ComfortComes

Loyal Trooper Tour Dairy Part 2

Sheffield Pomona

A mission. A genuine mission. It wasn’t that bad for the most part but after about seven hours of constantly being on National Express coaches you get a little tired of the whole experience. Sort of journey where you periodically get up to the toilets just for an excuse to stretch your legs! My head hurt from trying to digest five hours of philosophical theories. Ouch. After leaving Sarah’s at 9.30am I finally arrived at the Pomona at 19.15pm. Long day. The pub was okay I guess, pretty standard cheap northern sports related boozer. After starring aimlessly into space for twenty minutes in the pub wondering if it’s wise to do 230 odd mile journeys on National Express coaches I soundchecked and located my friends. All’s well.

I was meant to be ‘headlining’ but realistically I just wanted to play early and have fun with my friends and Sky Sports News was blatantly winning the contest for peoples attention as it was. So I get up and play. I play quite well considering the sound wasn’t ideal to say the least. I have grown much more confident as the week has progressed especially after excellent London and Southsea shows. My tour poster is next to Chappers and Dave and Tom Hingley formerly of the Inspiral Carpets. I feel honored. I dedicate a song my mate Dale is running a half marathon on Sunday. I thank everyone and finish my set.

We go to the bar. We work our may through my rider pretty quickly (solo artists don’t get big riders seemingly) A guy plays some covers. We drink. A band come on who look like Right Said Fred but sound like a watered down Stereophonics who’s opening line to the audience is “Let’s fuckin’ ‘ave it!” Three songs in an I can’t see anyone heeding their advice. They almost give me tinnitus so I suggest we leave. We’re joined by more friends. We have more drinks at Varsity next door. This road is studentville.

Eventually we end up going for a curry which is easily the most civilized part of my week. The large Kingfisher beers are excellent and hit the spot. I do like a good pickle tray. My garlic mushroom starter is delicious and my vegetable Karahi with rice and garlic naan is tasty but I’m used to eating a baguette per day at present so I’m handing in the towel pretty quickly. We say our goodbyes and Dale drives me back to my parents. I talk at great length in a sketchy but enthusiastic manner about the prison system and rehabilitating inmates (some of the focus of todays marathon philosophy read). I get in and pass out. Decent sleep tonight, 2.30am – 10am. I eat food all day, have fun with my parents and watch Sky Sports News with Wednesday losing at Ashton Gate. Another glorious day of sunshine and I’m in Leeds station now so I must go.

Leeds Primrose

I am a bit of a mess. I got to the Primrose and caught up with my mate Jamie who was also playing. I went on first, I think I played well and was well received. I met a barman from Sheffield who got ‘Division Street Blues’ and bought an EP. These trousers stink of cigarettes, it’s vile. Anyway, the night progresses and there comes a point where everyone I know has gone. I unintentionally knocked over a guys cymbal earlier, I apologized profusely and he starred at me and said “don’t worry, I’ll get you back by throwing some sticks in your face later” He didn’t smile. It wasn’t a joke. If I leave during this guys set I’m going to be blinded seemingly. I watch everyone else alone, really not having fun.

The night finishes and I get a ride into town with some others from the pub. I’m really not chatty and answer questions in a pretty simplistic and monosyllabic manner. We get to the Elbow Rooms and get in on the guest list. I get starred at by half a dozen people, perhaps I don’t have the right haircut maybe I have the right haircut. I don’t know. Maybe someone’s tattooed a particularly obscene four letter word on my face. Maybe I’m overreacting because I’m bored, tired and haven’t got a clue where I’m staying. I’m in a foul mood. Day six has created the biggest low thus far. I don’t want to party, I don’t want to drink or dance or talk or smile. I find part of the club that’s empty and I lay down and stare at the ceiling. Some guy comes over and tells me I can’t lay down. What the fuck? I’m laying down, I’m not punching anyone or being aggressive, I’m fucking laying down. I sit and write three pages of drivel lyrics. I’m in a foul mood.

