We present the man and the myth, the poet and writer, Sean Jude, and his impressions from the Anathema / Leafblade tour this September. Enjoy the book!
Early Autumn Perambulation, 2009
It was with all the excitement and euphoria contained within Joan of Arc’s underpants that I embarked upon the Anathema/Leafblade autumnal sojourn in early September 2009. Several of the Anathema contingent and crew hadn’t imbibed anything naughty for a month or two, so, eager to see their bodily temples become small restaurants, cafes, fast-food venues and Bedouin tents, I decided to prepare my soul/gastric requirements for a fruit and tea festival, as well as a little show or two. This was going to be a long haul: seven countries and vast changes of scenery, from the lowlands of the Belge and Dutch tribes through forays into Scandinavian lakes and mountains, from a ‘dank u well’ to a ‘kiitos’ in one foul linguistic swoop; from Germanic ‘worst’, very rude waffles, bran flakes that reminded one of a long-forgotten leper that had crawled into the cereal box and died, perhaps, through to coffee yoghurt and reindeer stew. Oh yeah, and sometimes, small bread. Very small bread.
But at the risk of sounding off like the preface to a Nutritional Journal, I would say that the gathering of bands and crew did conflate and merge together like a fine soup: who would’ve been the meat and who the veg, I dare not venture; I’m extremely philosophical on Thursdays, and today is Thursday, so bare with me. A gathering, excepting a new sound engineer, that had been tried and tested on the byways and highways of Spain and Portugal in May. The tour had a new driver along for the jaunt, a middle-aged, erudite, cultured chap by the name of Tim, or ‘Tim the Enchanter’ as I used to call him. He seemed to carry a loom 100m long with him wherever he went, spinning yarns and weaving tales, ever smiling with a dual gleam winking in his eyes and teeth. An international man of mystery with a history in rally-driving, living in the Swedish countryside, Tim’s charms were endless. With the exception of hard Yorkshiremen Les, Leafblade drummer Mick and Northern lad guitar tech Daryl (of Anathema blog notoriety), I think the poetic-hearted Liverpool lads would’ve bummed Tim until the cows came home, or at least fondled his nipples, perhaps. I recall mentioning over the mic at Vossellaar that most of us would’ve interfered with Tim given half a chance. Aye, the audience laughed, but we nodded sagely, individually fantasizing, grinning away also.
And so it was, that Tim the Enchanter would commandeer through the night, and oft’ the day, the great Tour Bus that was to become our mobile home, our barracks, our monastery, our Glorious Refrigerator and our Oasis of Laughter for the next three weeks. I could say without precedent, what a real tonic, socially, spiritually, intellectually, was that time for all The Seans, dancing about inside Castle Sean, as I revelled in the humour and company of the Anathema spirits and crew, listening to their tales, sharing in ideas, continuing to delight in a friendship spanning nearly twenty years.
The tour bus became a gallery of rooms and resonances. Once the heat, social jaunting and simmering banter had eased after performance, and the remaining rider had been loaded and slammed into the two bus fridges, the bus would plough into the night, leaving behind the venue, replete with its charges: a motley crew indeed. The ground floor of the bus had the healthy appellation ‘The Travellers Rest’; this was generally the realm of the more upbeat humour and argling about, fuelled by yeast and hops.
