Day Forty Four - Reminisces, and Near Misses

Greetings, salutations, etc.:

By the time you get this, we’ll be at home in Tacoma. Right at this instant I’m pretty worn out. I am at Heathrow London. We spent the night at an Ibis Hotel, and Kristi apparently didn’t sleep a wink. She has spent the last two weeks thinking bad thoughts about flying, and I think her obsession has caught up with her. To be fair, the last 24 hours have been intense. We drove from a town near Durham in No. England yesterday. We stopped for lunch with John Montague in Syston,nr Leicester, and stopped in Sawbridgeworth to leave the house keys with Jacqui Leeds. We were driving from 9:30 am until about 5 pm, and stuck in traffic on the M25, getting run in circles by the satnav, and getting stressed out about it. That was yesterday. Today has gone smoothly so far. It’s just a matter of getting on the airplane now. We played on Thursday night in Skelton, near Redcar at the Cutty Wren folk club. We got a nice email from one of the audience yesterday. He was a kind of new age guy, and really was into my nature/raven paradigm. That was nice. We said goodbye to Jimmy and Val, who were outstanding when they played their set. We went to Fred Brierly’s house, had whisky and cheese, and crackers with Fred, and his significant other, Sheila. We stayed up too late, and left too early. We were more, or less exhausted all day yesterday, and today things are even worse. Oh well.

Fred and Sheila

It has been an exceptional tour. We have good friends here who take very good care of us while we are here. We used to spend a lot more time alone on these tours, but no longer. We now tend to stay at one place or another as guests for longer periods of time. The entire experience can turn somewhat claustrophobic after awhile.

I didn’t write about the trip down to Hastingleigh, Kent. We played in Cannock the night before that, and to some extent the entire weekend seems dreamlike, a lot of it being played out on the motorways as in seemingly endless hours of driving. We were worried about the experience in advance as it was a long way to travel, and it seems we were never traveling in too rested state. We stayed in Wolverhampton at a Holiday Inn the night we played in Cannock. It was a nice enough room, small, but clean and with a nice bathroom. It was right next to a horse racing track, which I think must have been the main source of patronage. We found it on the internet.

We had played the Chase Folk Club another year, and so we were known a bit to the patrons, and certainly to the club organizers. It is a different club, which had no floor spots, but had a support act, one of whom had seen us a number of years ago at another club, and at another time. Usually I would think that an opening act would open for you, but these guys were “support”, not “opening”. They were essentially a duo who were into more or less modern country music, although they did some oldies too. One of them played dobro, the other only guitar. Both sang, and they were OK at singing, but were both pretty good with their instruments. Don’t take that lightly, as I’m often quite critical of Brits performing American music. Whatever I think doesn’t really matter though. The crowd seemed to like them fine, and I was damned pleased with their rendition of Steve Earle’s “Copperhead Road”. I worked pretty hard to try to please that crowd. I think they really are kind of a “country” kind of crowd (whatever that means). It was a long, narrow room, and I think the bar must have done pretty well. When we finished playing I asked Kristi to go down to the other end of the room and sell some CDs. The next thing I hear is the club organizer over the PA asking for an end to fighting, and then Kristi is down at my end of the room, scared off by being in the middle of a fistfight. Having worked in barrooms half her life, you might think she’d be used to all that.

We didn’t have to leave our hotel room until noon the next day, so we didn’t. Even after getting out of the hotel, we felt like we had some time to kill, and so visited a museum in the Wolverhampton area. We used our satnav to find the place, and likewise to get out of there, and onto the motorway down to Kent. In recollection I feel like most of the journey was spent on the M25, which is the ring road around London. In fact, it was a pretty long trek down the M1, onto the M25, and onward off the M25 down towards Dover/Canterbury. After we got off of the motorways there was a fairly long drive on little country roads. Someone asked me to compare English country roads with American. All I could say was they would think that American country roads were like a freeway in comparison. Even in the most rural conditions in the U.S. you don’t usually see single track roads.

It was a long drive, long day after a long night. Our first glance at the Bowl Inn inspired the impulse to just keep on driving. We even discussed the fact that the owner wouldn’t even know what happened to us. We were talking about this even as I was parking across the street from the place. The first time we saw the place we did drive on by. The second time we spotted it we drove on by again. It was the third time that finally took us to the door, and a totally charming evening at a country pub in Kent. The owner was sitting in a chair talking to some customers when we showed up. He got up out of his chair, introduced himself, and gave me his chair. He was a stout fellow, and had tattoos all up his arms. I had heard that he was into motorcycles from another singer/songwriter who plays the same venue. His name was Ron, and he was a genuine biker kinda guy with the same bluster, and braggadocio that I’ve come to expect from such characters. He was a proud owner of a country pub.

