Finally in New Orleans

It's been a while since the road blog was updated, so here is the next bit.
After the standard morning coffee for most of the band, and breakfast at a fast food joint (being vegetarian in the deep south is very difficult and I had to rely on baked potatoes and apple pie) we hit the road and approached New Orleans several hours later. Drove along a long straight causeway type elevated road with no junction for about 25 miles. Water on both sides, some ramshackle houses built under the road right on the waters edge. We changed radio stations as the one we'd had on had got consistently less appropriate for our surroundings. Songs from 'Grease' do not fit the mournful beauty of the Big Easy skyline. Muddy Waters was howling on another station, so we let him and turned it up.

As usual we had to catch up with Time, as it always seems to get a head start in any journey we make, also we hadn't the foggiest idea where the venue was. Howlin' Wolfs Den, on South Peters Street - see, I can remember it now! Directions procured from a dimly lit, friendly bar got us there and as others worried about food I set off to walk to the Mississippi. My heart raced as I climbed steps towards it anticipating my first glimpse of that famous river. After walking through a colonnade of shops and seafood stalls, there it was, and I realised it was just a river. The water wasn't even brown. However, paddle steamers still ply their trade for tourists, one in particular, the Natchez, still powered by steam rolls up and down the river with a jazz band on the deck.

Later that evening we met the band we had a gig with, The Dirty Bourbon River Show, and made our acquaintance with the gentlemen involved; Noah, Jimmy, Charlie and Bootsy. Be sure to check them out and lose your inhibitions to their grooves Cab Calloway would jive to.

Our show in Howlin' Wolf's was a lot of fun, if quiet audience-wise in our first half. By the time the DBRS had played a set and we were on again, the atmosphere was more electric and several girls had taken most of their clothes off.
A late night out followed, on Frenchman Street where we danced to a fantastic swing band in a venue called the Spotted Cat, and I met a guy called Ben who grew up in the same town as me. Strange...
Meandering our way in giant curves back to the hotel, I marvelled at the curiously European architecture. This appears to have some history, whereas Nashville, although it is fascinating and it's inhabitants are warm and welcoming, feels like it was built recently, in the grand scheme...
Back in the hotel, around 3am, we found to our delight that the outdoor, unheated pool and hot tub were unguarded so spent the early hours jumping from one extreme to the other. This was yet another moment previously described, of lying on my back in the water in a strange city stargazing.
In the morning, determined not to waste a moment I woke up and and wandered off into the backstreets and down the tramlines on the waters edge. I watched the Natchez moan at the sky in a spray of steam and magnificently roll lazily away. I took a streetcar into Main Street and encountered a parade, band, feathers and dancers winding it's way through the centre, and back with the band later on, saw the Hurricane Katrina damage with my own eyes and I realised what a brave, vibrant city this is, and how much of a crime it was by the government to show such a lack of love when it was needed the most.
I was welcomed so warmly in New Orleans - I wish we could have spent more than three days there.
Later that evening we drove to the Circle Bar for our second show, this one with the excellent Revivalists; one of the tightest, groovin', funkin' bands you'll see live.
When the city was flooded, the Circle Bar was fifteen feet underwater. It's a great venue, and it was rammed for our show.
Afterwards we carried on the revelry on the balcony of a bar somewhere else in the city, and since we were leaving in the morning for Nashville, friendships were made and parting was sweet sorrow, with promises to return next year. We got back to the hotel in the back of a friends car, a few of us. A few too many for the car. Four in the middle, some lapriding and me and a new friend in the boot, watching the lights whizz by sideways. Determined to relive the previous nights exploits in the pool, and having talked it up to our female companions, to their amusement, or bemusement, we all stripped and jumped into the hot tub. Apart from Jake, who jumped in with his clothes on. After a few minutes of raucousness the security guard came up to us, didn't say a word, and turned the bubbles off. The nerve! There we were, trying to host a party and he came and spoilt it. We all got out, feigning apologies and faux dejection, apart from Jake, who hid...under the water.
I just doubled up laughing, wondering how long he would last, hiding from a grumpy security guard at the bottom of a jacuzzi. The next hour was spent waiting for him to leave us alone, then all jumping back in again. Mike, usually attempting to keep an eye on our misdemeanours from a safe distance, was in the bar and heard a commotion between security and reception staff. I don't think he needed to ponder for more than three seconds that we may have been the cause.

We really don't act well in civilised society unless we have eaten something. Even then, we're not your picture perfect gentlemen every hour of the day. So breakfast in the morning, then the long highway back to Tennessee. We stopped for dinner at Chillis in Tupelo, the birthplace of Elvis. Just thought I'd mention it as Tony the proprietor was a good guy, he looked after us, and if you're ever there, go and say hello.
That's all for now.
Jaz.

Changing of the guard

As the curtains shut on 2010, our most eventful year by far, performing in such far flung places as the USA, Albania and the Lake District, inciting revelry and riots at twelve festivals, and making a new record in Tennessee, we're saying goodbye to George Bird, who has played drums for Tankus the Henge since June 2006.
George is concentrating on other projects including the brilliant Saltwater Samurai, I urge you to check them out and download the EP from Bandcamp, even better, catch them live.
http://www.saltwatersamurai.bandcamp.com
We wish him all the best in the future.

Taking over on drums is Seb "Seabass" Laverde and we're very excited to play our first shows with him in February in London. To find out more about Seb, stay tuned! Whatever you do, don't miss it.

In the few months between now and when we see you, have a great Christmas and New Year. Beg, borrow and steal the album we were selling this year as it's now unavailable - if you have it, give it out!

In with the new...

From tomorrow night, we're going to be launching previews of the record that we cut in Nashville, TN two months ago. We're very excited about this and can't wait for everyone to hear the full, cataclysmic spectacle next year.
However, due to the legal spiderweb that is the music industry, we have to take down the album that is on MySpace, facebook and Bandcamp.
You will no longer be able to stream it or download it from Monday 29th of November. It's on sale for the shatteringly reduced price of £5 only! Available at www.tankusthehenge.bandcamp.com
- go there now before it's too late! We'd be much obliged if you told your friends on facebook and twitter and all the other 21st century methods you guys and gals communicate.

Added to that, if you own one of the CD's from a festival this year, copy it and pass it on.. there aren't any more!

Sorry the blogging seems to have gone quiet recently... we know there's more America blog to come, and also what we've been doing recently is very exciting and we'll tell you all about it at the opportune moment. But for now, it's a month to the day after Boxing Day, so start being Christmassy and download the first Tankus the Henge album before it's too late!
www.tankusthehenge.bandcamp.com
Talk to you all soon,
Tankus the Henge et al

Graceland and Highway 61 (the long road south)

Eventually we found our way out of Nashville and on the road to Memphis. I think it was the 65. Americans don't appear to use sat navs yet. Maybe this is because they're further behind than the UK in technology stakes, or maybe they just know there way around better than we do. I never worked it out. In any case, our hired car (with aircon, interior mood lighting, automatic sliding doors, under floor smuggling compartments and all the country stations you can imagine as standard) did not have GPS. It had a compass. In the dashboard.

