Bonjour. That's how the French people of Paris say hello. And they also let you lick them on both sides of the face. I like this part, usually, except when it's Basil and he hasn't shaved.

I'm back from a few days/couple gigs in fair Paris. A tricky trip this time... I was on me own for the first time, no Lorn to orchestrate coffees and trains, so I had to be a big boy and open all doors meself. That stuff was fine, but it can be depressing to travel alone. And on a profound budget as mine, things like the cost of a cafe creme has to be balanced with how long it might take to drink said coffee and how long I want to sit looking at the head of the guy who's obviously already wired into the philosophical mainframe.

Uh, the gigs - UFO on the first night. Same set-up as last time, which was me standing in a mildewy basement, singing unamplified. Oliver Rodriguez, Olivier LeBeau, Charlotte and a couple friends of theirs. Plus the loud people at the back of the room. So, me sing some same songs. I ain't King Crimson, this ain't no disco, there ain't no God on the ground. Just my nasal thing, and that midget guitar. All pretty standard though to make peace and battle with the background clubbers, I drifted to the back of the room where they's was sat and played with my back to them. Seemed fair - they were making noise and ignoring me, so I done thee same for them. Victory is hard won, but always worth it. Or not.

I crashed at Charlotte's first night, then moved to the Casa de Christophe and Basil et al. They were squatting a former record company building, and had filled it right up with multiple studios and performance spaces. Freak scene when I arrived, everyone off their heads. Lots of screaming out windows, and every time a dish would get broken, howls of laughter. Someone handed me some "really good weed, mannnn" which turned out to be really nasty tobacco with the slightest hint of hash hidden in. Salim was one of my roomies, and Basil explained that Salim "only speaks on the Second Level." Of course. The second level seemed to have much to do with getting completely fucked on rum and celery or something. I went up early, met another room mate. Flaco Nunez, Cuban rapper. Sweet guy, and his music is great, but at first we were all suspicious of each other. Everyone keeping an eye on their respective bags and junk. I think there ended up being 6 or 7 sleeping in the top room, and half of those peeps had faces in the morning they didn't have the night before. Anyway, Salim did mange to steal my sleeping bag from the couch I was on, before he made his way to the table where he vomited into my water glass for a few minutes. You know, I'm well aware of how completely groovy and rock I am, yes, but dude - I'm 42 and my career, no matter how Glam, is going close to nowhere. Using my rain-damp coat as a pillow, I lay meself down to sleep off the effects of not much forward motion in the universe of Antmusic.

Morning made all a bit better, cos these were indeed super sweet peeps. Christophe and Basil - both creative monsters, and in the sober light of day, Salim was cool and quite pleasant. I suppose that's a charm of drinking I'll never know - you can get away with so much and never even know it!

My gig that night was with a band called Grupetto. Again, a sweet bunch of folks. I liked the Bowie vibe of their set, but the venue itself was creepy. Run either by fascists or by Yugoslav Mafia, depending on who you ask. Sets the vibe though, no? My set was super quick - I was happy to do 25 minutes and get off stage. I wasn't wanted or needed, this made clear by the third act, a covers band that didn't know we were on the bill. They'd intended to do three hours that night and i didn't want to trouble them more than they deserved. I did stick "You've Got To Hide Your Love Away" in the set, as it was John Lennon's birthday. But otherwise, my vibe was wasted on the crowd. I didn't know there were un-beautiful non-hipsters in Paris, but they do exist and this is where they go to rock! I mean, cliche or not, French women are the most beautiful in the world. But why is it so hard for them to dance? Thankfully, the clever ones know it don't work, and they just kinda twitch a little to the left. But middle-class meat market, Paris-stylee - bizarre!

I got back to the crash pad and was surprised to find everyone in a much quieter mood than the previous night. Different drugs, and a peaceful night. If I sound cynical or such, I'm sorry - I need to mention that this world of theirs is amazing to me, feels like it's all part of a magic, surreal film, Godard meets Jesus el Pifco, and I have deep admiration for the gang. I went to sleep listening to Christophe in his studio working on some new tracks - just such wonderful music. Basil had gone to London to see some former bandmates at the Royal Albert. We all roam in weird, wide circles sometimes. Yesh, these are good and great people in a world so far from my Sacto upbringy.

I'm now back in Cambridge with a head cold, trying to get a few stray cats spayed and nonsensed before I piss off to Hamburg. It's a mad life sometimes and I'm grateful for quiet times and for noise, but I can tell I'm looking for "the new sound" again, isn't it. Huh and grunt grunt! How can Beefheart be as holy without me knowing it enough???