He was engaged in a conversation with a couple, and another fellow when we came in. The single fellow left, but the couple stayed around. I was immediately being questioned about my motives for being at such a remote location, and all the way from America to boot. At first I admitted that I wasn’t certain how I came to be there at all, but as we talked eventually asked them if a person shouldn’t have some adventure in his/her life. They acknowledged that yes, this would be a good thing, and I think that things went well after that. It turned out that “James” was a very wealthy guy who came out to his estate in rural Kent from central London, and slummed a bit at the Bowl Inn, fascinated with the biker owner, and his rural patrons. We got the information about James from Ron after James had gone home to his estate.

Eventually we set up our gear, and we had a little time after that so Ron showed us the place. He has an owl living in the “garden”. He calls it an “Eagle” owl. Ron was an antique dealer prior to his pub ownership, and still has antiques for sale. He keeps them in a building on the property that was built around 1668. Most of the antiques are newer than the building that houses them. The antique garage has two stories, and when we were upstairs, and you could feel the floorboards bend as you walked, he reassured us that it was no problem. There was a nineteenth century coat of armor there, lots of china, old recordings, furniture, and more that one would expect to find in an antique shop.

We started playing almost immediately after Ron showed us the antiques. While we had been talking to Ron, a number of people had filtered into the little barroom. They were talking with great animation, and volume. I had done a sound check earlier to an empty room, but now we could hardly hear ourselves over the din. There was nothing to do but turn up, so that’s what I did. Nobody said a word to us about being too loud. We played a real variety repertoire. Some of it was cover tunes, most of it was my songs. People were polite, and occasionally they’d all get silent while we were playing, and they would even applaud. It isn’t easy playing a bar like that. Well, maybe it’s easy if you’re really prepared with an appropriate repertoire. We played from 8 pm to 11 pm. There was a lady in red sitting down to our left by the front door. She was with a man and they were both quite attentive to us. When we were on break we sat down with her (he had gone out to smoke). When she opened her mouth and started talking I was reminded of the guys in Monty Python doing impressions of women. She really seemed like a caricature of herself to me, and of course that’s because I’m an American and unused to the dialects that you find in England.

Rick, Jill, and Sparky

We played until 11 pm, and when we quit, the bar emptied out quite fast. Ron had collected some tips for us, and between what he paid us, and the tips we made close to one hundred pounds. That paid for the gasoline we used getting there, and then some. Gas is about $5 a gallon. They sell it by the liter, so I’m not certain exactly what it is, but it was one pound 21 pence for a liter. After we finished playing we packed up the car and headed for Essex, and the home of Rick, and Jill Christian. Rick was a DJ the first time we knew of him. He played our recordings on the BBC back in the 80s. He is a fellow musician, and a congenial sort with whom we have a great deal in common. It’s always great to see him. We got up the next morning, and after breakfast headed back to Blyth and Jiva. It was a genuine adventure, and a part of our journey I’m sure we’ll never forget. Ron was very clear that we should contact him for a return engagement next time we’re in England. I think that will be 2011. Y’all come on down and give us a listen when we’re next at the Bowl Inn. Ya heah?

Steve Nebel, May 24, 2010

Day forty from Kristi

Charlie rested her front paws on the seat of the chair and waited. She could be patient because

she knew sooner or later some bleary-eyed drunk by the bar would walk over and lift her chubby backside up onto the chair. She was a bit worn out from a manic romp. She tore around a couple of circles in the backyard of the Bowl Inn, showing off her puppy spirit for my benefit. I like to flatter myself thinking she chose the chair because I had just sat in it, leaving my scent after some serious cuddling with her. She was not posing in this picture, but rather in repose. She removed her paw and replaced it with her jaw which then rested on the table by the radiantly grinning Buddha. Her eyes remained open as she listened to our music in the tiny barroom.

