It was around eight fifteen in the evening, and nearly all my homework had been diligently completed as I lay on the floor in front of some new soap opera called ‘Eastenders’ (which, to me, just seemed like a lot of miserable people shouting at each other - it’d never last). I had completed all the quadratic equations that my maths teacher had assigned to me, I had drawn the diagram of a sperm penetrating the outer wall of an unfertilised human egg, ready for my biology class next morning, and I had finished translating a passage of Latin about an emperor’s daughter sitting under a tree (“Cornelia sub arbore sedet” remains the only passage of Latin I can recall, other than those in general use as proverbs or sayings). Despite the fact that I had inexplicably chosen to study it over German, Latin bored me to tears, but on this occasion, I was happy to string it out. I was happy to keep checking my translation and fine tuning it – anything I could do to make the exercise last just a little longer. Because I knew that once I’d finished my Latin homework, I was free to do what I really wanted to do. At least, I was free to do what I felt I had to really want to do - practise my guitar.

My last two practise sessions had not gone well. My brother Pete had generously given me his acoustic guitar on permanent loan for me to learn the basics before upgrading to the sexier, electric model I craved, and it was he who showed me how to play my first few chords. But over the last few weeks, to spend an hour or two forcing my slender young fingers into unnatural positions had become a bit of a chore. Furthermore, the steel strings cut mercilessly into the soft pink tissue of my fingertips, making them burn for hours after I’d put the blasted thing down. So, it was with a degree of reluctance, that evening, that I finally put away my copy of ‘Ecce Romani’ and moved to the room next door where Pete’s guitar was propped menacingly against a sofa.

With a sigh, I sat beside it and heaved it onto my knee. Its bulky wooden frame did not sit naturally on my skinny thighs. My skeletal right arm and all-too-prominent ribs on my right side begrudged the presence of this cumbersome, alien instrument. My youthful hands, more used to handling a tennis racquet or cricket bat, felt the long, polished neck and assessed the six, taut strings with trepidation and bemusement. This was not a harmonious coupling. This was no mystical match made in musical heaven. This was a pain in the arse.

I gingerly persuaded the first three fingers of my left hand to assume their positions for the execution of the chord ‘D major’, and dutifully, my right hand performed a textbook strum with the flimsy grey plectrum my brother had thrown in to the deal. ‘D major’ was reasonably manageable. Indeed, so was ‘A major’ and ‘E major’. My problem lay in the time that passed between playing these chords; the seconds spent willing my forefinger up from the third string to the fifth, coaxing my third finger down from the third fret to the second, the moments lost as I pressed even harder against the fingerboard in an attempt to make the notes voice like they were supposed to, wincing with pain as the B-string scythed into my fingertip. I grimaced with every attempt at a new chord, grunted and tutted with every scuffed note or badly co-ordinated strum, cursed and spat as my efforts sounded increasingly like a boxer jabbing at an out-of-tune sitar.

“Oh, I’ll never be able to do this!!!” I howled, and tossed my brother’s guitar to the other side of the sofa with disdain. I was beaten. I just had to face it; I was not supposed to be a guitarist. My destiny clearly lay elsewhere, in sport or in writing. Perhaps I could be a postman.

For at least the next six weeks, my brother’s guitar lay in exactly the position I had left it on that sofa – face down, slumped on a cushion, ignored. I eyed it each time I passed it, in the way one might eye a former sexual partner who knows a little too much about one’s failings - with a mixture of shame, disappointment and envy of those who’d succeeded where I had failed. My parents would casually ask me when I was going to ‘get that guitar back to Pete’, and would urge me not to forget that it was his, and that he would want it back if I wasn’t going to play it. Fine, I would think, he can have it. I didn’t need it any more. He could pick it up next time he popped over. He could take it away with him – it was of no use to me.

It could have ended right there. Any inkling of developing a life in music could have been snuffed out, and the future that stretched out before me could have been altered irrevocably if my brother had just stopped by to retrieve his guitar.

But he didn’t.