Upstairs, at the rear of the bus, bathed in an eerie red glow from several nightlights, was The Shrine. ‘Twas here that Lord Jude and Daniel ‘Dingbat the Pirate’ established a more monastic atmosphere, consuming very rude tea indeed and listening to Medieval music from the vaults of Hildegard of Bingen. Sometimes, we could even be found eating cereals mixed up, with a yoghurt chaser, discussing philosophy and personal evolution. It was a riot. Upon the tip of Buddha’s finger, the bus was lilted through the night, dancing through the countryside to the strains of laughter, refrains of the land and a waning moon. I say it was more monastic upstairs, though if my ecclesiastical history is correct, throughout the Middle Ages numerous religious orders were disbanded or brethren thrown out of monastic orders on account of some monks’ rampant needs to ‘party on’ and disrupt local life. Dancing, inebriated, about old overgrown statues of Diana, deep in the woods. It pissed off a lot of bishops, who probably wished they could’ve joined in themselves, if the truth be known. In nomini patris…well done, lads. A smattering of christianity, made mercurial with a toast in the direction of Bacchus and Dionysus. And so, the hooded and cloaked lads down in the Travellers’ Rest were probably, in truth, more attuned to the ‘monastic’ ideal of ‘brew yer own and rag it through the night’ than Brother Daniel and I up in the amniotic glowing ‘shrine’ upstairs. But the combined six-wheeled monastery rolled on, nibbling at the road with Pantheistic surety.
Occasionally, one of the lads would drift upstairs, and if the moment was convenient, I would take confession for ten euros (or local currency equivalent) and a cup of Earl Grey. Our drumming Mick felt Earl Grey to be too ‘art college’ for him, but there’s no convincing a Yorkshire man, so we would tenuously agree to disagree on the nature of the Finest Brew Known To Humanity. It just made me love him all the more. Such a good-natured, honest spirit, a man o’ the moors and stone walls. And what a drummer. I regretted that I’d only caught him sound-check twice during the tour. When I did catch him having an octopus session with the kit, I was inwardly proud to have known his association with ‘Beyond, Beyond’.
Personal entertainment whilst on tour is a prime requisite. Anyone who has ever toured will clarify this. It keeps one sane, in one’s own sphere when not socializing. And socializing is what makes it a job: interacting with those individuals who have given of their time and money to see you, who listen, absorb and comment. It is humbling and wonderful indeed to interact with faces familiar and new whilst on tour, but at the end of the day, the Brethren will retire to their Tour Bus Cloister to think on the day’s events, and share a chat with a Fellow Brother, or, if you are lucky, be almost overcome with facial and belly cramps at the sheer wit and banter, for example, of Anathema’s John, Jay and Les. On numerous occasions either backstage, onstage or on the bus, John’s one liners would have me crippled; Brother Jay, polyglot and comedic chameleon would reduce me to tears with his ninth octave rock voice or impressions. Quite brilliantly, Jay had taken like a duck to water with his impression of Obi Wan Kenobi after my first impersonation of Obi Wan singing Pinball Wizard at a sound check. But it is with Les that I am immediately inclined to doff my hat. A beast of such articulation, mercury and spontaneous oratory as to have me exploding with unbridled laughter. On a few occasions, usually about 5-6am, sleep would become an abstract concept as Les, off in the bunk next to mine, would bombard the bus with such Jack Daniels -fuelled oratory as to have me in a riotous heap of laughter. The incorrigible Rudas Priest had struck again, with shit-launching accuracy. Great portions of his tirade and wit cannot be repeated here for fear of embarrassing the Devil himself. With a toppling, wavering, almost aristocratic pomp, Les would regale one and all with an articulate monologue on the nature of bums, his varied demands on the said apparatus, then move to other aspects of anatomy, animal, vegetable or mineral. After two minutes, my face would be suspended in a rictus of pain and cramp. Sometimes, unbelievable hilarity can lead us to our very doom itself. Amidst my throes, I was unnerved for a second at the memory of a man a few years ago who had died laughing at a famous British comedy show. The poor man had a heart-attack. Luckily, I was able to draw breath, and resume, but the waves of Les’ spontaneous insight came thick and fast. As he stood on the upstairs deck, criticizing his bed for being where it was, being rocked about by the motion of the bus, he launched again, fuelled by Jack, fuelled by quantum theories of Particle Coalescence, Entropy and Waves of Probability. And there it was before me: Quantum Mechanics in action: gloriously enriched by lack of inhibition and fermenting produce, this night, as on a few nights, Les became a creature of his own probability, whipping the reality about him as though he had danced ahead in time to see us laughing at the next joke that hadn’t even been said at that point. Gifted comedians can do this, especially on Planet Jack…"Men," he said, "MEN…men stand in the aisle of the bus… because they can…THEY CAN! I’m fucking telling yer. I’m an un-shit man. And only un-shit men can stand in the aisle. UN-SHIT MEN! They’re here, and I’m one of them. Standing in the aisle. A shit man couldn’t do this, nah. Standing in the aisle…" This continued, unabated, for the next ten minutes, and as a member of the audience, I’d been won over completely. His debates would invariably ramble, Gollum-like, to the very borders of sleep itself.
