July 4

Visa drops through my door only 2 days previous. To-the-wire excitement as the organisational part of my brain books flights, insurance, etc. Arrive on Independence Day. Clear customs without setting off any alarms - merch falls under the radar and rubber gloves remain in their grubby little box. Tropical monsoon heat - Happy Independence Calcutta!!

July 7

After a couple days searching for some new badass pedals for the reduced slimline (you gotta be joking?) travel selection - the Honkeyfinger show kicks off at Otto's Shrunken Head in a panic. Confusion/miscommunication of the highest order over 'load-in' and 'stage times' (are these the same thing in Manhattan venues??!?) brings myself, Iki, and his cousin Aasim tearing downtown in a frightening and exhilirating Kojak style trip down 2nd Avenue to make a 9.30pm stage. Been to this place before to see a lounge band a few years ago - small Tiki bar, rough around the edges and distinctively lacking that kitschy laid back south Seas schtick common to the genre which this englishman happens to be pretty partial to. Supremely shitty and fucked backline in a Camden toilet venue style, no soundperson, moody as hell bar staff and stressed (mentally retarded?) promoter mixes up a rare cocktail of frustration, rage and despair at this stupidly unworkable situation. Cant get a decent sound out of ANYTHING - gigged to death Marshall, Fender and no-brand bass amp sound nothing better than farty souped up transister radios - certainly no option to 'Go large' here. . . Any point in doing this? FUCK IT! back to basics like never before - plug the harp mic straight into the rehearsal room reject fender bassman and wail. Iki finds a metal serving tray from the bar. Stomp & Holler my way through 5 or so tracks on Harp. A couple of improvised conversions of the lapsteel tunes. Sparse crowd dig it - they smell the desperation and want some. Promoter asks me to turn it down half way through!!! Yeah - fucking RIght - NOT come 3500 miles across the pond to turn down your cripple ass backline and fold in the face of Lazy promotion. Lesson learnt - rules different here - dispense with all complacency and be prepared to work hard and fast to get the sound in the absence of familiarity. Load out to distinct lack of Tiki cheer - not what I was expecting at all. Dump the gear and head back out to the village to perhaps wildest nite of the NY stay. Deco bar Employees Only - through the red curtain and fortune teller on the door - go crazy on the whiskey sours. Place owned by some old Mississippi Jazz guy from what we can figure - Charleston girl waitresses liberally applying us with some 'on the house'-rs all the way to a 6am lock in - New orleans soul soundtrack. Monday night never tasted so sweet.

July 9

Super wary after the debacle of previous show. Get down to the Lit Lounge stupid early to try calm the backline jitters. No such luxury. Substandard Mexican dinner and the heavens open. First Band - Madame Robot - garage freeks from Brooklyn. Good n messy with soul. Nail the essence of the genre like so few do. Borrow gear? too strung out/flaked to get a straight answer. Teedo next up - (up)tight Bowie/Moby style party band with a following to match. Gear offers seem somehow less than genuine. Got other parties to go to. . . .hasty departure straight after their show. Clock in - clock out. What is this? struggling to grasp how this band scene works in NY. WHAT fucking gives? Headliners - Dead Sextons - solid, genuine - good fellas - above the fashion bullshit - offer the use of their spanking new CRATE tube amp combo - "Going back to the shop tomorrow". Like their style. Ha! let's rock. Pedals out & GO!. The woolly mammoth lives up to it's name and the thick molten Honkey fuzz tears some AIR across the Manhattan Skyline for what it's worth. Hot, sweet, and shortish set hits the spot and restores the faith. Pleased as hell to kick out some Honkey tunes in their fullness. Crowd thinned after the party split and cleared out the dead wood. Left with those ready to meet a challenge - this includes the Hungarian couple who insist I should play Budapest (why not?) The Dead Sextons become sure gig pals - respect fellas. There's a female pedal purve in the room too - who tells me of the 'Chopper' pedal I should check out - sounds sexy. Intro to 'Wont Get Fooled Again' anyone? Paid $10 from the door?!?! - welcome to the thankless world of unpromoted Manhattan toilet gigs. The instant the final note is played by Dead Sextons the volume is cut and the DJ blasts us into the new romantic stratosphere with Heaven 17. Girls in micro skirt and boob tube uniform swarm in to fling the flesh, flirt and pout to the new romo cockshrinker soundtrack. Swift exit , jaw agape & de-camp to lower east side to finish with a good few hits of glorious Myers rum. Simple pleasures.

July 11

Depart from the tropical heat of New York to the windy lakeshore climes of Chicago. Check in downtown - place deserted. Cheap weekend deal on a mammoth room at the Holiday Inn - very bergundy. Might as well be tumbleweed in the streets for all the action here. . . . the odd desperado hussling tourists for a few bucks. Go down the street and come across Buddy Guy's Blues bar - unfortunately peddling the Budweiser Lite version of the Chicago sound of the 50s and 60s. Fat white guys in hernia belts and cowboy boots doing the Patrick Swayze strut. Not tonite thanks. 4 pack from the supermarket and hotel room TV.

July 12
Cal's Bar is handily found 10 minute haul around the corner in downtrodden downtown. The bar's shirt for sale hung on the wall shows an alcoholically distorted figure, eyes bulging, wrestling to contain liquor under the legend: "eat, drink, get the fuck out. . . and dont forget to tip". 4 (or was it 5?) bands queue up on the pavement outside with their gear whilst the owner finishes an interview for his own band. Optimistic that someone who at least cares for music is running this extension of a liquor store downtown punk rock dive. Liking it already. Meet Varushka from I Blame The Media, who headline tonite. She's heard the Honkey racket on myspace and looking forward to hearing some with the earbleed and sweat on top. Some anticipation - Nice! Manage to borrow gear with little problem and happily blast out a (short unfortunately) set as the gig muscles begin to feel toned. Goes down well and make an inroad to the merch stash - cash in pocket - starting to feel musically welcomed finally. First venue that doesn't seem solely interested in filling a bill of names to justify their lazy attempts at charging a door cover. Hang till closing getting to know Mike the owner over a few generous Bourbons. Thanks! Most amusing part of the night when mr sloppy drunk in shirt and chino's parks himself at bar and starts barking "Freebird!" between every song of the band following me. "Sorry dude, no Freebird after 9 o'clock - It's the law". Classic. Mr Wantsomeskynrd is kicked out onto the pavement before the end of the set.

