PREFATORY REMARKS
Knowing that it has been some time since our last communication, epistolary or otherwise, you must allow me the amenities required to make amends. First, an explanation: On our first jaunt to Europe, my eyes were wide with wonderment and intense curiosity. My trusty notebook, bearing the inscription "Captain's Log", stayed ever-nestled in my arm, allowing for constant scribbling and intense observation. On this return visit, survival became the only concern. Gone was my companion "Captain's Log," replaced by a notebook branded "Last Remarks," a dark tome whose contents shall remain forever unknown, with illegible rants and narratives so perverse and vile that they should be held in the esteem reserved for the likes of The Necronomicon or a Nicholas Sparks novel. That notebook, meager in pages and impossible to translate, shall be sealed in the basement of The British Museum
(see Fig. 1A), with the darker instruments of history, such as the Spear of Destiny and Christ's Beard. I also, in the name of self-preservation, developed a sudden and severe case of narcolepsy
(Fig. 1B), which struck at nearly every still moment, awarding me envious stares from bandmates, but sparing me the bagged eyes of a sleepless vagabond
(Fig. 1C). I do apologise that the sudden onset of this particular malady has robbed you of a right and true tour blog, but, on the page or screen you are reading now, I will reminisce a bit on the two months we've spent abroad, as well as attempt to give you a look into the sordid world of the How I Became the Bomb full length recording process. Abandon all hope, ye who read on!
figure 1A.
figure 1B.
figure 1C.
ARRIVAL
Memories of our departure from America and reentry into the United Kingdom are hazy at best, seen through a veneer not unlike that which hovers over a desert horizon. The cruel irony to this, of course, is that the heat of the desert would be an oasis to frigid London weather. There is something particularly bone-chilling about London's climate
(see figure 2A). It's as if someone has combined the winds of Chicago and thrown in the rains of Seattle. Whatever deity has jurisdiction over this country has a taste for the cold, to say the least. It has left its people, however, with a quick and refreshing cynic's demeanor, particularly in contrast to the happy drawl we, five, are accustomed. It was quite jarring also, I remember, to leave Nashville on a day where the mercury rose to nearly eighty, only to be plunged into the cutting winds and rain of London. Despite the weather, it was good to be back in England, to say the least. Our tour with The Bees was suddenly canceled, and as it was to have served as the first leg of our tour, we were actually left with three or so days to re-acclimate ourselves to the climate and customs of Queen and Country
(see fig. 2B). The more nervous members of our merry troupe were disheartened, as they were ready to work, but a man of leisure, such as myself, always enjoys a brief respite to soak in local color
(please see fig. 2C). Pubs were visited. Breaded Cod was consumed. The strangeness of Indian food was encountered. Umbrellas were purchased. Five noble souls (and one lascivious tour manager) were bewildered by the London Underground
(fig. 2D).
figure 2A.
figure 2B.
figure 2C.
figure 2D.
Led by our infamous management duo, Ross "DJ Ross Allen" Allen
(fig. 3A) and Chris "Diesel" Butler
(fig. 3B), and followed by our fledgling tour manager, Jason "Muggy Bubbles" Gigax
(fig. 3C), we traipsed the streets of London, doing our best Londoner impressions. In this, retrospectively, we failed. When intersections were traversed, we would first frantically look in all directions before, finally, taking a deep breath and stepping into the breach. Being from the land of convenience, we would step into public houses or cafes fully expecting to be served at non-serving hours. We would look into the omniscient eyes of the omnipresent security cameras (fig. 3D), which permeate the UK. All of these are dead giveaways. It took us weeks to shed these habits. Rest assured, we persevered and, by the end of our stay, had learned how to remain calm and think of England.
figure 3A.
figure 3B.
figure 3C.
Fig. 3D.