Day One:  OTTAWA-BOUND

"So you're going like that, are you?" is my terse question to Dave as he arrives at my house at 8.45am, looking slightly dishevelled and sporting  a pair of blue-tinted aviator sunglasses and – slightly more disconcertingly - a vivid red, wide-brimmed felt hat. We are preparing to depart for Heathrow for our 1pm flight, and I am a little stressed out, following a phone call from my good friend Boonie informing me that the M4 is shut in both directions just west of London. Dave senses my tension and knows me well enough by now to take my disparaging comments on his attire with a pinch of salt, and goes to put the kettle on. Super H Hally Hallster, undoubtedly jealous and wishing he could come with us, is our lift to the airport, and as it happens he delivers us to Terminal 3 with hours to spare. After a plate of bangers and mash (plus a truly dreadful pint of lager for me) we board our flight, Ottawa-bound. Thanks to a very considerate young lady at check-in, we have been given exit row seats, which are great for our legroom, but we can't help giggling and thinking of 'Curb Your Enthusiasm' when the flight attendant talks us through the protocol for opening the emergency exits. Martin Scorcese's Rolling Stones film "Shine A Light" is our choice of entertainment, and Dave and I both agree that Jagger is a nutter and Charlie Watts is cool as fuck.
We're greeted at Ottawa airport by my old friend and agent, Todd J Littlefield, who, after checking us in at The Marriott hotel in downtown Ottawa, then  takes us out to dinner in The Market area of the city. As I suspected he would, Dave immediately falls in love with the place and starts talking about moving over here….

Day Two: BANGING NUTTERS

The day starts with rain, and I suffer ceaseless text messages from my Canadian friends saying we've brought the British weather over with us. It soon clears, though, and it proves to be pretty much the only rain we get on the entire trip. So, what to do with ourselves? Well, like any self-respecting four-star hotel, the Marriott has a Crazy Golf course. What's more, it's a course with an Ottawa theme, incorporating Parliament Hill into one of the holes. While Dave is the epitome of Tiger Woods cool and negotiates his way round the course with composure and efficiency, I have an attack of the yips and can't play for shit. I then suffer the humiliation of being given 'tips' by Dave, who speaks earnestly and wisely on the importance of the follow-through.  The evening sees our first rehearsal with drummer Andrew Lamarche (who played with me in The Hoax ten years ago on our Canadian tour) and bass player Pat Giunta. Andrew and Pat have done their homework and our hour-long set comes together pretty quickly. Dave and I introduce our Canadian counterparts to the words "banging" (when referring to a noisily successful performance) and "nutter" (when referring to  a …. Nutter). Todd is in attendance and sits in the corner, nodding his head and tapping his feet enthusiastically while keeping his fingers firmly in his ears. After rehearsals, Pat takes pity on two hungry young Brits and takes Dave and me back to his place for some warmed up curry – just the job. Dave is struggling to keep up with the pace of events somewhat, and jet-lag is kicking in, so he retires to our hotel room for some well-earned rest. Meanwhile, me and my bad-ass, hardcore self drag ourselves down to The Rainbow to catch my old friend Tony D in his new band MONKEYJUNK. Within minutes of entering the bar I'm accosted by a drunk, 6'1" blonde woman who immediately tells me her life story and tries to persuade me to dance with her – I politely refuse, much to her chagrin. She then tells me she's worth $2 million, but I'm not falling for that old line. Monkeyjunk sound great, and I'm tempted to stay on and party, but I have an early start in the morning…