Graceland was something I could not miss, I don't usually go for the 'tourist' option but I grew up listening to Elvis and as a performing artist, he kinda wrote a lot of the guidelines. The house itself is a strange environment of Presley's tacky and usually ridiculous decor, but kept absolutely faithful. It's exactly as he left it. Definitely got a sense of the family man and held-back artist. He always yearned to perform in Europe and the fact that he never did is a huge shame. The Presley memorial/grave meditation garden is one of the strangest, enchanting places I went. You should see it if you pass by.

We hit the road for the South. New Orleans via Highway 61.

This is called the Blues Highway because it passes through Tennessee, Mississippi and Louisiana. It's slower than the interstate but has beautiful scenery as you get into Mississippi and then Louisiana.
We drove for a few hours and with our minds made up about sleeping somewhere, (New Orleans still five hours away) we said, passing through a one horse town, that we'd stop at the next motel we found. This turned out to be over an hour away, so somewhere in-between our misinformed decision and Greenville, where we finally stopped, I had to take a leak.
As good ideas go, the next one isn't flying high. We stopped in a closed gas station, and as I got out to find a tree I realised that we were in the midst of a huge trailer park, on both sides of the road. The trees were unbearably close to these palaces on wheels, so laughing nervously to myself, I pissed on the gas station instead.

Greenville's claim to fame is that Jim Henson was born there. And Kermit. That's all I could find. Neither are there anymore. We stayed in a motel with the trucks balling by outside. The usual argument began on who was going to share rooms with who. In Nashville we had been split in half, with everyone having his own double bed, Chris in the live room, Dan and Jake in their own personal bombsite, and Mike, George and myself in the other studio with a such a selection of strange items suspended from the ceiling I felt as if we lived in a chandelier reject emporium.


So after Mike deals with the sleepy proprietor;
Mike: We'd like three rooms please.
Man: That is fine. Where are you from sir?
Mike: London.
Man: (jabbing himself in the chest and slightly raising his voice) I am INDIAN.
Mike: I know.

We moved in for the night, we appeared to have four rooms. Chris with me, to watch apocalyptic cartoons until we fell asleep or the world ended, whichever sooner, Jake and Dan the slothmen together, foolish idea if inexperienced. We have poured water over Dan's head in the past. George and Mike had double rooms to themselves. Unless they both ended up sleeping with rednecks and just didn't mention it in the morning.
When the sun rose I woke up and wrote to a few people at home before walking to 61 and gazing down it. After everyone was awake apart from The Other Room we moved the car and hid it around the back of the motel, I had a vision of Dan and Jake sloping off down the highway with their instruments. In fact, Jake appeared shockingly promptly looking suave and collected and I don't think Dan even noticed it was in a different place.
The filter coffee replaces the blood.
After the carnivores (everyone else) hit KFC for breakfast because there was nowhere else I felt thankful for being a plant-eater, and we rolled onwards towards the South.

To be continued. Please tell your friends!

In which the right party takes place in the best wrong house possible.

Following the bluegrass pickin' party, (we were there with Robin, our producer, Mike the tour manager, Kentucky Kenan and our recently acquainted friends, Anna, Dana and Ben) we were asked to leave by the police. For some reason they got involved in the party and were quite stern about everyone getting off the land immediately after the curfew. Having no plan, we were invited to go back to Anna's house to have drinks and stay. As there were eight bodies going, it was too many for one truck, so I jumped in Kentucky's truck with Chris and the others went with Ben. Going via a gas station (they call them gas stations) to pick up beer and chips (they call them chips), we still hadn't really been out of Nashville at this point, so I for one was still surprised at the sheer scale of trucks and Coca Cola servings... on the contrary, the others were more surprised at the Corona bottles being undersized. Practically able to finish one in a couple of swigs. Deceptive... as it turned out later on.

We pulled up at a turning off the main road that winds it's way into the countryside from Downtown Nashville, and bade farewell to Kentucky Kenan, leaving us with just the one truck. It was quite a long way out, far enough for the houses to look like mansions. This was no exception. It had everything; pool, walk in wardrobe, garage bigger than my house in London, bathrooms round every corner, a bookshelf with three copies of War and Peace and a fully laid out dining table - which was odd.

The kitchen was spotless. I'm used to living in a constant state of transition between spotless and bombsite in my kitchen, but this was well and truly sparkling. After a couple of minutes of Anna searching for the lightswitch, (sure, I lose my lightswitch in my house too occasionally), we had a good look and I noticed a champagne glass full of skittles. I thought nothing of it, the surreal tangent this night was taking was making me think differently about suspicious details, especially when Ben turned on the oven and after a few minutes smoke started to billow out from the closed door. A common occurrence in new ovens. Thinking back, I'm still not sure what he was planning to cook. I remember there only being a bag of cookies, the aforementioned glasses of skittles in each room and a huge bowl of lemons. "Here, we have plenty of lemons! Let's jump off the roof!" announced Anna, with the gusto and presence of a ringmaster at the start of the circus.



As Jake, Anna and myself sat down at the beautifully presented dining table, we realised that we did have some other form of nourishment, a bag of popcorn, and a bag of genetically-altered popcorn which were all the colours of the rainbow. We chose this and served it out onto the heart shaped crockery infront of us.

As Jake and Anna were getting on like a house on fire, discussing literature, I glanced out of the open door just in time to see Chris flip into the pool in his boxers. The darkened garden beyond that had no movement at all. It was the middle of nowhere. Just trees, this mad house, the stars and the road outside.

Jake stood up and rubbed his nose on a porcelain toad sitting on the mantlepiece.
"Hello Toadle"
Turning and announcing to us, he continued;
"He was my brother, I knew him well. He's my favourite author..."
"Who was?" replied Anna.
"Adolf..."
"Hitler?!"
"Yeah! But he smells of ham."
"What's your favourite book?"
"The one about the horses and the bear...and how they find a balloon."
"Mein Kampf?"



I headed outside to the pool to find Dan and Dana sitting at the table, and I lit the lantern as it was the darkest part of the night, and a fog was rolling across the fields towards us. Slightly nervous about the qualities of an unknown fog, I stripped and jumped into the pool. I still can't dive. I never have been able to. In fact, I get nervous about jumping off things into water, even if it's a few feet above the surface. Dan is a great diver, and back in Albania we had a great time abusing the swimming pools in the hotels on tour, but when there's a diving board present I get queasy and tend to stay away from it. Dan persuaded me to try and launch myself off the end but upon arriving at the moment, my left foot got scared and just fell off the edge, I followed, ungainly smashing into the water sideways and coming up with water in my nose and ears and Dan laughing at me.