So, while I wasn’t poncing about with Michel De Montaigne’s 16th century essays and Stoic philosophy, or catching a scene or two of South Park, or the lads weren’t doodling about with their Apple Macs, you could guarantee some late-night entertainment drifting up from the Travellers’ Rest. Usually the sound of rainfall or waves upon the shore in my MP3 player would round off my day, as we retired to our coffin-shaped bunks, and then, perchanced to dream…
It is perhaps with the famous image of Dali’s ‘melting clock’ in the forefront of my mind, the vivid scenery in his Persistence of Memory, that I can dwell on the nature of Time whilst on tour. Indeed, we all know that poor Time is an earthly fabrication, an attempt at ‘reining in’ this delightfully wobbly, curvy, gloopy amalgam of resonances that we call ‘reality’, yet the whole gloop becomes even more splodgy and disseminate, traveling the byways and highways of the Land and the Mind in the Naughty Cloister On Wheels. In short, there is no conditioning to sleep at a certain time, to meet with everyday logistics or rationale, to make arrangements of any daily complexity. The whole tour experience, like some revolving universe, orbits around that time on stage - THAT time, where the strange unreality of travel, transience, giving breath and thought gives way to the almost surreality of the live, showtime experience beneath sweltering light, radiated upon by the glare of the audience. One can almost become entirely right-brain in the process, allowing those with any managerial or practical skills to hold the fort while the musicians can gallivant about with their lutes and ripped tights. A neural division of labour becomes apparent: the cocooned poets wait in the wings, but can only function once the logistics of equipment set up and transferal have been organized. I know that when required, I myself can operate in a reasonably practical, left-brain idiom, but generally it is the more visionary mind that assumes control, that enjoys to passively drift in between moments of more active creative consciousness. Personally, I find the tour process does allow for those glorious moments of meditation and reflection, without being burdened by the demands of the ‘earthly’ life. Time itself, during these moments of reflection, either backstage or if wandering around the local town near the venue, does attenuate and contract curiously, as the inner vocabulary begins to quieten down. Galvanised and refreshed by continuing new surroundings, we begin to dissect seconds, buoyed by healthy biofeedback and a sudden feeling of the infinity of options we really do have at our disposal. This is not a process entirely unique to my Tour Mind, but to my general awareness everyday, but it is certainly exemplified whilst away in new climes, new vistas. What do we do with our time? Well, accept that it doesn’t exist, for a start. Then opt for the idea that Life is here for Us, and not the other way round, that Life is not a conspiracy against us, but in actual fact has huge, playful breasts that just want to be messed with.
In fact, I’m all for breasts of varying sizes and must agree with Brother Les on Bums. I mean - where would we be without them? Bums, that is? Excepting the fact that we probably, by design, wouldn’t need to go to the toilet or the concept of a bog wouldn’t have arisen a priori, I’ve developed a healthy partnership with my own derriere and would miss it very much if it wasn’t there. Sir Thomas More and St Augustine, for a start, were both fascinated, as was Gulliver’s Travels author Dr Swift, by the whole concept of the potential of the bowel. I used to think Colonic Irrigation was some kind of bum farm, but now, in my infinite wisdom, I know better, and if touring has taught me one thing, it is the ability to control, to reside with, and to listen to, the Freudian Bowel Personality, especially when the next venue is 700km away. If you have a vague idea of where your next meal is coming from, you’ve no idea when the next stop off will be for your next Bathroom Suggestion. Hey, we’re only human after all, right? Is this all getting a little too personal, a little too intimate? Fundamental points, people: consumption, gastricisation, excretion. Every time I look at the contents of my weekly shopping trolley I immediately think how I will busily convert its contents into music and poetry. What alchemists we are!