July13
Move uptown (not sure if that's North or West) and hook up with myspace friend Chris Stelloh. His band The Streeters sounded great to me - so he arranged a show at The Town Hall pub for us to whup it up together. Before that my introduction to Chicago proper comes by perhaps the best burger joint in the world: Kuma's. Playing loud rock of all the best varieties - and all the best bands past and present are paid homage with burgers in their name. I pass over the Black Sabbath (blue cheese) and Fu Manchu (terriyaki) for the High on Fire burger - Hot Chilli and Pineapple. Oh YES!! certainly rocks my world and some fine beers too. Next morning manage to fit in a bike accident before the next gig. A pot hole almost claims both thumbs and pulls a lot of this Englishmans blood on the blacktop - and handlebars for that matter. 'Miami Vice' cocktails (kind of a weird pina colada) on the beach cured the initial pain and shock of having come so close to losing body parts necessary for carrying out my musical purpose over here. It's a strange scene all set onboard a faux steam ship structure ground up on the shore of Lake Michigan amidst Chicago's clean cut beach bunny set - Chris and Chad from the Streeters, and myself all conspicuously bearded, tattooed and bloodied - "Are these fukkin bar staff ignoring us?!?" . . . "Yes. " . . ."Ok. . ." . . . Party on. .

July 14
Town Hall is a sweaty dive bar in the gay district of Chicago. And we have a fine crowd of misfits for audience - wouldnt have it any other way. Good turn out for a Tuesday nite. Taped up thumbs and a hell of a lot of sweat sees steel picks flying all through the Honkey set. Good fat sound is had from The Streeters backline - and thee fattest kick drum I think i've ever played - thanks Chad! The set's getting faster, looser, and greasier like a good bike. The Streeters follow with a fine set. Great to see Chris' band developing the ambitiously layered album he started from - some task to set yourself - and there lies the beauty of it. I Blame The Media guys turn up with friends to see the show - the start of a following in Chicago I hope. Pitchfork festival at the weekend - shame to miss it. King Khan and his Shrines - Damn!!! Gear back to Chris' place and we're back out to Estelle's where they pour a mean can of Guinness Draught. A home form home. The high octane boozathon Chris has lined up for me continues the following nite and my last at the Empty Bottle with T-Model Ford and Gravel Road. Hook up with Dave (DJ Hillfunk) from the UK. Begin to feel the Deep Blues festival gearing itself up - even though T-Model disapoints. Blues jam in the retirement home anyone? I really dont need to hear anymore versions of 'Got my Mojo working' or 'Hoochie koochie Man' - especially with that damn awful flanged guitar sound. Sorry Mr T, but someone's gotta tell it like it is - it's only respectful. Goodbyes and a promise to play on a stage again with The Streeters sometime someplace in the future.

Greyhound bus to Minneapolis. probably not the best decision of my life. Boiling up the fear in this unholy scrum that is the precursor to getting on the damn bus. I cant wait another 6 hours for the next one. I'm seeing what I can only imagine is how the beginning of the end of western civilisation will look - and it aint gonna be pretty. Doorstep delivery to McDonalds in the middle of nowheresville. Screaming kids. Macho conversations overheard. Guy in the window seat with tuberculosis. . . Bad craziness indeed. Holiday Inn suspicioulsly luxurious. They have no record of my extended 5 nite booking - which at 2am after an 8hour greyhound journey is not welcome news. Luckily I dont have to get all pissed off Limey on the nite staff just yet. .

July 19

Next morning - total absence of Rock&Roll types loitering in foyers or anywhere else. In fact place seems totally deserted except for a travelling meat salsman in the bar/restaurant who obsesses over menu rotation as I try to fortify myself wit a hearty breakfast. Cab driver unearthed in the Hotel parking lot has quirky acid casualty charm - but no idea where the festival site is. Lucky he has wi-fi laptop with google maps riding shotgun. We still get lost. . . Wait - What seems like a quaint village fair in a cattle field overtaken by Bikers looks like it might just be The Deep Blues festival 2008. Over-enthusiastic Taxi driver would have driven me onto the damn stage if hadnt asked him to stop - Shit - didnt plan on the Steven Tyler entrance. Oh well - The English have arrived!!! 2 stages sit side by side and there's a continual turnaround of music - no DJs or soundchecks. Good down home feel. Catch Jawbone and a few others in the early afternoon sun. Meet Chris Mueller from Germany (someone's travelled further than me!) with his twisted Bob Crumb-esque art stall. Sign his Bible. Meet Biker Al who is photographing the weekend and his son getting everyone to sign his drumsticks and ensuring the legacy of the Deep Blues for another generation . Warm welcome. Chris johnson, Rick Saunders - thankyou for getting me here! Hope to make it worth your efforts.

By UK standards this would be hilariously described a 'boutique' festival - but we're not going by those standards this weekend - something made clear by the Beer wagon - 3 taps of locally brewed Ales - on tap - non-stop for 3 days - An IPA, Beligan White beer, and a Mexican coffee beer - awesome!!. Oh - then there's the seemingly endless supply of Jack Daniels to chase it down with. Donn Ganske cuts a rugged profile and instantly recognisable from the myspace photo - promotes the Friday show in St.Cloud where Honkey shares the bill with Pearlene (pleased to meet you fellas). Whisked off in Donn's truck before getting too settled into the festivsal - catch the best part of Left Lane Cruiser's set. Hats off! The Huge salt pocked pick up instills fear in our fellow road users as Donn tears the blacktop for the hour's trip to St.Cloud via the scenic route and some good conversation on the outsider's concerns about the American way of life and the difficulties of bringing it Rock&Roll in our age of global consumerism. Truth. St.Cloud might be the patron saint of shitty cover bands Donn tells us what we're up against tonite in this out of term college town. We see Jawbone play an all ages coffee shop show to the bar staff, myself and Pearlene. Not looking good for numbers. The Rox is a big old place, great sound rig and soundman that knows how to use it. How refreshing. Ruben from Pearlene finds the huge chain hoists onstage used for the cages of dancing girls/boys I guess? Tests them out for Kiss theatrics and almost trashes a beautiful old Fender tube amp. Oops. Pearlene have a great backline which they are happy to share. Good company. Turn out as we could predict is not so great. Honkeyfinger sounds BIG tonite. Have a play around and try a few things before the festival show tomorrow. Appreciative if small audience. Pearlene sound monstrous - real treat for me and about 10 other people. Invited to join them on harmonica for a few tracks. Party. . .