Day Three: IRISH CAR BOMBS AT D'ARCY MCGEE'S

My 7.30am alarm call drags me from a deep sleep. Time to get down to the lobby and meet Todd, who will drive me to the studios of Chez 106.1FM where I will do an interview and perform a solo acoustic number. This is not rock and roll o' clock, and my voice is still in bed. Resident hosts Doc and Woody are affable and accommodating, however, and enthusiastically applaud my rendition of 24 Hours. After a hearty breakfast at Hamie's in New Edinburgh, it's back to Todd's place for another writing session with the beautiful Becky Abbott. Todd's dog Daisy seems to remember me, and rather than scampering away from me in terror, she gives me a surprisingly warm welcome.  It's great to see Becky again, but my fatigued, jet-lagged state means that our collaboration is not quite as fruitful as last time. Todd returns from his tennis match and drags me down to the site of Ottawa Bluesfest, where we will be performing tomorrow afternoon. This afternoon, however, I'm meeting up with Lynn Saxberg, chief music critic at the Ottawa Citizen, for an interview. She arrives late, having picked her way through festival traffic, but she's easily forgiven, and we have a nice chilled-out interview by the river. The chilled-out vibe doesn't last long though – I'm already late for rehearsal with the guys but Todd whisks me away to meet Wiggy, stage manager on the River Stage, to go through our stage plan, etc. My old friend Guy Forsyth is performing in the sunshine and Todd suggests we stay to watch. I suggest to him that this is why he is always late for meetings. I touch a nerve. Rehearsal goes well – we're all set for our performance, and are in buoyant mood. Back at the hotel, Dave asks me if I think his red hat is gay. I tell him 'yes'. He then claims that he only wears it to 'shape his hair after it's been washed'. We head into town for some beers. Purely by chance, we stumble across JW Jones kicking out some quality blues in D'Arcy McGee's. JW played his first ever gig opening for The Hoax back in 1998, and it's great to see him again. Dave and I abandon all plans of heading into The Market and instead stay and enjoy the rest of the set. A local lass introduces us to the pleasures of a cocktail known as an Irish Car Bomb. "It's not PC," she says, "But it's tasty!". I have no recollection of what the ingredients were, but I do remember dropping a shot of one drink into a tumbler of another before downing the lot. By the time we leave, Dave is hyper-drunk. I suggest he's  the most drunk I've ever seen him, an accusation at which he visibly bristles. "I'm fine, man! I'm in control! I've got a switch… a switch in my head… I can just switch it and I'm sober again, man. I'll show you, ready? Ok, ok, I'll do a countdown then I'll flick the switch and I'll be sober. Ready? 5…4…3…2…1…. (clicks fingers and pauses)….. So, are we going back to the hotel?"

Day 4: ROCKIN' BLUESFEST AND HITTING THE KEG

It's gig day – my Ottawa debut will be at Bluesfest 2008 this very afternoon. Rehearsals have really put me in the mood and I'm excited. This happy little vibe is deflated somewhat by a very dubious breakfast in the hotel restaurant (if only the orange juice had been as cold as the scrambled eggs….). We are picked up from The Marriott by the lovely Samantha, who delivers us with aplomb to the back stage area at The River Stage. Typically, Pat is already there and has already sorted passes and provisions in our trailer. The weather is fine, the grass in front of the River Stage is slowly filling with people, and at 2.45pm Wiggy introduces us: "Just 10 miles from Stonehenge! Please welcome, JON AMOR!".  The show couldn't go much better – apart from the fact that I forget to give Todd my video camera to film bits of it. I pick it up just in time to film the last chords of 'Changed'. In the aftermath, Andrew enjoys his first legitimate use of the word 'Banging' when talking about the set, while I am whisked away to sign CDs. There's not much time to socialise, though – Samantha is waiting to take us to Ottawa airport, ready for our flight to Thunder Bay….