In our hosts pool, in the middle of the night, with cooling fog gradually drawing itself like a vast blanket across the stars, I felt calm and excited at the same time. There's something strange about floating in water, looking at the sky, in a place you've never been. I have experienced this exact feeling a handful of times this summer and it's a moment you want to bottle and keep, but obviously that's impossible. So, true to the cause of feeling floating cosmos oblivion, I am just going to have to end up in situations where I can do this.

Tired of jumping in and out of the pool, the popcorn eaten and a suggestion that we should put the barbeque, tables and chairs into the pool dismissed as not worth the repercussions, a giant woozy game of hide and seek ensued, with the obligatory countdown leading to some amazing hiding places being discovered, or not, as in Chris's case.
I hid on top of a massive oak wardrobe and survived a raid of inside the magnificent specimen of furniture by Dan and Jake, who never looked up, only to be busted by Dana dryly saying "there's someone on top" from the doorway.
After about two hours of searching for Chris, we gave up and fell asleep with the sun in the east starting to burn away the fog. From what I gathered the next morning. Chris had been discovered on the roof, like a crazed cat clinging on to the chimney and refusing to come down and accept that he had been 'found'. Giving up, the discoverers of his whereabouts went to bed themselves and we were all woken up in the morning by the front door opening.
A stout figure, slightly rotund with impressive whiskers stepped over the hearth and gaped.

Keep calm. It's probably her dad.

I rolled off the couch and pulled my boots on.

"Who are you? What are you doing?" he fired at us, metaphorically.
"Er... we're leaving? Who are you?"

"I'm Dick. I'm selling this house. What are you doing in it?"

OK. Panic now.

I had to remember which shower I had left my sodden clothes in. After taking them off to jump in the pool, the splash of us bounding in and out had made them just as soaked as if I had just gone in with them on.
While I was picking up items that belonged to me and my eyes were adjusting to the increasingly bad situation, I passed someone completely naked wrapped up in a carpet. You learn to just accept these things.

The last words he said to us were "You better roll your joint and get out".

So we did.

American videoblog - part one

Making the new Tankus the Henge album

photos by Jim DeMain

Full Moon Pickin' Party with added accordion

Bluegrass instruments: guitar, banjo, fiddle, dobro, upright bass, washboard, saw. Do you see 'accordion' in that list? No, neither do I.
When we arrived at the Full Moon Pickin' Party, it was well under way, and there were hundreds of folk playin', eatin', drinkin', and dancin' on a farm in the middle of nowhere. We'd been invited along and told to bring our instruments, so there we were. Bluegrass is a genre rooted deeply in american tradition, and most of the songs date back to the beginning of the world. (that's about two hundred years to you and me)
In fact, a lot of the songs were imported using the minds of unsuspecting Irishmen hoping to find their fortune in a new and exciting land.
I approached a group with my abomination of an instrument and they were enthusiastic, if a little nervous, about my entrance. They asked me if I knew any bluegrass and I replied in the negative, hearing this, they launched into 'my grandfathers clock'. The eagle eyed among you will remember that Dan and myself had recorded this, as a joke, for a post on facebook videos. It's probably still there. I couldn't believe my luck. Instead of being embarrassed with not knowing the song about moonshine, the dog and how the grass looks better in the oklahoma sun, I actually knew the chords, the words and all the harmonies to boot. I waited a few bars to make it seem as if I was working it out, and then joined in with Ol' Wheezy. The musicians, delighted (or it may have been relief) that I could actually play, asked if I had any tunes and we played a gypsy number before the rest of the band sauntered over and gave a spirited rendition of 'life is a Grimm tale' to the crowd of puzzled, amused faces. We made some good friends that night and I have been back to a couple of bluegrass jams since.

Smiling still makes the day go quicker

So last night was spent in the Melrose, a bar frequented by musicians, loners and other freaks who all shoot pool and moan about the crap that gets churned out of other jukeboxes but the one in here is tolerable so it's here they stay and nurse their beers and look at the waitresses and think of the road.
Soon though, when the Melrose closes and rats go back to the starting line the ones who love life at night dance across 8th avenue to the billiards hall and shout at the cars and the stars and the tzars behind bars.

In the billiards hall down the steps away from the balmy night in an old cinema, they don't show pictures there these days, but guys and girls drink and play pool while the battered Wurlitzer juke in the corner blasts sounds that a generation would die for and did die for.
While the band play doubles I get involved with a game of shuffleboard which involves pushing a puck with skill and finesse along a polished salt covered surface, getting as far to the end as possible without slipping off, as well as knocking off the other players pucks. A trio of hipster musicians named Logan, Stanton and Joshua introduced me to the rules and we played a while. I'd wandered over there as I had grown tired of watching the pool, even though girls, entranced with taking aim, make very good painting subjects, but my skills with a cue are mildly horrific and I'd sooner try and balance one on my chin with a tray heaped with hot oysters on top than actually attempt a serious game. However, after departing the shuffleboard contest, I did play one game of pool and got four balls in the holes but it didn't change my life so I ended up at the bar with Danny who was trying to blag a free haircut.

This morning I woke up and discovered I had left the lava lamp on and fallen asleep to it's crooked glow, and during the night it had overheated and the glass had cracked. There was red wax all down the wall, a pinky molten mess had sunk into the carpet and the water from the lamp was surrounding the electricity socket. Hearing a pack of dogs going spare outside, and surrounded by clothes, loose change and lava lamp I had to change my environment, and fast. I found my jeans in the corridor and crashed over sideways as a result of getting my left foot stuck in a hole halfway down the leg. As usual we made life difficult for ourselves by sleeping in two separate buildings with one key for each building. Therefore my morning ritual involves rubbing the sleep outa my eyes while I walk to the other building, and then hauling myself over the gate, missing the barbed wire on the top and jumping down the other side to grab the key off the table to let myself back out, then waking the dead, or so it seems, from their unconscious slumber within a darkened lair.

Aptly today we were recording a new version of Smiling Makes The Day Go Quicker. I was slightly apprehensive as the first version has been around for ages, you all know it and I must have played it close to a thousand times. We've recorded the basis of most of the new record and deliberately left Smiling 'till last as we thought we knew it so well. Took about an hour and several coffees, but we ended up with a version that you'll have to wait to hear as this record isn't coming out for a while. If you still haven't got your hands on the current one, go to http://www.tankusthehenge.bandcamp.com and check it out. It won't be around forever. Neither will we.
Keep smiling, people, it's not the end of the world!

In which we found ourselves on the wrong side of a barbed wire fence...