Load out at same time as the covers band next door who play to a packed house. Their guitarist moans to Jessie from Pearlene about having to play in said covers band. Dont fucking play them then asshole!! Please save us from this stifling cynical mediocre revisionism which chokes what culture we have. Challenge the sheep (more often the venue owners than the audience) with some originality. It doesnt take much to have integrity, but it is painfully hard to make a dollar in this country and anywhere else when good musicians sell their asses that cheap. Respect yourself PLEASE!!!

'X Wino' biker Simon puts me & Pearlene up for the night. We fear whiskey soaked debauchery based on the size of his chopper (bike- that is). A promised 9am rise, pot pourri in the bathroom - womans touch evident - speaks of a better nite's sleep.

July 20

Hot foot it next morning back to St.Paul. Collect the merch from hotel and straight to festival where Honkey hits stage around 3pm. Dark clouds gather. Coffee beer - too early and too little sleep - brings on the jitters. Tight stage turnarounds. Backline uncertainty. Charlie Parr plays 3 'last songs' at the request of the compere - heightened Honkey tension. Set up stage as the winds are getting up. Thresholds for feedback severely pushed - whilst sounds spookily quiet onstage. Stepladders straddling the kit as stagehands try and fasten stuff down - the Honkeyfinger reputation proceeds. . . . Can't hold it in any longer - Rock&Roll not designed to conform to safety standards. "First UK act to play Deep Blues festival - please welcome. . . ." into the psychedelic doom blues sludge of Sloth - "gonna bring you a storm by the time I'm through. . " The rains come - cant help thinking of the opening of Sabbath's debut - ha!! Got this rage whips up the winds and gets the feedback swirling up to the heavens. "I'll be working on the lightning with this next one. . .Trouble - Parchman Farm - Farmer Geroge - the swirling howling fuzz is getting out of control in parallel with the elements. What have I done? no going back. I'm told afterwards at this point the Tornado sirens were going off a few miles away. Blues Apocalypse rides in . . .temperatures drop and the diehard skronksters hold onto the front of the stage as amps get covered in plastic sheets and whatever might hold off water. "If i die here, electrocution, that's ok. . ." Storm through the rest of set climaxing with a looped to hell psychmantra of Running on Empty. Pretty apt in these times, this country, this dramatic backdrop. Skies really crack open and POUR as the Honkey leaves the stage. Midwest Monsoon in a field!!! Festivities stop for about and hour. wet and huddled under the limited tarp cover. Air clears and the elements have added a natural swamp vibe for Hillstomp to ably carry onward. Black Diamond Heavies close the Saturday nite in fine style and it's back to the hotel to test the limits of their hospitality for some 50 odd damp and drunk blues freaks. It all ends somewhere around the time Mr. Scott Biram turns up and breaks Ruben Pearlene's sink - the logical (?!?!) conclusion to an argument over whether it is really Jimmy Stewart or just someone that looks like Jimmy Stewart in the Hitchcock film that's playing on the TV. . . .Never did find out. . . .

July 21

Sunday at Deep Blues is a leisurely affair - well that is after the fuckwits at the Hotel wake me from my slumber with a forced entry and try kick me out at midday!! Cue hungover, pissed off and half dressed Honkeyfinger - having strong words down at reception. Determined that they are not turning me out of my room, after having messed up my booking for the third time. Damn christians everyhwere - what the hell's going on? somehow twists in my brain to be their fault in all their sunday morning chirpiness. No damn way I'm moving rooms to accomodate the god squad. The intellectually challenged desk person and her 'manager' concede on the "i just want to pay for my room - and stay in it - is that too hard to ask of a hotel?" argument. Terrence Stamp did a fine job in the don't fuck with the Limey with a sore head stakes. This englishman's nerves are finally calmed with a French toast plate in the sympathetically dimmed hotel restaurant. Slow start means missing a bunch of bands I'd have loved to have seen, but manage to make it out into the festival sunshine for fellow Limeys, Mudlow to fly the flag. Fine Fine form for a slow, dark, and sleazy selection in the early afternoon sunshine. Drummer Matt later tells me how he narrowly avoided puking as they started their set. Dedication. Thanks for the wonders of coffee beer to get things rolling along for a third day. I'm one of the lucky ones who Mutt treats to a hit of Bourbon brewed by Van from the Black Diamond Heavies' Grampa. VERY NICE!!! Second big treat of the day is Chet from the Immortal Lee Killers new band - Silver Lions 20/20. Heavy as we like it - beauty of a sound. Scott Biram doesnt get his cock out this evening (there's children present) opting for the puking over your guitar instead - followed by Bob Log III's 'mini-me' and a hot new outfit. Bring out the showmen at the last. Fine end to a a very fine festival. Honkey opts to follow Pearlene downtown St.Paul for a show at Big V's with Zak in his bassmonster jalopy. About 5 people there. Shame. Barman makes us weird sweet cocktails to finish the night off.

July 22

Monday and the pain sets in. Guts feel like washed in battery acid. Too late for breakfast. The indignant Limey march into the kitchen routine fails to pull any sympathy this morning. Damn. Catch Scott Biram in the car park. Lift to the legendary Mickey's diner - there must be 2 as this one doesnt do much to make my stomach feel any better. More greasy Twin Peaks-like bad weirdness for this wobbly Englishman than sleek americana retro. Bus to St.Paul centre with the working folk. Automobile city - nothing there. After an hour or so of trying to penetrate the concrete on foot, surrender to the Science Museum of Minnesota and get straight in the IMAX cinema followed by the Star Wars special effects exhibition.