 "Jon?" I hear a voice to my left as we descend the stairs at Thunder Bay airport. The time is approximately 10.30pm, and Dave, Pat, Andrew and I are wondering what the hell there is to do in Thunder Bay at this time of night. The voice to my left belongs to Debbie – a large, jolly and extremely likeable member of the Thunder Bay Blues Festival team, who will become a true star of our weekend. She is here to pick us up and take us to our hotel, but she does so much more than that. Andrew has played at Thunder Bay Blues Festival before, and in the car, he is keen to establish weather The Keg – a well-known steakhouse – is open at this time of night. Debbie not only informs him that it is, but she gets on the phone and informs the restaurant that they'll have "a couple o' Keg virgins comin' down, so be sure to give them a great Thunder Bay welcome!!" We check in at our hotel and as we walk down the corridor to our rooms, a gaggle of scantily clad, drunk teen-age girls appear from nowhere. Spying our guitar cases, they use all their powers of deduction and, sharp as a knife, enquire as to whether we might be musicians. "Why, yes we are!" I pronounce in my finest, cut-glass British accent, which provokes squeals of delight from our inquisitors. Pat mentions something about remembering HIS first ever beer, before disappearing into his room. "I love your accent!" says one of the gaggle, "Are you guys going to Scuttle-Butts now?" Scuttle Butts is a club right next door to the hotel, and we suspect that the girls have spent a large portion of the evening in there. Dave, who had been very enthusiastic about tucking into a steak at The Keg, now seems to be considering a change of plan, but hunger is the over-riding factor and before long we're heading out for our steak. We stride into The Keg and before I can open my mouth, the waitress grins at me broadly and chirps "Reservation for Jon?". We've not been here five minutes and I already love Thunder Bay….

Day Five: A COOL BREEZE ON A STIFLING DAY

Dave and I are up early to go to Thunder Bay Community Auditorium where we'll be doing a 'guitar workshop'. Sadly, only a couple of members of staff and one guitar enthusiast are present when we begin, but we jam out some blues, answer a few questions about influences and gigging experiences, etc, and by the end a fair number of people have wandered in to check us out. Time is tight, though, so we hurry down to the festival site straight afterwards to get ready for our show.  Thunder Bay Blues Festival is held in an idyllic spot on the shore of Lake Superior, and Debbie points out a small island known as The Sleeping Giant on the horizon,  just about visible in the mist, as we arrive. Upon our arrival, I'm introduced to Ken, who has written a very eloquent piece about me in the Festival program, describing me as 'a fearless chronicler of the human condition'  and a 'cool breeze on a stifling day'…. Right on. It's a pretty good line-up; Guitar Shorty, Walter Trout and The Fabulous Thunderbirds are all due to appear. We have another early slot – 2pm – but the site is full of people enjoying the sun, and we are very well received. "Graveyard" is particularly 'bangin' today, and by the end of our set we've pulled the punters from their deckchairs and they're giving us a standing ovation… not a bad afternoon's work. Indeed, after the show I'm taken to the CD tent where a long line of people is already forming, eager to buy CDs and have a chat. I spend about half an hour there, signing discs, chatting with people and making new friends. Meanwhile, Dave and Pat have decided to take a paddle in Lake Superior, and Andrew chats amiably with Guitar Shorty's effervescent drummer, who for some reason keeps calling him John. We spend a long, hot, enjoyable day at the festival, grabbing some delicious Thai food on site, soaking up the rays and chatting to the crew. I say hello to my old friend Walter Trout (a man without whose kind words and help early in my career I probably wouldn't even be in Thunder Bay, I'll have you know)and check out a little of his set before joining the other guys back stage as they conduct an Air Drumming competition. I'm the worst Air Drummer in the world, so I take on the role of Air Drummer's roadie, adjusting air hi-hat stands and such while Dave plays. It's at this point that Andrew enjoys his first legitimate use of the word 'nutter'. We certainly seem to have made an impression at the festival – I get another round of applause from a section of the crowd as I make my way through, ready to watch the Fabulous Thunderbirds. Night has fallen and the wind is picking up as they take the stage. Kim Wilson appears to be wearing a pair of peach coloured pyjamas…. Hmmmm…. They close the day in fine style, and it's a day I shall never forget. Sometimes touring gets hard, but on days like this it's the best job in the world. Big thanks to all the crew, particularly Debbie, Wendy and Tracey who drove us wherever we wanted to go at the click of our fingers.