Eventually I snap out of it long enough to go and socialise. I talk to a guy about Grammatics, Wild Beasts, Dinosaur Pile-up, This Et Al, Duels, Sky Larkin and other Leeds bands I like. I talk to a guy who is a Wednesday fan about Tommy Spurr for what seems like four days. He’s not impressed my family are from outside Sheffield city center, I’m “not really from Sheffield”. I chat to his girlfriend about the 1996 Blackburn Rovers side. We drink some free Jägermeister. It’s vile but I’m having a better time. These trousers are disgusting. Free pints arrive. The music stops. The lights go up. The free pints are taken away. I say hello to Whiskers and we have a brief “how’s it going?” type discussion. Outside I talk to some more people. I think I’ve got a gig out of it. We go to some bar. It’s packed so we leave. We go next door. It’s marginally less packed. We drink double vodkas. Then more. We dance a little. We shout loudly at each other. We laugh. I’m having a good time.

Kickout time. We go home. I play ‘Outdoor Type’ as requested by my host. We sit and talk nonsense very loudly and intensely for hours. It’s 6.35am. I play again upon request. I kip on the sofa next to Edward the bear. Edward has been turned on his side to made it apparent that he’s sleeping. I wake at ten and lay starring at the ceiling for an hour. We drink tea. I’m playing Leeds on the 23rd May I’m informed. I blag a shower. I feel better. We talk about West Brom. I say my goodbyes and thank my hosts profusely. I walk to town. I feel awful. I get the coach. I’m low again. I’m tired, hungry, dehydrated and I’m questioning how or why I am this person now. He doesn’t seem like a fun or enjoyable person to be or be around at present. He questions the directions he’s chosen with his life and his trousers smell like they’ve been through and ocean of manure. However, history tells me this is a phase, most commonly known as a hangover. It’s my own fault but it’ll pass. This person passing through me will play one more gig, drink, sleep and be gone by Monday morning.

Stoke

Aside from the three hours on the coaches, walking for an hour to the venue I had an hour and a half wait in Manchester for my connecting coach. Not ideal. The band already at the venue soundcheck for an hour and I sit and wait patiently clapping each song when it finishes and telling them it’s sounding good. Band claim the vocals sound “dull”. I’ve worked in studios and I record all my own songs and have modest capabilities but I know how three-band EQ works. I offer my opinion. The soundman/barman ignores not only my suggestion but even the fact I’ve spoken to him. Normally when you speak to someone, they respond to you in some way, right? Nope, not here.

After an hour the band stop. I soundcheck. The barman/soundman stands talking and laughing with the band whilst I can’t hear a thing on stage of what’s going off. He laughs loudly, points at me and I stop and ask how it’s sounding. He replies, “yeah, you’re done”. I go to talk to the band. I ask them about their upcoming gigs, where they normally play, where they went out last night, what its like round where they live, what they do for a living etc. Not mind-blowing conversation admittedly but I’m being friendly an showing an interest which is more than anyone has done to me since I arrived.

I’ve been traveling all day, so I go to the toilet for a piss. I return to the room with their guitarist talking through the mic to the others saying “Oh yeah he’s been in the toilet ages, his soundcheck was shit and it lasted about ten seconds”. I look at him and he says “Oh, you’re here”. I’m not feeling particularly comfortable right now, everyone I’ve met so far is ignoring me an seemingly talking about me behind my back much to the amusement of their little group. Can I play a gig to these people? As I sit about a meter away from their table the guitarist calls me a “fucking midget” and the barman/soundman character lambasts the bloke who booked me saying “I keep telling you not to book these shit out of town acts”. I’ve had enough of this. I pack up my things and walk out. Someone yells “Oh what the fuck?” at me as I leave. I don’t storm out. I don’t retaliate. I just leave with my head down feeling pretty amazingly low.

I could have done anything with this day and this is what I spent my day doing, traveling for this!? I’m gutted I went all that way and didn’t get to play. But I’m confident I did the right thing. I don’t expect to be treated like royalty, far from it. But I would hope I’d be treated fairly. I’m a friendly, down to Earth and hard working bloke. What did I do wrong? Is it because I’m from “out of town”? Is it because I play with an acoustic guitar? Is it because I wear pointy shoes? Is it my hair? Or is it just because these guys are dickheads and it’s nothing I’ve done? Whatever their reasons for being such fuckers with me they’re ignorant, small minded and pathetic. I don’t need to be around that.

This how April’s tour ends sadly and it leaves a sour taste to what has been in general a very positive tour which I have enjoyed. I guess this tour diary tells the story of meeting very different types of people. I mean compare the stories from Southsea to Stoke!? I’m sure at some point I’ll be able to write without the obvious negative slant to tonight’s events. I want a drink. I’m gonna get some scotch on the way home. Hmmm…scotch.