Come the evening, it's showtime at Big V's (back again. . ) with Mudlow. Trouble on Sax. Trimble suffering from 3 days and nights of Heat, Booze, and cutting the shape of the sleaziest man in town. Honkey steps in on harp for a few songs which thankfully don't suck. Pleased to help out some. Scissormen to headline tonite, and their backline's missing the all important bass amp. Stefan from Gravel Road kindly pulls one out of his van that he's just crashed!! what a star! Last show of the trip and all the Deep Blues folk show. Decent turn out. Chris, Rick, Mutt, Dave& Sue, Donn, Al, Oyvinds, and a few of the bands still in town. $5 in the dukebox gets me 20 tracks which are sorely needed in the absence of a DJ. Quality - The Who, Stones, Tamla, Melvins, Jesus Lizard, Cramps, and finally starting to feel right and ready for one more show. Honkey sound is best ever with the marshall/ampeg double amp-age conjuring forth some mammoth fuzz action. Drink about 10 pints of water to redress the chemical inbalances and it all comes out in sweat over the next 40 mins. SOAKED. Inspired by the dukebox to dredge up The Seeker and Fat Bottom Girls. Finish with not an ounce of energy to spare. "Who the hell are Blue Cheer?" . Thanks Mr Dave Hillfunk. Sorry Scissormen - just had to save the best till last. Surprised myself where the hell the energy for this little show came from. No Merch left after 7 Invocations of demon otherness. Job Done I reckon. Wring out the shirt and back to the air conditioned nightmare for one last night. Thankyou and goodnight Minneapolis.

Civilised flight tuesday morning. Hang with Mudlow at the airport. Rick Saunders passes on his way back Florida-wards. "Are you guys in a band?" . . back to blighty with customary grey skies and drizzle at Heathrow, 8am. America might be the most messed up mass of bad craziness with their fatally addicted to petroleum civilisation, but the Piccadillly line from Heathrow to Holborn on this Wednesday morning commuter run has the most miserable fucking faces i've seen in weeks!!! London seriously has the Blues.

It all starts with the Friday morning redeye flight from Stansted to Bari on the southeast coast of Italy. After being pinned against my window seat for 2 hours by the largest man on the plane, one whose gut resembled that strange bin bag full of yoghurt type thing, it was a relief to finally meet the stoney accusatory gaze of Italian airport police and finally Dirty Trainload's Bob Cillo. Dirty Trainload are a duo from Bari who play mean and gritty electro punk blues - the way it should be. Bob arranged the whole thing through a tour promoter and did me the honour of having a first class support act for 10 dates, and some fine company for the close on 4000km of road we'd be burning up - not to mention great music to pass the many journeys. What immediately follows arrival is a leisurely amble around the Bari area buying bass amps, feeding up with fine local food and wine (hello Pino, Adille, Bruna), a spot of sight-seeing (nice stone igloos!) and figuring the best way to pack the van for the next 10 days. All this somehow makes us a bit on the late side for the first gig about 200-300km away in Taranto. A relaxed approach to timekeeping is the Bari way I come to realise . . . . We pick up Lucciano - the other half of Dirty Trainload . . . Hit the road . . .

Friday 8 Feb: Villa Nova, Pulsano, Taranto

. . . Taranto comes at the unsuspecting winter tourist like some Industrial Wild West down in the barren wastelands of Southern Italy. First gig in the Last Chance Saloon right at the heel of the 'Italian boot'. Badlands? Some kind of O.K. Corrale theme bar/restaurant/barbeque venue - great in the summer, but tonite it's damn cold with a chill wind blowing off the sea and the monolithic factories are belching smoke into the freezing night air behind us. We're late as hell turning up - 9pm. Decidedly frosty atmosphere remains unthawed for the duration of setting up despite being in front of a raging fireplace. Medaeival torture instruments and ancient farm tools on the walls. NIce. One of Bob Trainload's vintage AC30 amps (yes - he has two of the beauties!) emits a bestial buzz when switched on - not right - or happy - promoter stands arms folded legs wide watching our (well at least my) fumbling attempts to wire together an unholy mess of instruments, leads and fuzz pedals. Tension breeds hysteria as I start inwardly giggling at the impending prospect of two fuzzed out heavy blues outfits playing in what appears to be a family steakhouse with a cosy fireside area for acoustic troubadors. Going gets wierd, the wierd turn pro - at last!! . . . . No damn carpet to root the drums with - fuck - slight omission. This is gonna haunt me I can tell. . . We get it together and put on a show - despite a serious lack of forthcoming beer or food. . .
HONKNSKRONKN
GOT THIS RAGE
NEW SKIN
MARGARINE MAN
PARCHMAN FARM
TRUE BELIEVERS
FINE THING
BURNING SKULL BLUES
RUNNING ON EMPTY
Legs stretched to unnatural lengths as I try to play a drum kit that's bouncing away from me with every stomp. The empty beer keg aint stopping anything my friend. Shaky but persistent start and realise the new album tracks still a bit unpolished. . . ah well. Forget to play MARGARINE MAN (pt2) which usually lifts the iciest of moods. Instead almost emptying the room with the slow psychdrone blues of FINE THING. The dead wood walks. . . . Make friends with locals; Georgio the Troma movies fan and Marciano who owns every Captain Beefheart record and wierdly used to live down the road from me in Whitechapel. I can see how Whitechapel could push you to that. Dirty Trainload cover Lennon's 'Cold Turkey' which translates as 'Tacchino Fredo' I learn. Forsake the merchandise tonite but the Honkeyfinger badges are gratefully received by those who stick around for a post gig beer. We stay in a beachfront apartment which is probably great in the summer - fucking feezing in February with no hot water. Great big picture of Jesus on the wall looks my spit'n'image. Sleep in gig clothes after a few warming slugs of duty free Makers. Chilled broken sleep. Well that's the warm up out of the way. . .