But let’s add to this lovely strangeness. So there we had it: a bus full of alchemists, reeling through the unreal night on a journey to the next hyper-surreal show, on a bus populated by nine Naughty Monastics, each dancing through their own resonance, socializing as and when, laughing for the Gods of Ribaldry themselves. However, after a day or two, it soon became apparent to The Brethren that we were not alone. There had been an invasion into the Anathema - Leafblade Cloister: some fabulous genus of fly, some damned hardy lads, worthy of war-movie status. We’re talking about flies here that could survive bouts of up to a minute in the micro-wave; though not through any deliberate action by us, you understand. One had accidentally been nuked for up to a minute with a ham and pineapple pizza and emerged unscathed. I had always been impressed with the sheer fortitude and opportune intelligence of the shit-eating humble fly, but on hearing this yarn, I knew the Monastery was in formidable company. This would require nothing short of negotiation to remove them. One minute in a micro-wave? And this fly would simply head off to tell his friends, bolstered by his adventure, flying on the ego-trip of a lifetime. They could’ve grown, mutated to staggering proportions, threatening the micro-environment, putting Monk and Poet, Crew and Driver in the direst of peril. But somehow, we survived the three weeks. We were able to culture the symbiosis of Man and Beast in perfect harmony, Monk and Fly existing side by side in superlative harmony. We had to lure them away from the nuclear reaction core of the microwave, away in to other realms that could occupy their diminutive brains, away from our slowly festering pizzas and stale food left discarded after days. (Luckily, I might add, thanks to Mick and Daryl, the bus was turfed out every four days or so, thus ensuring that no remaining food grew beards or fed the increasing winged entomological population). There was a Plan B to keep the flies occupied: firstly, they were trapped in the bog where they could buzz and be flies to their hearts’ content; but it was with an unsuspecting Plan C, unconscious or otherwise, that kept the annoying little twats (with love) occupied: we increased our Discarded Sock population. If Malthus, in his nineteenth-century demographic study Population Principle could have expounded the heady Principle of Sock Scattering and Nearest Sock Neighbour Stastistics in the Middle Ages, half of Europe could’ve been saved from the Black Death. Clearly, what Europe needed during the Middle Ages was something to keep the flies and pestilence-carrying rats to keep them occupied: everybody’s socks. Somehow, during the three weeks, the Bus Sock Population increased exponentially to meet the procreating flies. Soon, everywhere one looked upstairs, limp, single socks would be hanging from shelves, hovering near bunks, or just loitering with intent near dark hollows and niches on the floor. Some had even found themselves on top of the upstairs fridge, hanging out with other single socks of varying proportions and colours, wedged between books, or lying about with CDs - all brilliant moves of strategy from the Sock Consciousness, the Morphic Resonance of the Travellers. I can proclaim, with Churchillian aplomb and dignity, that we kept the little bastard flies (with love) occupied throughout our (and their) stay on the Tour Bus. Even now, I look back fondly, remembering how I overcame my compulsive need to clean up the prostrate sock population, realizing how they became my little friends as the tour progressed. Yes, it can be a lonely life on the road, but thank god for Sock ‘n’ Roll.