Let me just map out the area of our roamings for you. In case you wished to imagine more accurately our escapades.
If you turn right out of the studio you find yourself heading through a boneyard with pickups scattered around and truck trailers waiting to be dragged to the east or west coast with all manner of articles inside, like the trucks that arrive at the Goodwill store on the right daily. Another right and you get to the railroad with it's huge, grinding engines goading mile long trains of "Building your America" and "Union Pacific" trucks up to Canada or down to Mexico. Every twenty minutes or so another mammoth engine crawls past with blinding flashing lights and a horn that sounds like thirty brass players that believe they are playing notes from the same chord until they actually play it, and then just carry on anyway, even though the audience's ears have long since been damaged.

If you happened to go to the other way out of the studio, you end up in a railroad yard, which you can cross over, with Old Mrs Grissom's salads neon light on a water tower as a focal point. This takes you towards the Tennessee fairgrounds site, which is due to be torn down I believe, which is a terrible shame because as I mentioned in a previous letter, the Speedway is fantastic, and is currently having it's final race on the 4th of October. Anyway, the Fairgrounds Speedway was the site for the Tennessee State Fair, which finished yesterday and has eight foot barbed wire fences with locked gates.

After taking part in an argument about why you shouldn't put a half can of baked beans, tomatoes or anything else for that matter, in the fridge (still in the can), and also a separate, but related argument regarding who couldn't manage to eat a whole can of beans anyway; Michael and I set off into the dark on our 1950's bicycles, lent to us by our producer. The lack of suspension makes bumping over the railroad tracks in the yard a painful experience, unless you stand on the pedals. While I was doing this, though, the bike slipped out of gear and as all my weight was on the pedals, I lost my balance and fell off into the gravel. Fortunately I wasn't going at a breakneck speed like I would be in a while.
Having explored the nearby vicinity, and visited the fairground the previous night, we decided to pay Old Mrs Grissom a nighttime visit and we took the hill that runs past her salad joint. Slightly wary of my earlier mistake with the gears, I held on to the fragile gear changer as if my life depended on it as I forced the bike up the hill. The seat is also slightly too high, so if I slow down too much on corners and inclines, consequences may cause suffering.
At the top of the hill, we came across the Oasis nightclub looking vibrant and .... shut.



After this we reached a wide road heading downtown with practically no cars on it, and without warning, Michael took off down the hill towards the beckoning lights of Nashville, where there's a curious skyscraper that is shaped like Batman's head. Check it out if you're there.
So while Speedy freewheels towards Batman, I relish the moment (sitting slightly awkwardly on a bike in the middle of the freeway looking at nighttime Nashville) and then take off after him. I heard the unmistakable wail of a cop siren and almost panic. We have no lights on but even though the road is well lit, on a quiet night like this it would be easy pickings for police to shop some rogue englishmen. Just before we can cycle to safety the barriers come down on the railroad crossing and then a hulking, groaning metal monster lurches into view, it's creaking boxcars and cabooses blocking the road. These usually take about fifteen minutes to pass, so we veer off to the left and go down a side road, which ends up in the seedy looking site of Tennessee State Fair, now closed and half dismantled. The gate is open, and we saunter in, myself curious about the dinosaur bones structure of a semi-disassembled rollercoaster and other assorted fairground rides in all manner of completion. The remnants of a giant ferris wheel, devoid of neon lights and lovers wrapped up in eachother high above the fair, a ghost train with the ghouls long since lost when the electricity died, and a carousel covered in sheets, the whirling lights and blaring organ vanished along with the customers...
Suddenly lights appeared over the hill where we entered, and we scram on our bikes, towards the centre of the fair and behind a shed full of sleeping camels and llamas. A dromedary camel, far from home, winked at me as we passed in the dim electric light. The cover the shed provided let us get out nearer the opposite exit of the fair, being guarded by four huge bears.


At the gate, we found to our horror, that it was locked. Briefly covered by the bears, I scrambled around looking for some sort of pedestrian exit, the lights behind of a jeep getting closer and closer. Nothing. All the gates are secured with hefty padlocks even Popeye couldn't break unless he had Mrs Grissom's spinach.
Realising that the patrolling jeep had seen us, I started to roll my bike down the hill, jumped on and was heading for a gate which looked open. I could see Mike behind the car, heading down the hill in the opposite direction. No luck, the gate I was heading for had a dead end beyond, just the carnival workers wagons and caravans behind the fence. I've lived and worked on a fair, but I wasn't prepared to knock on the door and say "hello. I shouldn't be here right now as it's closed and locked, but somehow I managed to get in by accident, and now I'm being chased. Could I come in?"
Just as the jeep was passing Mr Bear, Mrs Bear, Boris and Bertie bears on their truck, I saw the lights of a car enter the site, with an automatic gate just starting to close. Forgetting about the gear problems, the saddle and the loose mudguard that threatened to throw itself into my wheel, I pedalled hell for leather towards the closing gate and saw that Mike was doing the same. With just enough room for both of us, we shot out into the road with the gate clanging shut behind.


On our way back to the studio, with the moon blazing it's cold glow onto the mid-west, we passed the junction with a pedestrian crossing that always says "DON'T WALK". It never changes. There's a man there, with a long beard. He'll never get to the other side until they fix that light.

Old English bicycles and the Petrojvic Blasting Company

So... after three days of recording and Jaz devouring cheese slices on rice crackers, we had a day off. Breakfast involved cereal slopping around a bowl held by hands covered in sun cream attached to a jauntily moving body propped up on legs that hadn't come around to the idea of being awake yet, as the previously mentioned meal was hastily consumed to the time of the songs we were listening to... recordings of what we'd achieved, or not, so far in Nashville.
As the long summer days turn to autumn (or fall!), the temperature is at a comfortable 30 degrees C, hotter than your average day back in Blighty. We thought that due to there being no cloud in the sky, and us being the avid cyclists we are, well, apart from Jake, Dan, Chris, George...and myself, we decided to go for a bike ride.
Kitted out with very vintage English bicycles (mine was from the early 1950's) we set off with water, no food, and less of a plan. Let's face it, cycling doesn't come naturally to everyone. Jake's trousers falling down and Chris having a stupendous crash into someone's front garden are all evidence of this. Pretty soon George and myself got fed up with the others crashing into things and taking ages to get anyway so we caned it out of sight. Me on 'Old Clanker' and George on a one-speed bike. Up hills. Quite a few.


It was fantastic to be cycling through Tennessee with the wind in our hair and the sun driving us along and burning all the sweat and bad stuff away. We cycled through intersections, faster and faster, down Granny White Pike, and slowed down to climb a hill with a sign "You are now entering Forest Hills City Limits". Looking behind me I couldn't see the rest of the band for miles, only George and his bike with a gear missing, pounding up the hill.
By this time I needed refuelling and we came across a remote gas station with children playing on the porch, and parents in wooden rocking chairs smiling at them and narrowing their eyes at these two perspiring visitors with battered bicycles in the middle of nowhere. George and I decided that one of the others had either had a heart attack going up one of the hills, or they'd turned at one of the intersections after losing us, and were now ambling through the mid-west, destined to grow old and sprout long beards that tangle in the spokes of their creaking bikes. Passers by would say "there go the wandering Englishmen on their pedals, they sure never did find the way home..."