Saturday 9 Feb: Blue Dahlia cafe, Ionica, Cosenza

The Blue Dahlia is an 'art cafe'. Has a big friendly feel - and a fine selection of Rums - perhaps a contributing factor. Ruggero the owner contacted me on myspace a few weeks before the gig. His picture showed a crazed looking beatnik caveman with his tongue lolling out and lazers coming from his eyes like in the 50s godzilla movies . In the flesh he's a friendly and warm fellow - thankfully - but something strange lurks just below the surface. It's an intimate place more suited to poetry readings perhaps, and Ruggero soundchecks us himself, with enthusiasm, sorting the mic-ing up of everything. Do I want any effects on my vocals? No thanks. About 2 hours later, after an enthusiastically long introductory rant about local politics which leaves even my Italian friends scratching their heads, and the state of blues music in the 21st century I begin to understand the real nature of his special effects question. . . as my familiar set is overlaid with mind melting psychedelic phasing of vocals and everything else as far as I can tell. If it wasnt for the absence of a lightshow the onlookers could be forgiven for thinking it was Pink Floyd circa '68. Swathes of fluctuating feeedback I attempt to control for a while before realising that it's nothing to do with my fuzz arsenal, but another competing effects trove operated by Ruggero. He's the man with the psychedelic plans tonite. Lets go with it. . . makeshift carpet purhcased on the way reduces drum kit acrobatics thankfully . . .
THE SEEKER
HONKNSKRONKN
BURNING SKULL BLUES
NEW SKIN
TROUBLE
PARCHMAN FARM
TRUE BELIVERS
MARGARINE MAN BLUES
GOT THIS RAGE
RUNNING ON EMMPTY
-
ROCK ME BABY
FAT BOTTOM GIRLS
After the Honkey set, the extent of Ruggero's appetite for participation becomes clear when he insists the DIRTY TRAINLOAD set up their gear and play some more! Apparently he's not been aurally satisfied yet. . . He joins them on percussion with the tools of his trade (cocktail stirrers and mashers) to play the washboard with. I see the DT struggling with his free jazz timing - so join in to try and at least help them through this command performance. We make it work. A lasting image in someone's camera - Ruggero wearing the iron man washboard with Honkey playing percussion on his belly whilst the man shakes furiously on marraccas to the Trainload's heavy blues groove. One more tune. Honkey joining the Trainload on harp with, and we've satisfied Big R's appetite for 'the new blues music'. Many hugs and photos with the great man follow before he dissappears to bed. But not before laying Lucciano with a big sloppy one on the lips. Missed out there! - "These crappy people dont want to have fun - there could have been sex tonite" - we hear as his parting words translated by Bob Trainload. Quite a nite. The man-love is shared and friends made. A few people buy the vinyl. Get the wierd feeling we might be back there one day. Thanks Ruggero; for bringing us all together onstage on just the second nite in. . . .

Sunday 10 Feb: I Candelai, Palermo, Sicily.

Long trip through barren mafia country (except for the coffee and ice cream bars) of the south before a dirty ferry ride over to verdant Sicily. It's a Long drive the length of the island. Palermo is a big old grandiose city. Bob's pal Roberto from local band WAINES (there's a really long and funny story behind the name, but you just had to be there . . .) guides us in despite the best efforts of kamikazee ducks on the street !?! - True. The Venue is awesome. Grubby backstreets open into a vintage deco style music hall decorated with loads of hip junk furniture and a tatty black marble floor that carries the rock of ages. Apparently a bordello at some point in the recent past. The decadent glory breathes on - the perfect venue for rocknroll I believe. Fine Belgian beers & top shelf rums from the bar. There's a great balcony for aerial stage views - or jumping off if you're a Quadrophenia fan. Jimmy!! The sound is fantastic. Big and raw. First venue we play that's set up for rock gigs. Place probably holds 300 - tonite we get about 100 or so true believers hungry for some sunday nite punk blues action. Feeling in the mood to deliver . . . .
THE SEEKER
BURNING SKULL
NEW SKIN
HONKNSKRONKN
TROUBLE
TRUE BELIEVERS
MARGARINE MAN BLUES
PARCHMAN FARM
GOT THIS RAGE
RUNNING ON EMPTY
-
(FAT BOTTOM GIRLS ??) - can't remember??
Tonite DJ Hangdog joins the tour, and having some quality blues cuts before, between, and after the sets charges the night with a proper party vibe - a welcome change from the silent changovers so far. The freak blues roadshow is complete and this is the first nite where the gig muscles begin to properly flex. Feels good. There's a fine merchandise stall selling books, clothes, and CDs run by Dario. He shifts the remainder of the Honkey vinyl - leaving nothing for the remaining 7 dates. Ooops! Gotta call Charlie Hoarse back home to ship out some fresh supplies. Meet more cool folk; local promoter who puts on festivals in Parlermo during the summer - nice work! Pack up gear and hit the narrow buzzing and majestically crumbling Palermo streets. On a Sunday all shots are 1 euro. sweet. First bar we see grabs a thirsty Hangdog eye - called 'Drunks' - Spit and sawdust, rum shots, and excited rants about the Deep Blues festival in the summer - coming to Getcha! Drunks kicks us out into the street at no idea what time . . . nice guest house with hot beautiful running water. Hangdog falls asleep clutching the Maker's. Following morning comes too soon - big journey ahead. Sweet, sweet breakfast of traditional Sicilian canolo's (crispy biscuit roll filled with sweet Mascarpone cream) + coffee. Queasy from too much sugar and cream lurching atop the rum & trappist ale repositories. Slip in and out of consciousness on the way back to the mainland. Honkey & Hangdog somehow manage to leave the bourbon behind. . . duh!!

