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.