We returned to the studio after our excursion to Forest Hills and, expecting the others to be back already, were faced with a locked studio, and barbed wire topped gate. That hadn't been part of the plan. Little did we know that Jake, Chris and Dan, with Mike the tour manager had cycled back to a huge guitar shop and were giving the guitars and the girls the eye.
Not to be outdone, I recalled Brad, our producer, giving us directions to his house nearby, and for once in my life, I had actually taken in something that someone said to me. Off we went, and sure enough I'd listened correctly and soon we were sitting in his kitchen eating freshly baked cinnamon rolls courtesy of his wife. We listened to her educating us about the lives of solitary bees in the wild west, and told her the reasons why South London is better than North London. Solitary bees don't make honey, and taxis, and tourists still don't go south of the river...

After being reunited with the gang, we headed to Tennessee State Fair, up on an old site overlooking the city and the legendary Fairgrounds Speedway, one of the oldest stock car racetracks in America. The TN state fair bore much resemblance to a large European funfair, as far as the rides were concerned. The strange thing was the lack of music, most of the atmosphere came purely from people screaming, laughing and kids crying because they let their balloon go or dropped their ice cream. The State Fair didn't stop at rides though, it had animals, (llamas, camels, cows, sheep, goats, hens, rabbits, ducks, alpacas) exhibition halls of green energy, a stage with the time-honoured country singer leading the crowd in a version of "Stand by your man", and a shed with hundreds of sheep and their owner, a woman who looked blind as a bat spinning wool into yarn, telling three entranced children that "my lawnmower makes all this wool, I bet your lawnmower can't make wool, it probably just makes noise! Mine makes wool and fertiliser..."
Come to think of it I've never seen a bat spinning yarn.

Freewheeling down the hill away from the neon lights of the fair, we got back to the studio and a car screeched up with half the band in, who appeared to have kidnapped a gorgeous country singer named Maggie and driven off with her. The car was definitely not big enough for all of us, and sitting with my head out of the window, willed the police not to pull up at the lights adjacent to us. The doors exploded open like a car in the ring at the circus and everyone piled out like bedraggled clowns who suddenly didn't know where they were but were intent on having a ball.

Have a ball we did, in a vibrant art gallery turned music venue Ovvio Arte (www.ovvioarte.com) we discovered a group of musicians who had just returned from playing in Bulgaria, Serbia, Albania and the rest of Europe by the sounds of it, this felt like their homecoming show and I couldn't resist adding my cossack dancing to the jumping crowd. They are called Petrojvic Blasting Company, four guys, sometimes five, playing accordion, trumpet, trombone, helicon and other assorted instruments. We offered them a show in London and invited them to our studio to have a party. Maybe we'll end up in Albania at the same time in the future. Check them out, and if they're playing near you go and watch! http://www.theblastingcompany.com

Not bad for a day off.
What's happening in England, cold yet?
Keep in touch,

Nashville part one

After a ten hour flight to Charlotte, North Carolina from London, I realised that we were in America. Strangers looked me in the eye and asked how I was. Strangely, even though it was a connecting flight to Nashville, we had to collect our hold luggage and re-do the whole malarky of checking it in AGAIN to put on another plane. Because I'm a pain, I brought four things onto the plane when most sane people only have two. Two of these were my trusty accordion, which wheezes with tired enthusiasm every time I put it back together after another spot of running maintenance, and my trombone which is too good lookin' to leave in the UK.
Unfortunately my trombone had to surface from being in the hold and then go back down into the murky depths of another plane, but it had to be taken to a special 'valet' for that to happen. So while the friendly US Border control grilled Mr Drums and Mr Bass until they're crusty, I decided it was a good idea to wander off on my own and check in the trombone.
We only had an hour and a half between flights, and with twenty minutes to go before take off, I was getting slightly worried that I was still the only member of Tankus the Henge at the gate, and no amount of friendly Americans was putting my mind at ease. In fact I think they were probably stressing me out just a bit. Charlotte airport to Nashville is still too far to walk. I thought it was best if I did get on the plane anyway, but at the last minute, hats and instruments came lolloping up the corridor, and after querying the flight hostess (a man, I think) about some liquid showering out of the fuel tank, a big man with a beard and brylcream came to cable-tie the plane back together and push the dripstick back into the fuel tank (yes... honestly!) and the leak stopped. After that, off we went, and here we are, in Nashville, Tennessee.
It's a lovely day!

Cafe du Boulevard

A couple of hours ago I broke my bed. It's annoying when it's your own bed but when it's someone elses it's just plain awkward. Still, they'll find out in the morning as I'm sleeping on the floor so the friendly spiders and snakes that roam around can get a good look at me. I think tonight I'll sleep with my hat on incase the abominations Olivia imaginatively named "matrix bugs" which are really just harmless house centipedes decide to nest in my unkempt mop of hair.
Today was mainly centered around soldering and food, having consumed far too much silver solder and carefully fixed the piano with jam and warm croissants. Our life in France has so far borne a few new songs which we're testing out at relatively small but wild shows to an enthusiastic largely ex-pat audience who either heard about our antics from previous years or just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time but failed to find the exit quick enough, and a growing number of french ladies and gentlemen whom we really don't have the skills to speak to. So after tonights show (Cafe du Boulevard, Melle) instead we make do with following wild-eyed Nico on his scooter, with an outstretched leg for left/right indications, and Alice and Jennifer in their car, to a house full of instruments which looks like it's still being converted from a wonderful old barn. The night proceeds to climb unsteadily up a higher and higher hill into some clouds, where we momentarily lose our way, but no matter, Titus and Tatine arrive and he with his eyes shut head back soul gripping drumming, and her with her dancing, cowbell playing and pointing at me to play that accordion and that bass (I can't play the bass!) and we quickly gain momentum down the other side of the hill, crashing through anything in the way, language barriers, broken pianos and a cupboard full of cheese into the valley of "chaos at 4:19am" (I'm sure you've been there recently...) There was something written on their car but I can't for the life of me remember what it was. I think it was something to do with the revolution...

Tankus the Henge, France and Nashville!

Once again, the Tankus the Henge van is reduced to looking as if Jake stole the keys off George while he was asleep and drove it sideways through a landfill with the side door open. A festival weary guitar with five strings, an inflatable bed footpump, numerous hats, french bread and a copy of "Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance" stray across just one seat.


We're driving through France. We've been driving for about three hours since disembarking from the ship and resolving to eat our way across the land of the garlic bicycle, we've stocked up on fresh chickens, french sticks (naturally), houmus and cookies. There's about five hundred miles to go and every time we pass a truck with spray flying out of the wheels, my life flashes before me as sometimes it feels like we're flying a plane far too close to the sea, even though we're in a big red transit van.