Monday 11 feb: University of Callabria, Cosenza

We know nothing of this gig until we start getting harrassed by phone calls from the promoter around midday. We all sense bad things afoot. Bob reasons that he's probably got a restaurant booked for us after soundcheck. We buy into this unquestioningly - wishful thinking. It's at the universtiy and our man meets us on what appears to be a child's moped. Lucciano says he has the face of a criminal. Not a very clever one I reckon if this is the case. This dude has been pestering us the best part of the afternoon to arrive at 6pm for a gig that we find will not start till 11pm. Alarms bells continue to drone faintly in the back of my head. We play in a fucking huge metal shed - with stylish looking sci-fi vents on the side. Reckon this was used to house some massive weed plantation in the 70s - probably kept the whole of southern Italy stoked for a decade or so. The walls are suitably plastered with the Italian version of Socialist Workers party posters and faded dopesmokers porn - sticky bud centrefolds from High Times. The weird venue, it's decor, and the huge red star on the metal hatch we load in through leaves me hopeful that maybe John Sinclair's 'RocknRoll, Dope and Fucking in the streets' revolutionary manifesto cranked out by the MC5 actually became a reality somewhere, years after the fact?!? The PA is huge - stadium rock. The soundman looks like a 70s Polish dockworker and nails the drumkit to the wooden stage uncompromisingly - that aint going nowhere tonite - I like this man. Spirits take a dive after being served cold potatoes and cheap lager for dinner in this freezing and very empty venue. Things are looking up after a few games of ping pong - that is until mr. criminal potatohead turns up to warn us that he's gonna stiff us on the agreed fee due to his own retarded inability to promote the fucking show properly. Not a poster in sight. Since when did we become profit sharers this knobhead's organisation - I think is what Bob Trainload argues with the students union svengali. Moods shift to the darkside. . . Hangdog battles with a comedy dj set up of 2 x wonky discmans patched through a fisher price child's mixer - sounds rough but does the trick with the dirty blues fix. Dirty trainload deliver a mean and pissed set. Hangdog follows with some of the hard stuff. Gimme some Sabbath - my only request. He goes one better and brings a puff of Callabria's finest as i plug in. . . . "Are you ready to testify?". . .
THE SLOTH
GOT THIS RAGE
NEW SKIN
ROCK ME BABY
TROUBLE
PARCHMAN FARM
TRUE BELIEVERS
MARGARINE MAN BLUES
BURNING SKULL
RUNNING ON EMPTY
Break with Honkey convention starts the set with some looped to hell acidpsych blues followed by a gloriously slow rendition of RAGE. What followed just flowed unlike I can remember before. The DTs thought it was the best Honkey gig they'd seen - what started out as the finger to the promoter became the turning point of the Honkey tour set - Viva La Psychedelia! . . . The night finished with the inevitable argument with the promoter (who sure as eggs is eggs did indeed stiff us on the fee) and a mystery campus tour leading to pizza slices with strangely manicured male students sporting plucked eyebrows. Weird high camp fashion laddism. Still trying to figure that one?!?! . . .We find a computer lab next door to where we sleep - play music and check correspondence with the non touring world till about 4/5am. Hangdog narrowly avoids setting fire to the place with a clumsy roll up. Sleep in a cosy room behind the projection screen to one of the main lecture theatres. No lecture the next morning thankfully or the students would have been treated to a particularly rude awakening.

Tuesday 12 Feb; Sinister Noise, Rome

8 hours in the car. This is starting to wear. Lucciano jumps ship and gets the train- easing the back pains. Gonna meet us in Rome. Tomorrow longer journey still - 10 hours we calculate!!! Shit. . . . Sinister Noise a rocking good bar. Weekly rotation of fine art and illustration make for a good looking place too - if you like the disembodied freak geek art variety. Sucker for it. Ilaire, the 'We love to Boogie' DJ, greets us as we arrive - Hangdog's DJ partner for the night. Great 60s Beat psych a go-go sounds - could be a party tonite? Where's Ruggero when you need him? Honkey mood swings as there's no fucking carpet again - Does nobody ever throw their carpet out in Italy? - there's hundreds of (well at least 3) gig venues in need of your thick pile cast-offs!! Note to self: Look harder into that alternative drum kit idea - gotta be an easier way. . . . Massimo runs the bar and wears a Witchcraft T-shirt - make the connection to Orange Goblin crew. Had them over in the summer DJ-ing and drinking for England in their inimitable way. Good company. As I write in the bar, in comes a dude in red leather trousers, aerobics t-shirt, and bandana in a kind of Flashdance meets Skynrd fashion car-crash. Gonna be interesting tonite. Fancy Hearing some Guess Who - Ileria must have 'American Woman'? Intimate basement venue - like a slightly bigger Buffalo Bar. Digging Massimo's sinister candlelit uplighting at the till. . . . No damn Honkey merchandise. . .
ELECTRIC SLOTH
GOT THIS RAGE
NEW SKIN
ROCK ME BABY
TROUBLE
PARCHMAN FARM
TRUE BELIEVERS
MARGARINE BLUES
BURNING SKULL
RUNNING ON EMPTY
-
FAT BOTTOM GIRLS
. . . not quite full - few shy of 100 by stage time. The new creeping pyschedelic wall of noise begining to the set works good. Finally a solution of how of to start - at least for now. Thanks University of Callabria! Heavy onstage enthusiasm = busted strings early in set - fighting with tuning for the rest, but gives a weird, if dischordant edge. Most ridiculous rock ending and potential serious injury as set finishes with Running On Empty's wall of noise. . . reaching climax. . . decide to try some James Brown/MC5 style down on kness lapsteel . . . (a first maybe?). But slip from precarious drum stool, landing heavily on concrete floor - full force on both knees. FUCKINGGGGGG OWWWW!!!!! As the searing pain flashes - realise I've simultaneously managed to cut off the squaling wall of death noise - Double FUCK!! (looked kinda intentional I hear later). . . leaving only my muted inner howlings of pain - wonder if I'm actually going to be able to stand up to leave the stage? The most difficult exit ever as knees and legs are coaxed unwillingly to work. Kneecaps still intact thank god - shot of rum on hand to dull the pain and manage a well out of tune encore of FBGs. . . wow!! . . .Breathe aaaaaaand relax. . . . .Drinks with Massimo and Ilaire back in the bar digging Cream's Disraeli Gears album. Promise to cook up a plan to come back with Orange Goblin sometime. Guiliano joint owner of the venue with Massimo, I think, takes us to his apartment in what appears like a suburb of Rome - if there is such a thing. Early start with 10 hour drive to next venue. Really need more than 5 hours sleep. Have my own room tonite. Nice. Knees still hurt like hell. Hope I can walk in the morning. . . .

Wednesday 13. Feb: Rome part 2 (day off)

Woken at the unearthly hour of 9am. definately not enough sleep. Feel like the tin man in need of some oil on the joints. . . Coffee and donut flavoured Ice cream for breakfast will have to do instead! Sickly but just too much to resist with a 10hour journey to god knows where (north of Milan i'm told). Aching, subdued dread. Journey starts in silence. . Phone call to Bob 15 minutes on the road - just got onto the motorway. Gigs been cancelled - actually the VENUE has had the plug pulled by the police. Heard many stories of brutality and death attributed to these heavy handed motherfuckers since I've been here - so this comes as no surprise. Licensing hassle apprently. Takes about 5 seconds to decide on turning back to Rome for a day of leisure - rather than a day of motorway hell, being bouced in and out of lane by the endless stampede of road freight. . . . See some culture. Eat some food other than the roadside stop variety, and travel at night when it's quieter. Yes.