CALAMITOUS EVENTS AND TRAGEDIES
I am afraid I must dash any hopes of a linear report almost immediately. The seventy day journey would not have impressed or distressed the likes of Jules Verne or Natty Bumppo, but, surely, it has taken its toll on my memory and retelling abilities. Therefore, I hope to hit on the highs and lows of the journey. Due to sundry indoctrination rites, vigorous brainwashing, and the ever-vigilant eyes in the sky, I remain in the mindset of a merry Briton and, therefore, bring you the bad news first.
If you were diligent enough to have sloughed through my last European diary, you will recall my incessant fear of being mauled by an auto or motorbike, due to my inability to understand the ways of the British pedestrian. It seems I should have knocked on wood, for that entry served as a grim augury for things to come. Somewhere
(see figure 4A) near Kew Gardens, leading my loyal comrades for the first and, as you shall soon read, last time, I stepped to the sidewalk from behind a massive red double-decker war machine, only to be seemingly obliterated by the aforementioned "whizzing passerby."(Please reference the first European Tour Blog, still located on the site) To my woeful bandmates, all traveling closely behind, my fate could have been misconstrued any number of fashions. Perhaps a low-flying pterodactyl had consumed me. A jetpack-wearing sky pirate had kidnapped me. A phantom motorcycle had run amok, splattering me to the afterlife. Alas, 'twas a pre-teen boy on his Huffy that done me in. Don't chortle too enthusiastically, dear reader, for the attack was not minor. With treads across my hindquarters and numbness in my jaw, head, and shoulder, I sprung from the walk with the quickness that only a hypodermic full of adrenaline or the sensation of extreme embarassment can serve as catalyst. With my half-mollified, half-snickering bandmates and countless bus patrons watching, mouths agape, I dusted myself off, ignoring my bloody joints and branded behind, and continued up the street. The daredevil youth muttered a "Sorry, mate." and continued wreaking havoc in London. My compatriots did not exactly rush to my side, as apparently sodium pentathol was seeping from the vents in the streets, consuming them with laughter. Never again was I to serve as point man on our little excursions into the unknown. Most tragically, my injuries prevented me from helping my trusted companions with any physical labour for the rest of the trip. Your humble narrator stayed awake many nights, teary-eyed, over this side-effect, I assure you.
figure 4A.
Outside from this and a few less violent traffic mishaps, only one more tragic event transpired. At least, only one that I can remember. I do seem to have murky memories of a certain guitarist
(figure 5A) micturating from a nearly twelve-story balcony, but I cannot be sure if this was Denis or famed character actor Ron Silver. One can't be sure. But rest assured, I will never forget the events transpiring the morning after our Bilbao performance
(fig. 5B). You see, Bilbao was the first of our shows with Editors, a successful group from England. These shows were well-attended and well-promoted. The good people at Sinnamon Records provided well beyond what we are typically accustomed. Delicious Rioja wine, Tennessee whiskey (Thoughtful, yes?), Polish vodka, countless beers, and, of course, finger foods. Never to be wasteful, I set myself to the task of mass consumption. Twelve hours later, I found myself leaping from our still-in-transit bus, stumbling towards a shrubbery of sorts and sending all of this heinous liquid back whence it came. This was to be no ordinary expulsion. Bass-man Ricky Bizness
(fig. 5C), no stranger to the art, estimated a distance traveled of at least three to four feet. To render the scene even more dramatic, I cock my head to the left, finding myself face to face with the gaping maws of no less than one hundred proud Bilbaoans. I am afraid my performance transpired directly in front of the Guggenheim Restaurant, located within, you surmised correctly, The Guggenheim Museum. Oh, my stars and garters. Ever the performance artist, I was left with no choice but to take a bow and return to my shocked cohorts. There, back in the confines of our little traveling sanctuary, I promptly vomited again.
figure 5A.
figure 5B.
figure 5C.
Stay tuned, dearest fans and foes, for there will be more in the coming week. You know, the week where we all lose ourselves in some celebration over some heliocentric supernatural event or being. I'll delve into the happier times on the road. Plus, you'll get to hear all about our recent forays in the studio. How nice for you.