The inside of our van is quite colourful. We had a drawing competition a few weeks ago on our way to Kendal Calling festival, and I think Kerry won, being a girl, obviously she's better at drawing while the men seem to handle driving a van a lot more naturally. Here's a picture of the entries adorning the wall.


We are holing up in France to get away from various people, ie, our local councils, the electricity board, the neighbour whose garden I had to clamber through the other day when I locked myself out of my house, but mainly we're getting away from distractions to write some new music and test it out at four shows over here. I'm sure many of you reading this will have seen us perform sometime this summer, and the music we have been playing ranges one to five years old, and some of our songs we've performed at every show for about five years. Needless to say, we've been extremely busy and there's a backlog of ideas that need to be tried and tested. Hopefully when we come back to London in October we'll open another door into a different part of the twisted world we inhabit.

"October?" I hear you cry...
Yes, that's because after we've returned from France, we'll be heading to Bestival to perform there on the Saturday, and then to Weston Super Mare to close the festival on the beach lawns.

"but that only takes up one weekend!"

Oh, of course it does. The reason for the October return, then, is because we're all going to Nashville, Tennesee to record a brand spanking new album. Nashville is in the United States of America. Long live the king!
We're not abandoning you in the slightest; never fear, we will be stopping for a tea-break at 4pm on the dot each afternoon. We'll be writing and filming bits for this blog most days and will be keeping in touch with all of you, as always!

As for now, I will stop writing because otherwise I'll see my breakfast and lunch get to know Jake's hairdryer which is in front of me.
More tomorrow.
Jaz

The Mysterious Metamorphosis of Dan Mason.

Vlore, Albania, 13/08/10 - This chilling factual account was told by Michael Charles, Tour Manager

Something strange happened in Vlore.

If my memory serves me correctly this was the first time Dan Mason had seemed different. It is only now when I look back at that evening, on the second date of the Tankus the Henge Tour of Albania, August 2010, that I realise it occurred at dusk. Like a vampire, thirsty for the night and it's cloak of darkness, the ordinarily mild mannered Dan Mason turned into the now legendary and less than considerate 'Danny Mason' ....Rockstar!




I met him at the hotel lift, after he'd had a shower, and he looked straight through me. I turned to Jaz and said, 'What's up with him?' ...and Jaz told me the news. 'This is Danny Mason', he said. And that's when I realised things had changed. The air of indifference within that lift as we descended the three short floors to the lobby will haunt me for the rest of this week. 'What a load of bollocks', I said, as the doors opened and I walked over to one of the leather settees to wait for the rest of the band to arrive, picking up a lost earplug en route. Danny just frowned and looked me over like a stinky tramp that just asked him for the last drag of his cigarette. And so the evening continued.

Initially I thought it was just an act and it would pass after a short time when both Dan and everyone around him got tired of the joke. So I laughed to myself as I watched his overexaggerated attempt at 'elegantly wasted', sauntering around reception, giving the odd wave, and finally swanning out of the hotel to the awaiting bus. ...But it didn't pass ....And it wasn't till I saw him at breakfast the next morning that he'd obviously reverted to the lazy, good for nothing Dan Mason of old, in search of beer and a comfortable seat.

At that gig in Vlore he played fine, had his photo taken with 'the fans', said 'I've got time'. when he was greeted by this dignitary or that record company executive ...but I never saw him smile once. This was Danny Mason and they were lucky! A few words here, a handshake there, ...what could anyone expect but a cursory acknowledgement that they were in the presence of Royalty? When I passed him a beer he drank it in one. When I offered him a cigarette he took the pack ....and the piss! At the end of the show having strutted his stuff, signed autographs and had his picture taken hanging off innumerable, excited young women, he boarded the bus with such a look of disdain that everyone fell silent. There was an ominous air aboard that vehicle. Who knows where this is going to end?

Beware the twilight.

From dusk till dawn .......it's Danny Mason!

This morning I woke up with the sun streaming on to my face

Jaz: When we arrived in Durres, as usual something had happened, I think this time Dan had taken his usual relaxed amount of time in the toilet while everyone else on the bus digested their lunch like normal people. Lunch is a very important meal in Albania, and we took it very seriously while we were there. Anyway, we were running slightly late, and to make matters more interesting, the road running along the promenade next to the sea was jammed, bumper to bumper with the normal selection of mostly battered Mercedes, motorbikes with three riders and a couple of times I saw contraptions with engines that, if in England, probably wouldn't have made it out of the inventing shed. Still, fair play to them, if building what appears to be a wheelbarrow with half a motorbike welded to the back, and no visible brakes, then maybe they can get to places no cars can go and get the job done.
So Edmund, our driver is cursing at the traffic and calling whoever is closest to his bus the equivalent of a pikey, while attempting to cross a roundabout where everyone wants to go first, and if that isn't good enough for the bikers, they'll go around it the wrong way. Add this to the seemingly unwritten rule in Albania that if a pedestrian walks out into the road, they have right of way and the cars stop for you, and bingo, utter chaos ensues.
Gradually we wove our way through the car tetris and ended up at the hotel. A rather lovely place called "Hotel Ani", It was refreshingly cool in the balmy air of Durres beach. On discovering our rooms for the night, Chris, Dan and myself foolishly shotgunned the first one we saw, which looked spacious, having two beds and a double pull out in a large room. Our spirits sank when we realised we'd been too hasty as George and Jake found the room next door, with two single beds, and through a door, a double bed with ensuite and balcony looking out over the beach.
We laughed when we found out that they would be having to share this luxury with DJ Piko, who has been spinning music in between ours and the MHBs sets. Piko is a nutter (what are you, what are you?!) and great fun; In the end, he didn't even come back to the hotel, and I'm not sure if we saw him since.

Here's a picture of Piko at work:




During our soundcheck, I looked out over the area the stage was built in. I could see several dilapidated but working fairground rides, with customers, several Korçë beer stalls had popped up, and the sun was setting over an empty, abandoned apartment block. I felt as if I didn't know what time we were in, whenever it was, it wasn't 2010. Not an entirely unpleasant feeling, but one that happens to me on a regular basis here. The area we had for audience was pretty big, and I had completely underestimated the enthusiasm of the wonderful Durres locals, because when we returned to the stage from cleaning up and getting changed in the hotel, the few strolling couples and groups of interested kids had turned into several hundred mainly young people, dancing to whatever record Piko was playing. I think it was the one that goes "I've got a feeling... daa daaaa, that tonight's gonna be a good night, etc", you know, that one.


Martin, Jay and Pete, went on first and it was the first time I had had the opportunity to see their entire set due to things like snakes and and in one instance, a man with no legs who could walk on his hands. Here's a photo of the MHB in action.