We drove to Hastingleigh from Birmingham on what could easily be seen as a fool's errand. We had played the night before at Chase Folk Club and had a winding, four hour ride ahead. I regretted the decision the moment I booked the Bowl Inn four months ago, looking at the ridiculously long distance, high fuel cost, and low pay for the tavern gig. But we had decided together that we'd rather be playing than not, every day possible on this tour. We wound around the one-lane backroads with high hedges where shoulders should be, fearing an oncoming car around a bend until finally the tiny, 350-year-old pub appeared, surrounded by big brick homes with large yards. This is the pinnacle of the British social climb, I'm told. When one arrives finally to a financial position able to buy solitude and space in the country; this is the top. So we drove past it, exhausted from hours of uncertainty and said to one another, "We could just blow this off. Nobody would miss us. I wouldn't feel guilty. We could keep driving." Then we decided to make the best of it and NOT mention our regrets. I have heard a musician say to me, the audience: "I don't know why I drove this far for this kind of money and so few people". So I resolved to NOT let on any of those feelings and make anyone feel bad for coming to see us. Steve said, "Forget it; nobody cares about you in a bar. Nobody will ask any questions so don't worry." We were a couple of hours early and immediately found ourselves in the company of a friendly couple. The first words out of the man's mouth sounded like the dialect of Clark Gable and I made stereotypical assumptions about his status. His wife sounded like Vivien Leigh without the southern affectation. I was right. They were the wealthiest couple around. He said, "What are you doing way out here? Where did you come from? Does this really pay enough to be worth your while? GET A MAP! This is madness!" Steve was wrong. They were very interested. He somehow decided our earnest musical endeavours were quite admirable though. In the end he invited us to stay at one of his properties in London and bought a CD.

The bar was packed with customers who had all the telltale symptoms of too much fun, as depicted in a Goya painting. Those scenarios show a charicature-like exaggeration of little tragicomic dramas in pubs, with predictable scenarios. From our position we could see them up close in this postage-stamp sized space stuffed with antiques. A middle-aged thick-waisted woman sits in a chair alone with red weepy eyes, occasionally standing up to be comforted by a man who thinks she'll feel better if he gives her bottom a squeeze. A beautiful blonde holds court, leaning alternately into two men as hours go by, until she nearly falls over. An attractive brunette listens intently to us, clapping, and encouraging me repeatedly to have another single of whiskey. Their volume obliterated any assumptions of egotism for artistic merit in our music but occasionally someone listened through the din to an entire song and applauded sincerely. I suspect the big difference between these patrons and Goya's creations is their status. They're not Goya's oppressed, ragged Dutch peasants, but rather more or less the same characters with money.

But we're safely finished with the most arduous stretch in this tour now, and relieved. We spent all of yesterday traversing the length of this island to return north for our last two gigs. I'm needing to feel welcomed home soon with the warmth of a luxurious Tacoma springtime. I still wear the wool coat I bought early in April every day here; it's cold.

On to Hartlepool

Greetings all:

It is day 35 of 44 days of touring. We went out to another folk club last night. Gee, it’s the department of redundancy department. They are not the same thing. That is to say that all folk clubs are a bit different from each other, given that it’s different people that show up at each of them. It was their singer’s night last night at The Forester’s Folk club. Coatham-Mundeville was the town where it was located, which is near Darlington.

It seems that our days are filled with activity of one kind or another lately. I refer to the male part of our hosting couple as “digital” Jimmy. There are plenty of computers around here, and the wireless connection is marvelous. All of us take pictures, and Jimmy has an HD video camera that he’s been shooting our shows with. The videos are a bit dark, as the lighting is unreliable, but the end result nonetheless is a fairly accurate representation of our performance, and I think usable in the end. I’ve been using the video portion of my digital camera to shoot Jimmy, Val, and a few others. It has been surprisingly nice to see the performances the next day after I videoed them. Of course it is low resolution, and the pictures are relatively small, but there you go.

Tonight we perform for money again, and we’ll be staying with another couple. We’ll have dinner with Jimmy and Val before we leave for Hartlepool, but after our performance there Jimmy and Val will drive back to Blythe, and Kristi and I will spend the night in Hartlepool, and we’ll return to Blythe on Wednesday.

This performance business is strange still. I suppose you think that it gets to be old hat after awhile, but that is not the case with me. Every night is different. We have different crowds, different venues in different locations, and I’m not the same every night either. I’m not altogether certain why I feel different every night, but I do, and I don’t know how I’m going to feel until I’m in front of a bunch of people. We’ve had some of our best shows ever on this tour.