Loyal Trooper April Tour Diary Part 1

Nottingham Maze

I write on the National Express coach to Peterborough from Nottiingham, I’m hung-over and listening to Grammatics. I’m hoping their outstanding debut album is going to soothe my head. Last night was good, the staff and general vibe of that place were both fantastic. It’s not often I play places where a guy plays a chair and stool miced up like a kick drum and snare, at 1am the house sitar comes out and for most of the evening one guy walks around holding a didgeridoo. Not playing it, not even hinting at playing it, just holding it, obviously comforting him in someway with it’s mere presence.

My set was okay. There were a few things I thought I could have done better but then there always are. Playing a set of 80% finger picked songs was new, not going on stage and belting songs out was strange. ‘Rule Of Three’ was debuted and went well. All positive steps forward but just one’s inevitable with teething problems. I was pretty nervous too but then I always am first night.

My friends and I drank too much and the availability of Belgian beers ultimately proved my downfall. By the time the sitar came out it had to be hometime so we got some burnt pizza, got a cab home and then sat up till 3am trying to form cohesive debates about philosophy and climate change. I thought we were doing okay but when I spoke to one of my accomplices in the debate this morning he reasoned “we were talking some right bollocks last night” so perhaps out arguments and solutions weren’t as well founded as I’d imagined.

I feel rough today. Company and coffee kept me going this morning but now I’m alone life suddenly not as rosy. However, the sun is shining, I’m looking forward to tonight and so all’s well really. I’m going to do some writing now I think and maybe listen to The Blood Brothers. or maybe ‘Downloading Porn With Davo’ by The Moldy Peaches as it makes me smile.

Peterborough Boat Inn

This morning I feel awful. That local real ale I was drinking last night may potentially be the cause. Apparently the beer is brewed with water from the canal next to the pub. Judging buy the look of said canal I could well have dysentery now. The place I was playing was about six miles outside the city center. I got a bus there, when I asked the driver if he’d let me know when we got to my stop he looked up from the wheel and dryly exclaimed “you’ll know when we’re in Whittlesey, it’s a fucking shithole” Excellent, I’m playing some sort of ghetto.

I go to the pub and sit in a corner sipping my pint. I’m competing with the Liverpool vs Arsenal game tonight. ‘Soundcheck’ is mainly the PA squealing, much to everyone’s irritation. I go on. I can’t hear too much but I can hear enough to know it sounds rough. Everyone is quiet for ‘Rule Of Three’ which pleases me. ‘Draw Me A New Outline’ is debuted and I’m happy with it. Halfway through ‘The Doctor’ the PA cuts out and I play the rest of the set minus amplification. I crack a joke about thinking it’d be impossible for a folk act to blow up a PA. Silence. Tumbleweed. Excellent, this is going great. I thank everyone for their time and for listening, play ‘Crystal Missile’ and get off stage.

Some friends have arrived, we talk and I try some more local ales. Everyone else smokes. Some guy keeps walking past me making chicken noises. The boules match is in full swing outside. Cries of joy and derision come from the football room. I drink and watch the other artists. There’s a bizarre father/daughter combo who go on, there’s some kind of odd sexual tension thing between them. I dunno, it’s odd. someone plays Johnny Cash, I’m happy. Someone plays The Killers, I’m distraught. I draw the raffle as tonight’s special guest. Woo. The odd father/daughter people win some wine. Some lucky lucky girl wins some bright orange flip-flops, I’m slightly envious.

We go to a friends house and play some game where you chainsaw people in half on the XBOX. I instigate a conversation about whether there is a God or not. I’m interested as to how peoples views and beliefs differ. I’m coming to the conclusion that God is as little or as much as you choose to make him/her/it. I totally suck at Grand Theft Auto as we eat chips. It’s two am and we go to bed. I wake at twenty to seven and the allergy tablets have worn off. Hmmm…cat allergy sneeze. We drive into town. I realise I left my jacket of 4-5 years, Herzog, in the pub last night. I’m sad. I have a minutes silence for it. I get the coach and listen to music after some coffee and a failed attempt to acquire a hot water bottle. I write my tour diary entry. I look at the trees and houses we pass in the sunshine on this duel carridgeway. I put the pen down.