Now I will pass over to Daniel because he wrote something about this and I'm confused enough already what with remembering everything in the right order. To be honest I'm not entirely sure that everything I've related to you happened in the order it did. Nevermind, it'll probably end up on facebook, then wikipedia, then in the press, which makes it fact. Winston Smith eat your heart out.

Daniel: We arrive in Durres mid afternoon for our third and final seaside performance. I took full advantage of our first opportunity to witness a full set of the Martin Harley Band. An interesting response by the Albanians. Albania have had the freedom to absorb western culture for as little as 18 years, since the fall of communist oppression in 1992. Then came the influx of world popular culture, most notably British and American rock bands. This era seemed to provide some form of renaissance in Albanian pop culture, hence the fact most bars, restaurants, clubs and radio stations still play Guns N' Rosesesque rock, 80's power ballads, contemporary Albanian pop music or today's music. Nothing predates 1985ish. Not once have I heard a Beatles, Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, Abba record being played. Nothing from the 50's, 60's or 70's it seems. Not to say nobody in Albania has ever heard of these bands, just that for commercial purposes perhaps there's been little or no opportunity to hear this music through mainstream and commercial mediums. It was in fact illegal during the communist era for anyone to show any form of artistic expression or appreciation for any outside influence, and thus owning or playing a Phil Collin's record for instance would be considered a criminal offence, imprisonable for anything up to 30 years. Perhaps certain elements of the oppressive mechanism were trying to make the world a better place? MHB most certainly rock, the musicianship and stage presence is undoubtedly accomplished, on the brink of "kickin awf!" from one second to the next. A universally acknowledged tilt of the hat is an indication that the love for both music and culture is the sole purpose for this event taking place. They are well received by the people of Durres. They seem somewhat fascinated by the music as opposed expressive bodily shapes and gestures often affiliated with rock n' roll. They simply haven't ever heard of the blues or witnessed the impact it has on western culture. I must say I lost myself somewhere between the rampant rendition of "Nobody's fault but mine" and the soul-feast of "Voodoo Chile". Much of the crowd observed in utter amazement at my disconbobulated cavorting about the place, but never any sign of dislike or hostility towards me or the music.

Then came our gig. Probably the best gig of the tour in terms of production value and sound. Without doubt the best gig of our collective careers so far. Somewhere between 1000-1500 people of all ages and gender. The reception was immense, transforming the intense expectation and adulation projected by the crowd into a sespit of good time vibrations and cultural coming together. Perhaps the people of Durres didn't fully comprehend how much the weight of their response meant to us, but I feel we did well in expressing our sentiment particularly. Jaz's somewhat patchy Albanian went down well.




Jaz: So they rocked it. Mike, Jake and myself got a preview of what the audience was like when we joined Martin, Jay and Pete onstage to play horns on "love in the afternoon" which is a jaunty number you can find on his album "Drumrolls for Somersaults", buy it now. We attempted to upstage the lovely MHB two nights in a row doing this, and they seemed to enjoy it as much as an alcohol-fuelled student who has just discovered eating his own sick cures hangovers. Expect more collaborations onstage in London and probably Bestival 2010.



When myself and the rest of the Tankus the Henge gang took to the stage for our own set, Martin had warmed up the audience so much that I could have cooked a can of beans just by holding it out towards them.
I'm not going to whine on about our set, you know what we do. If you don't and you're reading this, then you should really find out. All i'll say is that Durres, Albania, was my favourite performance in the book.

Durres

Here's three photographs from our show in Durres. More coming later, as we're on our way to the airport and most people are drunk and therefore, every possible aspect of our onward journey lies in chaos and carnage.
Love you all!

burrat i çmendur anglisht!

I have been attempting to learn Albanian. It's one of the hardest languages, apparently, there are so many tiny variations of pronunciation which change the meaning of the word. I can say useful things like "thankyou", "are you having fun?" and "we love Albania!" Hanging out with DJ Piko and Benny from Club FM, the radio station we are working with on this tour, often results in me learning new things to say like "are you ready to go crazy?!" and "that's life, buddy", which is allegedly slang and no-one i've said it too has understood it. Also there is a strange saying which translates roughly as "what are you, what are you?" - for instance, as Jake is utterly off his rocker most of the time, I'd probably say it to him.
I can see him now, he's asleep in bed with half the sheets wrapped over his head. Much amusement was had when we realised Jake has the same fringe as Clare, who makes everything happen, together with Daniella and Aida.

So we played in Sarande by the sea, there was a promenade which had a few locals and tourists strolling along it. Sarande is very much the Albanian seaside resort, and holidayers from Corfu (just across the water) and all over Albania come here to relax. By the time we came back from the hotel to the stage, realising we'd missed our tourmates the Martin Harley Band by mistake, there were hundreds of people all over the place. Families with young children all come out at night to socialise, and it appears that snake owners come out, too, as a gentleman with a massive green snake wrapped around his neck was parading around.

It's strange how some tunes go down really well and some don't. Orange is the new black, for example, prompts a similar reaction as me presenting a thirty year old sock to my girlfriend on valentines day after we mutually agreed we wouldn't do presents and then for some reason I panicked and thought that giving her the archaic gift of threadbare wool, saying it had been worn by Jack 'Pomegranate" Geoffreys, the infamous fireman of the 1970's who saved his ladyfriend from a burning building, was actually a hugely romantic gesture. Fail.

Still, we've played Orange every night. I like the jumpy bit at the end. Tunes that DO go down well include Mirror on the wall, with it's manic dance medley at the end, Life is a grimm tale (if I teach the lyrics as it only makes sense if you can speak english), the Asylum dance and Recurring dream. I put forward the idea to the British Embassy that we should release Recurring Dream as a single here.

More blog later!

Day 3 - Serande

A 3 hour road trip to Vlore ensues. The birthplace of Albanian independence in 1912. Our driver and comrade Edmund at the wheel as we retrace our descent through the Albanian mountain range overlooking the coastline. Words cannot describe the beauty of this vast scenery, so figure it out yourself.

Last night's gig was yet another raucous rowdy affair. A more than healthy serving of sweat and drool to help relinquish the feast of Albanian cuisine and alcohol intake/misuse. Weight gain is an increasing inevitability. A nice late night dip in the hotel pool helped the guys fight some flab. It also presented a rare chance for Jake to perfect his swimming skills. We can report his ability to doggy paddle is coming to fruition.

"It seems pointless going to bed now if I've spent all this time getting pissed" George exclaimed shortly after our meal on the way to the hotel. Chris, George and I decide to stay up a while longer to check out some Sarande nightlife. Naturally, the nearest and most seedy nightclub to the hotel was our port of call. 500 Leke each to gain entry, and with that a drink at the bar. Seemed fairly reasonable we thought. So the kid who looked about 12 on the door took our money and we went in. So in we go, unperturbed by the booming Albanian techno and the dingy cave like lighting. Ready to boogie. Lets get the drinks in then. Oh what"s this? A young bulimic Albanian girl wants to try my hat on her peroxide head. No probs. Yes those are my festival wristbands. Anything else? No, she just gawps for a few seconds and responds to my perhaps overly refined English like a dog who's just been shown a card trick. "Is she a ho or a hooker?" I ask George. Who knows. Anyway she's cavorting on the podium with another girl now as everybody looks on. Soon we lose interest as there's virtually no interaction taking, just an assortment of prick tease for entertainment. We drink up and head back.