It’s nice staying with Jimmy and Val, because we spend endless hours talking about performing, promotion, travel, booking, playing, stage presence, etc. I enjoy the opportunity to take a look at what we are doing, which is what happens when you talk about it with someone else. I have seen friends become distressed with me at one time or another when I have gotten off into the business of music. I don’t see myself as particularly well versed in said business, but we are involved on our own level, and it does take some interest to keep going.

I have felt lately that I’m at home here in the UK, more so at times than I am in the US. I have wondered why this feeling comes over me. Truthfully, the politics, and people are different, but at the same time the modern world infringes on them, and the similarities to their perception is scary at times. There’s just been an election here, with a marked swing towards the conservatives. They are the same lying, two faced sons of bitches here as they are in the states, but everything is more understated here. I see influences of the Americans everywhere. They had Prime Ministerial debates for the first time in this latest election. It gave great fuel to the media, and stoked up the conversation a big notch.

I am a singer/songwriter here. I am nothing more, nothing less. People regard me as they will, some with respect, others maybe not so much. On the other hand, it is a great pleasure to me to be seen this way, for better, or for worse. It is all I have wanted for myself for years now, as I have labored in obscurity recording, writing songs that no one hears, and singing anyplace I could find an audience. It is why I feel comfortable here.

On the other other hand, I’m an American songwriter. I have written a few songs about this place, and they are well received. Indeed, people are surprised that I can know their feelings in spite of the fact that they wear them proudly on their sleeves. It is satisfying to find people here, as at home who I can admire, and love. Sometimes I think I will stay, even though I know it’s unlikely that I’d be allowed to even if I were serious. Kristi always does her best to bring me back to reality when I say things like that. We’ll be home soon. Then we’ll be back over here in a year or so if we survive for another year. In the meantime, I have songs to write. Keep the home fires burning.

Steve N.

Day Thirty-four (from Kristi)

Day Thirty-four (from Kristi)

Gary is getting us around now, having married on the windshield of our Mitsubishi Colt. I have a love-hate relationship with him; Steve says I’m calling him by the wrong name which doesn’t help. Garmin calls him Daniel. When he was the American, Garmin called him Jack. I’m convinced Garmin is to blame for all his problems so I’m sticking with Gary. He has two settings, “FAST”, or “MOST DIRECT ROUTE”. I don’t think there’s an actual difference. We type in the postal code to our destination and every time he sends us into the winding, narrow, slow hinterlands as opposed to the motorways. American Jack kept calling A4028 “ayfordywendyeight” until we fired him. Dainel was in a fibbing spree while “recalculating” us as we roamed around the backroad routes to Kielder Forest. His little white arrow finally morphed into a sort of wart and stopped in the middle of the road as he said something like, “turn left on B-onemillion”. That would have led us directly onto a sheep pasture. I occasionally am quite relieved to have his help. Having at last got us to an ASDA in Livingston he directed us toward the exit of the parking lot through a brick wall. But he’s useful when we’ve come NEAR to a destination. At that point British roads have a tendency to send us in endless circles until we stumble upon our destination. So I’m cautiously making peace with his odd ways. Steve also says I’m jealous of him, having relinquished my important role as navigator. But within fifteen minutes of his purchase in Cramlington, which is north of Newcastle, Steve was ready to hurl him into downtown Newcastle, wherein we were slowly pushing our way through the dense traffic towards Croxdale, which is in the suburbs of Durham, south of Newcastle. We tried to find a Tesco near the airport in Edinburgh a few days ago. Gary got us successfully to an inaccessible backlot to an extinct Tesco, with the store logo barely legible having been painted out. Then he took us to a quickstop version of the super-store which was equally useless. Finally as we attempted escape from the heart the city, he wound us into a tight spot in heavy traffic with construction and a traffic policeman parked to watch, then Gary told us to make a U-turn. Every day with Gary is a big adventure. I continue to wonder if Tom-Tom might have been a better match.

The tour is going great. We’re continuing to have favorable responses from our audiences. I’m enjoying the comaraderie within this fraternity that shares their beloved tunes with one another. The level of appreciation and mutual respect is quite phenomenal in this “folk world”.
I’m looking forward to our return though. The comforts of home in a practical sense aren’t superior to the homes we’ve experienced here. Our hosts have been positively angelic to us. I’m just aching for the familiar. Of course that means you. Please keep in touch.