white lions. We stroked them. I got bitten by a Cheetah who mistook me for Tom.
Durban next and the hard wrangling ends of a long one. We play, like last year, Krakatoa. Superb sound. A fine sleep, and at breakfast I watch overweight London heavies dealing gambling worlds. Outside for a coffee. A waiter says, 'there is a puff-adder just on the edge of the bush.' I'm intrigued and we go looking for it. He says, 'It can kill you in 20 minutes...' I look across at the London heavies and suggest, 'send it that way.'
Jo'burg next with the wonderful Culwicks after Durban weight hassles. Those people are magic as balm to hurt souls. We are so tired. Tom will insist (Celtic wimp) on blowing lumps of lung over all he meets.
Cafe Tanz. We blow them away again. The exotic sounds of a Martin D-41 and a Gibson J-200. Old friends Kenny an Inge are there. Known 'em for 40 years plus.
Next day. Home. I think I have to say in all 40 years that was a long one. Tom not in good shape (Celtic wimp). Manchester. Tom's family, Jerry and Rory. For me, Cathy and up to my boat- and sweet oblivion. It took some time to find the real world again.
Love,
Chris.
Narrow Boat, 'Seasons' October 2009.
Canterbury Festival 2009, Canada
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South African tour 2009
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