The rest of the Albanian vibe is great. Lots of happy faces, lots of kind words. Great to be hanging with The Martin Harley Band, despite their collective sexual dysfunction becoming ever more concerning. Nearly made it to Vlore now, slight delay due to a Mafia shooting taking place last night on the mountain side between the Greeks and Albanians. Sounds like handbags to me. Stopping for some food to let the procession pass by.

Bus thoughts

I woke up from a slumber by the bus lurching violently to the side, I looked out of the window and saw a car careening the wrong way down the motorway, traffic rippling out of the way like it was being repelled from a magnet. I had the distinct uneasy feeling that it was going to end up totalling a car travelling the right way. Before I could regain my thoughts, I saw another car attempting to do a three point turn in the fast lane of the road. I told George to concentrate and just keep driving past all these lunatics. There was snow falling lightly, and we were still about three hours away from our destination. I don't remember where we were coming from, can't recall that at all.
The snow was worrying me, because twilight had taken a hold on the day and the snow was reflecting all the headlights creating a strange glow, making it very difficult to tell our proximity from other objects. As we started to go up a huge hill, the bus started to struggle and the I could feel the wheels spinning under us. The satnav still had the direction pointing the way, and we were valiantly trying to follow it, but before we turned over or got stuck in the snow, I asked George to turn off, into a side road. This road had less snow because of the trees, and was single track. I was sure I'd seen some sort of farm or lights when I had the idea that we probably shouldn't try and finish the journey in these sort of conditions, as there'd be no band otherwise. We confused the satnav, and it's pathetic voice rang out with complaints about turning around, when we came across a big farmhouse with a spacious courtyard. I leaned into the snow and wind as I battled my way over to the door, and the occupants must have seen us coming as the door opened and I was let in to a warm kitchen. After explaining our plight, we were offered the living room floor to sleep on, and thanking the host, I went outside to tell everyone the news. The snow had stopped, and I realised I was wearing a long wig. Two of our friends from another band were standing with my lot, and they took a while to recognise me, as the wig was hiding my identity. I pulled the wig off, and then I woke up, as I'm still really on a bus in Albania, in the heat of the day, and we've just stopped at a petrol station for everyone to get off and go for a piss.
Better go then. Never know what's going to happen on the road.

Albanian bars and cable cars

Cows in road. Traffic. Eight hours to go.

Two bands in a bus. One of them is Tankus the Henge; trumpeter Jake Stoddart came out with this gem just now:

"I might fart with such ferocity that I blow my own insides out my arsehole"

Woke up yesterday and completely failed to understand the breakfast table. Mainly the idea of 'choose what sort of breakfast you want and eat it'. Bearing in mind there was olives, cheese, yoghurt, nesquik, melon, toast, egg, croissant, mousse and countless more ingredients. Instead of choosing a particular style of nourishment, there could be seen examples such as olives, egg, honey, toast and avocado, or nesquik and cheese and ham. Also, the waiters seem to play a version of roulette with tea. ie, if one asks for tea, one might recieve anything in a range from strawberry and vanilla to rosehip and camomile. After we discovered for some reason Cappuccino gets added to the bill as an extra, George swore blind that no-one in our party had had indulged in one, when in fact, it was him.

So we went up a mountain. In a glass box on a string. I didn't think I was afraid of heights until the last section of this cable car, (built by austrians) went over a ridge, then a lake, then after a bit of rock, proceeded to change direction, and almost go vertically up the cliff face. No one had clean pants I tell thee.

On our way up we saw a few concrete bunkers scattered around, on asking Clare what these were, we found out that in the 1970s, the dictator was so paranoid about everyone attacking Albania, that he built 700,000 of them all over the country for gunmen to sit in. No-one attacked it. I don't think many people even knew it was there.

After George, Mason and myself did a rather deep interview with a TV station in which I told Simon Cowell I didn't like him, and we rued the amount of crap there is in the British music scene, we played a show in the garden of the Rogner Hotel. This was the launch party of the tour we're doing with the Martin Harley band opening for us. As we were playing a few feet from a swimming pool I accidentally jumped into it at the end of Recurring Dream... Hang on, I have to interrupt my train of thought. The radio in the bus just played an advert for our gigs this week, I'll try and get a copy of it. It has a bit of Orange is the new black and lots of Albanian over the top. It's pretty funny. Apparently it's broadcast four times an hour.

So we're travelling to Sarande today, if you know where that is. it involves us going over a very high mountain pass. The second highest in the country. Luckily Edmund our driver is excellent, otherwise what with yesterdays cable car exploits we'll get through our underwear a lot quicker than expected.

The state of the guys in the band is questionable this morning. After local Raki, many Korca beers and a night of Jagermeister, some of them spend minutes on end staring into the middle distance while I casually document it all.

Albania feels like home. Once we got here.

This is the smallest plane I have ever been on. It's basically a flying bus with about twenty four albanians on and us six Englishmen. Wait, there's an announcement. OK they're still trying to serve drinks while we descend in our tin can from over the Alps into Tirana. As we took off, all the lights dimmed because the engines obviously required more power to get us into the sky. I think there's only three crewmembers and one of them doesn't look like they have the willpower or ability to swim. Chris and Dan are gaily sucking down beers and we're all devouring bread with A) some sort of green playdoh on it and some seeds or B) chicken that was caught out the back of the engine with a net.







We didn't see much of Vienna, mainly the inside of a terminal where normal civilians aren't permitted to go. Just behind our cafe, which closed near the start of our three hour transfer, was a big glass pen especially enclosed just for those who enjoy breathing tobacco and tar. Seriously, if you wanted a smoke all you have to do is open the door and go in. Mind you, the airport we took off from two days ago in Germany made Stansted look like Heathrow. There was only one plane there.

Really feel like I'm flying at the moment. Hang on, we're nosediving. Oh no, it's just starting to land. Just felt the undercarriage come down, or maybe it was the baggage hold doors opening and sending our equipment sailing through the night sky into the mountains.




A bit later:

We land at Tirana airport and are greeted by the lovely Clare, soon speeding us towards the city down a motorway which i recall seeing a cow being led along the hard shoulder last time we were here. Clare also tells a story in which she was in a restaurant enjoying a meal when a cow crashes through the dining area with an irate gentleman brandishing a shovel in hot pursuit.

More tomorrow. Bed now. I think we are doing something on TV, like an interview, as well as the first show. There's also a picture of a very interesting lamppost I think you should see.

Jaz