By the time show-time rolled on, we all made sure that we were safely in our socks, leaving other socks on guard duty back on the bus. The socks on the bus missed several memorable shows, with superb audiences, many of whom were experiencing the Leafblade Thing for the first time, but whom were courteous, polite, and very supportive. That warmed my heart, everywhere we went. I try not to engender any eye contact whilst on stage, as it can tether me earthward in what I feel is a more resonant process. When I am concentrating on the Inner Landscape during a live show, that introversion is something conjured when I play alone; if the inner charge can be focused whilst I am playing alone, it is a simple step for me to transpose that honesty and truth to the live experience. In short, if I am brutally honest with myself and depth of meaning while I strum alone in my living room then I can do it before a gathering. Sometimes I can feel the vision so powerful it is as if I am still at home, weaving alone, or the physical content of the live process really does take one’s spirit off to the Welsh Mountains or ruined castles, wild lakes and woodlands of the heart and mind. Music, as with all the arts, should be an invocation, a ritual creation open to one’s personal interpretation, given personal experience. I find this apt when reading poetry. The sheer feeling of an appreciative audience is a beautiful, humbling experience, and usually makes me feel a certain fragility and calm; certainly not a massaging of the ego. I often joke onstage that I can warm my hands on an audience, yet what they are radiating in that mutually symbiotic-vampiric experience fuels my playing, focus and sentiment, as though we each vibrate on a galvanomic coil with infinite potential. The process is akin to Shamanic ritual: shaman calls the vision, the ethereal experience to this ‘reality’, thereby it is augmented and given deeper vibration by those assembled.
The onstage vibration for Danny and I, added to by Mick, Jay, John, and Vinny (Wansley-Hog-Pig) was an uplifting experience, adding to the Leafblade colours. I enjoy the union onstage, the added potency of skilled musicians; musicians whom, on a fundamental level, have deigned to give of their time and energy to my music. This is an experience beyond words, beyond price. Grinning John ‘Our Emmerdale’, with his cymbal flurries, often while he would be lying down on the floor behind the drumkit, would bring a Cosmic Grin to the stage, while it was a pleasure to see Mick get ‘zoned out’ as he put it, during more folky numbers such as ‘Rune Song’. I hadn’t wanted to pressure Jay into doing anything live with Leafblade, but after a few days adjusting to Our Monastery, he offered his services playing bass. I was glad of that; bass will drive any piece, and Danny and I felt that some of the songs were lacking without a bass end. Jay knows so much of my music as well as Danny does, and has understood its vibration and creative colour now for a long time. I can look back at my creative time over many moons, and realise that just about every private release/recording that I have embarked upon, particularly in my teeth-cutting years with the prog-rock entourage Valle Crucis, has featured one or more of the Cavanagh brothers in either a production or session capacity. It is for this reason that I have a particular glow when I think on Leafblade’s penultimate piece of the night ‘To the Moonlight’, and its associations with Vinny. We had initially made a demo of ‘To the Moonlight’ in the late nineties, on an old four-track at Vinny’s place. Vinny arranged the second half of the piece with me, coming up with exciting percussive ideas during a tea-fuelled session. That little story is pleasantly rounded off over ten years later, when he offered at the start of the tour to play drums on ‘Moonlight’, then subsequently brought more life to the piece on a live level.
If there is one thing that I find I really miss whilst on tour, it would be the fact that I cannot go out for a run. Physical training, for many years now, has been my greatest addiction, topping up my serotonin and adrenochrome levels as a result of arduous physical effort. Sometimes, after a run, I almost reach Mad 3. I can get up to Mad 7 after an Earl Grey and selected chocolates, but beyond this is dangerous territory for me; almost complete apostasy, lots of big thoughts about the Nature of Things and the potential for blowing several cranial circuits. In fact, staying on the subjects of The Mads, I can get to Mad 1 just by entering October, as I adore the leaf-fall and russets flaking through the woods through the pensive autumn. Christmas, in particular entering the old Celtic Dark of the Year near the Solstice, puts me at a pleasant Mad 5, and a whiff of chicken or pork at this time will have me whooping naughtily with delight. Healthy discussions, particularly about Quantum Physics or Asterix the Gaul can get me to a heady Mad 4, joyously wobbled, whilst preparing an exciting stew or soup can have me straining at the leash in and around Mad 6 "Oh Yes Go On Fuck Out With An Extended Arm To Exemplify The Excitement". But forgive my concupiscent digression. Yes folks, Old Jude hits the road three to four times a week for a fast-paced 4.5km, and enjoys hanging like a bat at any opportunity. Isometric and isotonic exercise, apparently, pitting different muscle groups against each other or just supporting one’s own weight. Unfortunately, however, there’s not much of a window for a healthy run or a pleasurable dangle whilst confined on a bus. And let’s not overlook the sheer euphoric hit one can glean from a pleasurable dangle. I love it, with lashings of deep breathing. I recall finding a very convenient iron support backstage in Tampere where I was able to suspend myself virtually inverted. It was phenomenal for blood movement and very relaxing, although I think I dangled my hair in Jay’s evening meal. At any given moment, rather than use a lift, I would run up and down the stairs, or occasionally help the crew in moving equipment, just to feel my body burning off calories and mobilizing itself. My metabolism works so fast that I can lose weight just by having a conversation, or thinking twice before saying nothing. I could have been a very thin diplomat, but as it happens, I’ve been glad over the past three weeks to have evolved with Leafblade in a live capacity; to have exposed our wares to an ever-expanding, appreciative audience, and to have entertained and evoked, captured and nurtured the creative spark inherent in us all.