Day 6: A GOOD DAY FOR NAME-DROPPING

The day gets off to a bad start – our flight back to Ottawa via Toronto is cancelled, thanks to a suspected fuel leak. Air Canada do their best to ease our passage, giving us food vouchers and getting us on board another flight just a couple of hours later. Nevertheless, it's an afternoon spent roaming aimlessly around airports. Dave and I check back into the Marriott upon our return to Ottawa, and we are somewhat surprised to bump into none other than Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas, shambling about the lobby wearing a floppy hat and shit sunglasses. "What's up?" she asks us as we brush past. We're unsure as to the appropriate way of answering this question, so we say nothing. A lovely lady called Elaine, who has the sultry kind of voice you might hear on an advert for ice cream, arrives to take us down to the Bluesfest site, where we are due to appear as guests in Tony D's Power Hour. I later hear that Elaine has described me as 'impeccably mannered' to the rest of the crew, and I start to doubt my rock and roll credentials. Todd has arranged back stage passes for us on the main stage, so it's not long before we're enjoying the hospitality and mingling with the stars. We check out The Cooper Brothers' set (featuring my good friend Dick), and I'm then introduced to a succession of celebs, including Daniel 'Alfie' Alfredsson, captain of the Ottawa Senators Ice Hockey team, who is a truly likeable chap, and none other than Steve Gadd, here to drum with James Taylor. Also in Taylor's band is "Blue" Lou Marino of Blues Brothers fame, and Dave and I watch him warming up his sax at the side of the stage, prompting a series of bastardised Blues Brothers quotes: "You'll never get Blue Lou out of this high payin' gig!", for example. Taylor himself is wandering around back stage before his show, and I try to muster up the courage to say hello to him and tell him what a genius I think he is, but I fail miserably. Sadly, we couldn't catch his set, as we had to make our way over to The River Stage for Tony's Power Hour. He has a great band with him, and invites a series of guests on stage to jam. Becky Abbott struts on and rips out a bangin' rendition of 'Changes', accompanied by Andrew on drums, and then Dave and I take the stage. With the second strum of my guitar I break a string, and it's kind of all downhill from there, really. Ah well.

It's our last night in Canada, so Dave and I decide to hit the town. As we march down Parliament Hill, we bump into two of Todd's friends – twin sisters Annette and Barbara – who take us into the Market and show us which places are open late on a Monday night. The girls leave us at an Irish Pub somewhere in The Market, and Dave and I reflect on an eventful week, before we suddenly find ourselves sinking shots with a couple of friendly natives. Details from here on in are somewhat hazy, but I do remember trying to sleep on a hardwood floor somewhere in Quebec while listening to Blondie…

Day 7: BACK TO REALITY

Time to go home. Rubbish. Todd has one last meeting with me to tie up a few things, but my sleep deprivation is such that I think I may pass out any minute. At the airport, Dave and I plan to record an album of soul classics sung in a Bristolian accent. It can't fail. I watch 'Shine A Light' again on the plane, followed by 'The Bucket List', which is both depressing and uplifting, and highly enjoyable. We arrive back in England in pouring rain. Randomly, at Heathrow arrivals, we bump into our friend and fellow Devizes resident Sophie Mullins, carrying a backpack bigger than her, who has just arrived home from a spell travelling around the world. As we watch the rain pour down outside, all three of us are thoroughly depressed to be back in England.

MAGIC MOMENTS:
1) THUNDER BAY: Dave cooks up some impromptu 'backing vocals' backstage while listening to Walter Trout performing his song "Working Overtime". Pat and I join in with some harmonies.

2) OTTAWA AIRPORT: With a perfunctory wave in the eye line and pointed finger, Pat alerts an elderly Chinese gentlemen, who is staring blankly up at the departures screen, to the presence of an airport buggy approximately 2 feet away, whose driver has been politely beeping at him for the last two minutes.

3)OTTAWA BLUESFEST: While chatting with Daniel Alfredsson, I discover that he's a Liverpool fan, and we discuss the merits of the Dalglish/Rush striking partnership in the eighties.

4) OTTAWA BLUESFEST: Blue Lou Marino gives us a wink as we watch him blowing out some sax riffs. "He got a sound powerful enough to turn goat's piss into gasoline."

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Dear Readers,

Allow me to begin with a few facts....