Park the car - not an easy task as Hangdog struggles with the freeform rules of the road in central Rome. We finally set off for the Colosseum by bus. En route buy a pair of Michelangelo's David 'Penis Shorts' for Hangdog - Charlie's new DJ outfit. The Papal guard getting twitchy. Gatecrash an American guided tour - learn of the insatiable appetite of the Roman Empire for slaughter and depravity on an epic scale . . . the guide revels in the telling of the juicy details to her adolescent audience. 2 grown men with dark glasses and an excess of hair giggling off monster hangovers surrounded by schoolchildren gets too wierd - not to mention the fancy dress Roman Soldiers posing for tourist photos. Dont think the Centurians wore lycra leggings under their battle dress. . . . tourism not really about attention to detail. Lunch at a backstreet cafe and savour some fantastic homemade parmegianna (abuergine chesse bake. . . mmmm) with a nice glass of vino rosso. Ready to take on the world again, and beginning to feel a little less battered after a big glass of Spremuto L'Arrancha. Awesome Mexican shop entertains us for a while, and buy a bright and beautifully painted clay skull for my sweetheart. The Meixcan farmer's hat's not for sale - damn - was beginning to feel the part with that on. We empty our pockets of whatever's left in a record store before hitting the road again. Buy a copy of Alice Coltrane & Pharoah sanders' 'Journey in Satchidananda' - nice bit of skronky spaced out free jazz - honey for the soul! mmmm. Nice change from the badass garage blues and bluegrass that's been our travelling soundtrack so far. Bob gets a Mr Airplane Man album. Hangdog goes for the meat with Nashville Pussy's debut and nothing all to do with the sleeve art. 6 hours to Milan and dusk falls. Make it by 1am to Luccianos apartment that he shares with his brother. . . . Great place. Sleep. local gig tomorrow - no need to get up at all. . .

Thursday 14 Feb: Magnolia, Milan

Laze around indoors booking flights home. A relief not to get in the van until evening. A trip out to the local gunstore where Bob buys some oil for his guitar strings is about as adventurous as it gets. . . when the evening comes we arrive customarily behind time at another fine venue. This one's tucked away in the shadow of a sports club!?!? on the outskirts of Milan. Earth and Jon Spencer head up gigs later in the week - wish we could stick around . . . Soundsystem to match - gonna sound BIG tonite. Some fine stage carpet . 2 in fact - colourful retro swirly patterns - no dead relative's house clearance shagpile in this establishment. Fine screen-printed gig posters line the walls too. Apparently they open up the back of the venue onto the football pitch in the summer which becomes a 3000 strong festival site.

So it's Valentine's nite on the outskirts of Milan. . . females in the audience number about 4 and the remaining 50 or so look chronically single. Man got the blues and theres a gang of them - taking photos, videos, down the front and whooping it up. This one's for the ladies. . . Big Sound of Country music opens - a bluegrass one man band act with some fine guitars and homemade stompboxes. Want one. A pleasure meeting Diego and having him open for us. Nice tunes. Must hook up again for some shows. Dirty Trainload rock it up a notch and get the single men hot. Bring on the manrock - Hangdog guesting on washboard in his plumber's outfit - what happened to the Michelangelo penis pants?? A lot of flashes going off as the DT climax with pedals breaking - and earsplitting feedback rules - biggest applause of the night as the howling cuts. The curse of The Revelator returns. . .
THE SLOTH
THE SEEKER
NEW SKIN
BURNING SKULL
TROUBLE
PARCHMAN FARM
TRUE BELIEVERS
MARGARINE BLUES
GOT THIS RAGE
Onstage wierdness continues through honkey set - bearing no resemblance to the soundcheck - something keeps cutting out?!? -turn off ALL the monitors - a hot and sweaty one delivered to the men of blues regardless. No sign of the damn merch!! Last chance tomorrow while we're still in milan. Evening fizzles out in the usual boozy, reluctant gear loading style. Back to Lucciano's Apartment and unload it all again. Be doing this in my sleep when I'm back home. Tomato and dolcelata sndwich before bed - acid fried cheese nightmares. Next day only 300km drive down the road I'm told - so a half day in Milan to check some history.

Friday 15th Feb: Officine 49, Cesena, Forli

Get up 11am and try to get out and see some of Milan before heading off. Get to see what Lucciano tells me is the only example of Italian gothic cathedrals - The Milan duomo is made entirely of marble - damn impressive. Rears up at you as you leave the underground - like the spaceship in Close Encounters. Hangdog is ejected by the pope's footsoldiers for refusing to remove his John Wayne baseball cap. Ha! No respect given - none received. No 'Fuck the Pope' bandanas for sale - next time. The Duomo is impressive in it's monolithic gothic marble-ness . . . eerie and cold as a bloody abbattoir. Milan is Italy's capital of wealth - seen everywhere in the immaculately turned out boys and girls - and dogs?!?! in their designer gear. Quick tour over and back to Gianni, Lucciano's brother's parting dinner for us - hospitality embodied. Custard cake to die for from their aunt upstairs. The emergency shipment of Honkey vinyl 7s arrives in the 11th hour - thanks Chuck! With full stomachs we hit the road customarily late and hotfoot it the 300km to Cesena. Friday night's swanky venue has usual integrated Bar, gallery, live music hall, and even rehearsal rooms this time. Officine = workshop. Late again . . . finish soundcheck at 11pm and come down to see all the beautiful people packing the joint - plenty well heeled hipsters - swinging party? - Djs upstairs and down. The resident DJ Danny and our DJ Hangdog play some killer tunes, but the kids just nod along. Switch tack. . . Lucciano breaks out the grand piano and plays a few solo numbers in his Alexander De Large guise . . . just before the Dirty Trainload try to wring a little more than a nod from the frustratingly hip. The Revelator joins the DTs on washboard again tonite - regular feature definately.
SLOTH
GOT THIS RAGE
NEW SKIN
ROCK ME BABY
TROUBLE
PARCHMAN FARM
TRUE BELIEVERS
MARGARINE MAN
BURNING SKULL BLUES
RUNNING ON EMPTY
Wooden pulpit at the back of stage - no steps - all for show - well, theatrical effect. Possibility of a preacher's descent to the stage would have been irresistible. Honkey set now settled into a well oiled routine - no runaway drum kits - sports vests sported - honest sweat worked - drumstool athlete with throbbing knees. Sell a box of 7inchers - sweet. DJ action steps up after bands, but the kids STILL DONT DANCE. Shimmy on the floor alone to The Sonics. Youths prematurely aged into fashionista adulthood. We stay and drink as long as the bar still serves. Tables cleared away around us. A short drive to Rosa and Andrea's warehouse flat, after getting stopped by the local Police and given the once over - suspected of trying to show the kids too good a time - all asked to produce ID - "These are not the droids you're looking for" - waved on unmolested. Our hosts treat us to some severe relaxation. . . a very calm and friendly place in Forli. Temperature drops and its a cold nite huddled in the bottom of an acrtic sleeping bag on the lounge floor. Next morning our hosts define hospitality - laying on some beautiful fresh veg & pasta. Pass up the yoga for a trip into Forli with Hangdog - might be missing it, but not a lot there. Ryaniar have moved in and are sucking souls with their giant budget vacuum cleaner. Return to the holistic sanctuary to get the others and hit the road . . .