It seems that this wasn’t the only form of entertainment I had been occupied in. Unbeknown to the Poet Jude, he had been busy keeping the crew entertained. As Front of House sound engineer Matt divulged at the end of tour, he and the guitar tech had been taking wagers to see if I’d pop the PA system when I plugged my lead in at the start of each set. Just after I’d taken my seat on stage, I would ask Matt if it was safe to plug my guitar lead in, and that my input channel at the desk had been muted. The epitome of professionalism, I thought. He would give me the thumbs up, I would plug in the lead and subsequently pop the speakers, forgetting that I hadn’t asked the monitor engineer the same question. Sometimes I would get it right, plug in and all would be quiet, other times there would be a gut-crunching groan from the PA and I would grant an apology to the audience. It would be at this time that the betting money would exchange hands, usually a couple of euros, and I think Matt may have made quite a few euros out of the venture. "Sean’s done the PA again. Three euros, please." For once in my life, I may have been a safe bet, though I’m not a gambling man myself.
And so here it ends: an edifying time of watching Anathema from side stage kick their way through highly energized, dynamic sets, of once again making the acquaintance of Songbird Annie’s dulcet tones as she joined us on the Dutch and Flemish legs of the tour, of starting my day with a Mad 7 Earl Grey and a hoot of laughter, of being entertained by the yarns of lovely Tim the Driver. (He politely asked, at the end of the tour, back in Yorkshire, if I could drop him off in my car, just a few junctions down the motorway. "You’ve taken us around seven countries, I said. It would be a pleasure." And so we drove, with Brother John, into the sunset.) One day could easily drip into the next, as was exemplified on one beautiful ferry crossing through the Scandinavian seas, when Danny and I, not long awake, asked a member of staff "Which country are we heading towards?"
"Denmark," was the proud reply. But this was the only incidence, given our fatigue and sheer number of countries visited during the first five days of the tour, where we had to enquire as to where we were. I would always hope never to become desensitized to where I am and where I am going, or to appreciate the beauty within the present moment, as we react to our surroundings and our senses. The tour, and my opportunity to do it, came as a gift, a chance to become utterly sensitized to new environments and be continually refreshed thereby, for which I am thankful, for I could see its process, its movement, weaving everyone together, even the flies and the socks. But do not let me paint too strong an image of some idyll, or Utopia. Everyday, given that there was present a gathering of spirits, there would be a handbag fight of some description, or someone would get belted by the Cosmic Cod, leaving them floundering in the figurative canal. And it didn’t do anyone any harm - merely promoting a clearing of the air, evolution of thought, a slight blunting of the claws, and a real love of the whole unfolding. If the last sandwich had been eaten, then that was that. The next venue would be just down the road on Buddha’s finger, replete with more fare for the spirit, so until then you could eat the coffee yoghurt that nobody would eat. And to be fair, it wasn’t all that bad. Onward and upward, and let’s hit the road, for more of the same, for a celebration of a journey physical through beautiful landscapes, and the great journey Within.
October 1st, 2009