1) The time between my last blog and this one is disgraceful, and I am humbly sorry.

2) "The Internationale", otherwise known as the Russian National Anthem, is one of the finest pieces of music ever written, and is probably only topped by "The Theme From Grandstand".

3) The apostrophe is suffering from a serious lack of respect in all forms of written English.

4) Fernando Torres, my Venus Flytrap, is dead.

I have had a very interesting couple of months - a couple of months during which I have suffered something of a crisis of identity. I finished the tour with the band in March having had a terrific time and having played some fantastic gigs across the UK. I then played some very enjoyable solo acoustic gigs in April, before taking a trip down memory lane in May with THE HOAX, my former band and bedrock of my career. We played four gigs together; sadly, they weren't full reunion gigs due to the absence of Robin Davey, but our good friend Tom Latham stepped in on bass guitar did a fantastic job.

This 'mini-tour' with The Hoax was actually a pretty emotional experience for me. The excitement and passion that the band still provokes among its loyal following blows my mind, and standing backstage preparing to go on as headliners at Moulin Blues Festival in Ospel, NL was an experience I shall never forget.... hearing the crowd going crazy before we had even taken the stage, hoping that I could remember how to play the songs, wishing Robin was there, hugging a slightly-drunk Hugh Coltman and wishing him and everyone else luck.... the butterflies in my stomach were kicking out the jams.

Truth be told, I enjoyed these gigs much more than I thought I would, and they were so much fun and so well received that the general feeling is we'll do some more shows in 2009, only this time - all being well - Rob Davey will be back in his rightful place on bass guitar.

So, back to my identity crisis..... after nearly eight years of fronting my own band, and after nearly four years of playing solo gigs, it was intreresting to go back to being a 'sideman' again, and I kind of enjoyed it. I felt incredibly relaxed, letting Hugh work the crowd, and just being content to play guitar and survey the scene - not something I'd experienced for a while, and it was fun.

And just this weekend I travelled back to the Netherlands - Haarlem, to be precise - to play at Botermarkte Blues Festival with a project Jesse Davey put together. "The Hand Me Downs" is a band of misfits taken from the UK blues scene, whose aim is just to have fun and try and entertain people. I was on board as guitarist/singer and again I had a ball.

Last Friday, I went to Guildford and played at a brand new venue for me - Platform 9. I played a solo acoustic set, tried out a couple of brand new songs and really enjoyed being alone on stage, doing my thing. So, all this has left me wondering what I really want to do with my career. It's all very well having fingers in lots of pies, but I know from talking to a lot of you guys at gigs etc, and via email, that you're keen to know what I'm going to do next.

I had a terrific response to the 'Unknown Soldier' album. It's an album of which I am very proud, and I feel it's the best work of my career to date - I know many of you feel the same. My deal with Boma records, which I signed last year, allowed the album to reach a slightly wider audience, and with the help of Radio 2's Mark Lamarr I achieved some prime time national radio play for the first time in my career! This month, for a variety of boring reasons, Boma and I agreed to part company, so I am now a free agent.

I have begun writing a bunch of new songs, and at the moment my plan is to record a simple, no frills acoustic-based album, rootsy and bluesy, honest and pure. For the last couple of years I've been touring with Dave Doherty, Chris Doherty and Si Small, and I'd love to get them involved in the studio, which they're excited about too. At this point, with no record label behind me, I'm unsure as to when it'll be recorded, let alone released, or on what scale, but it's something I'm pretty motivatd by and I hope to start recording some songs over the next few months.

In the meantime, though, another trip to Canada awaits. At the beginning of July I'll be flying across the pond, this time with Dave Doherty in tow to play some guitar with me, and we'll be appearing at Ottawa Bluesfest and Thunder Bay Blues Festival. Having had to return from Canada prematurely last November following the death of my dear old Dad, I'm looking forward to continuing the job I started out there.

So, with further apologies for my silence over the last couple of months, I'll sign off having brought you up to speed with what's happening in Jon Amor World. Please keep in touch and keep an eye out for more news soon.

Jon x