Saturday 16th feb: Clandestino, Faenza

Short trip - less than an hour or so in the van to our last gig. Still manage to be late. I hear we've become dubbed 'The Londoners from Bari'. Happy with that one . . . when in Rome. . . Maybe the flashiest venue of the tour - more like a cocktail bar and fine dining establishment than a gig venue. Nice padded wall frames the stage - gonna look a bit old grey whistle test tonite - no whispering Bob though - not by a long shot - ooh no - enter Morina. Northern Italy's certainly where the money is. Games room with chequered cloth pool tables and vintage eames bucket chairs scattered around the room. Very tasteful. 'Give them whatever they want from the bar' - Fine Wines, Fine Food, and fine looking bar staff in this apparently all-female run venue. And a beautiful grey cat who is totally deaf. Head Honcho Morina runs the place with her iron wit and limitless energy - moving sofas, stage monitors and soundchecking us with good humoured efficiency. No metal or reggae apparently. . Morina sports some fine zip up winkle picker boots which I ask her about - before I know it shoe size is taken and phone calls are made to the shopowner - wow! Style certainly taken seriously here. I hear of how Josh Pearson's taste for cowboy boots was catered for here recently. After soundcheck I'm asked my age to settle a wager among the bar staff - whatsa a guy ta do? 28 they reckon - ha! ha! the beard hides more than you think ladies. But flattery will get you . . . well . . . a hairy guy sweating his guts out making an almighty racket for nigh on an hour. . . Soundchecks concluded and an invitation next door to the restaurant to dine. We're informed that our motley foursome are in fact more intelligent than we look. Don't quite know how to take that . . . What in a Deliverance kind of way?!? No offence taken - swiftly proceeding to the fine food and wine. Self imposed maxim of 'you cant rock on a full stomach' goes to pot - with food this good the locals can live with their rock&roll a little slower. . . finally beginning to adopt a little of the Italian way. The Bar fills up and again it looks like we mght have an audience of well dressed, well behaved onlookers. Shame if it ends this way. The wine flows and Hangdog cranks the blues skronk roadshow one last time. . . we have to wait on Morina to finish in the restaurant before we can take the stage. This muti-tasking whirlwind of a woman gotta do the sound too. The Dirty Trainload get some folk dancing and go down really well. There's hope. Honkey set preceded by second dumbest onstage moment - ripping open a pop stud cowboy shirt too late to notice this one's got buttons - doh! knobhead! buttons everywhere. .
SLOTH
GOT THIS RAGE
NEW SKIN
ROCK ME BABY
TROUBLE
PARCHMAN FARM
BOSS HONK
TRUE BELIEVERS
MARGARINE BLUES
BURNING SKULL
FAT BOTTOM GIRLS
RUNNING ON EMPTY
Slow heavy start - misheivously inappropriate here? - early warning to all the dead wood lingerers. Drum kit skidding all over the place, sound running away too. Turn off all the monitors please!! strings break - still in tune - just. Crowd dancing even - some freakwigs at the front (hello Collectivo Ginsberg). Reverse the ending and finish on the psych riff loop durge of Running on Empty after FBG - dim the lights in squalling noise . . . Earnt our dinner in sweat alone. The evening continues with Hangdog dressed in overalls, pulling his own pints behind the bar - errr dude?!?! Stick to the vino rosso . Game of pool with Lucciano as bar staff attempt to clean up the mess. Morina concludes the night holding court at the bar to all who remain (bands and staff that'll be). Her acid wit takes no prisoners - "You dress like a plumber, but behave like a toilet" - her retort to Hangdog's insatiable beer lust. Washboard's a thirsty game don't you know? - Tame the beast. Back to her apartment and sleep under a fine mexican rug - best sleep of the tour - pity it's so short before the early rise and some fucking moody patisserie staff at breakfast before the 6 hour return trip to Bari.

Sunday 17 feb: Faenza-Bari:

3700 km round trip in the end. What have I learned from this? well after about 4 or 5 shows you get deeper into the music, what makes it work, how you play it, where it's voice comes from. No perfect set of songs, no perfect order, or manner of spewing it out - why continue if there was? Some things can work most of the time, but few things work all of the time. Get your own carpet and carry it with you eveywhere - like Monkey. Top show for Honkeyfinger, Bob reckons was Cosenza, at the university - smallest crowd/biggest venue -Like 'pearls to swine' he says, but I dont remember the translation. That one went deep within - remember what that felt like. "What goes on the road stays on the road" - was scrawled across a number of DJ booths by our Reverend Hangdog. But you got to take something back with you - the fresh ideas & freakish schemes, half formed, half figured, and only half and idea of where to start again. Because the road goes on. . . . forward. . . .further. . . and next time with a good piece of carpet.

HONKEYFINGER, February 2008