London 333 Mother Bar

Today hasn’t been much fun. I did get some sleep last night and a small lay in. However, I’ve spent the rest of the day rushing around. I’ve not managed to do the amount of recording I planned on doing. I had a mission to uncle Dave’s with my guitar, bag of stuff I need to live for the next tour days and also the 1680 for Dave to mix songs for the album. I was very sweaty once the 106 bus had eventually got me to Clapton. Leila (Dave’s 11 month old child who ‘One Day All This Will Work Out…’ was dedicated to) is now a toddler. She has hair and can crawl. Amazing to see someone you’ve known when they are the size of a rugby ball developing into a little person.

The bus home from Dave’s was slow and populated by 7,000 school kids screaming and throwing pieces of chicken at each other but it got me where I needed to be. The Victoria line not so. Some signal failure at Seven Sisters meant we sat idle for fifteen minutes then eventually someone told us over the public address system that the tube was part suspended. Thanks TFL. I’ve missed the coach to Southsea so I walk home, buy a new ticket and then do the journey with the added bonus of rush hour. Sweaty. Irritated. Face in strangers armpit. Joy. Still, I’m on here now, I have a seat to myself to write AND (drums roll please) we’re going through Guildford so, you know, life’s good.

Last night was excellent and a rarity too: good soundman (who listened to me rather than just telling me to go fuck myself when I request some reverb), good bands and a good promoter. Sound was great on stage. I snapped a string in my last song which, if there is a higher power, I think is their way of saying “I prefer the finger picked stuff dude, sack off this plectrum shit”. Obviously God talks in a fairly informal way in my head. Incidentally 333 Mother Bar is the club in my song ‘The Doctor’ (“followed you from the bar to club and haunted your sleep”) so in some way last night was a piece of Trooper history as I’ve not been back there since 2005, the time period in which that song is based. Good gig. Hung out with some friends. Drank beer. Cuddled my girlfriend. Watched Doctor Who on iPlayer. All in all, ultimate win.

Right, hopefully this gig tonight is good, it had better fudging well be after all this fudging around. Fudge. I currently have nowhere to stay either so if anyone from the Southsea/Portsmouth area can telepathically read these words: please let me stop in your house/flat/dog basket. I promise to be clean, tidy, not eat your cereal, drink any of your herbal tea and be out of your way early for tomorrows mission to Sheffield.

Southsea The Fat Fox

Last night was great and most definitely worth the melodrama of yesterday afternoon. It took me a while to find the pub. Why do I assume I’ll just be able to find places by aimlessly walking around the center of towns and cities I know nothing about and the venue will just present itself to me!? Still, I got to the Fat Fox eventually and was greeted by Abbie and Sarah who run the night. We had a joint hug at our collective relief that I’d arrived, some ten minutes before I was scheduled to play. I meet the soundman. Change last nights broken guitar string. Sarah brings me some water, I’m very grateful. Abbie gives me a card thanking me for playing their night, I’m taken aback.

A guy called Matt comes up to me and tells me him and his girlfriend have sprinted to the gig so not to miss me, I’m stunned. We shake hands, chat and I ask him what songs of mine he likes. I include ‘Nottingham Wasn’t Built For Me’ and ‘Division Street Blues’ in the set as he’s requested them. I go on stage. Strum the guitar twice. yell “BOO!” into the mic to see if it’s working. Lights go up. I play. I ask the audience at the end of ‘The Doctor’ how it’s sounding as I’ve had no soundcheck. Someone replies “lovely” which pleases me because I can’t hear too much on stage and the last part of the song was unintentional feedback!

I play the new songs and then stuff off the EP. End of ‘Old Street Social Scene’ my guitar strap snaps. If I were to treat this the same way as yesterdays theory that a broken string is Gods way of telling me not to strum then today he’s telling me to sit down rather than stand. I reject this idea wholeheartedly as I hugely dislike sitting down to play. A benevolent God would not make me sit. Some kind fellow hands me a chair and I swallow my hatred of the chair and carry on. I realise my voice has improved as I haven’t played ‘Division Street Blues’ for ages but I nail all the high notes at the end. I’m pleased. I come off.

Matt has to leave, we have a hug. He tells me he only came to see me which makes me feel special in a week where I’ve felt anything but that. I talk to many lovely people. I have a pint, I feel it’s well earned. I have my Polaroid taken with Hong Kong Gardeners Club’s mascot cat. I sign it. I’m not used to people being this nice to me. I drink a little more and talk to some more people about my poorly planned tour routes (Edinburgh to London anyone!?) Midnight and we leave. I talk to some drunk woman outside about playing solo singer/songwriter metal. She asks for a demonstration of this. I have to decline.

We go back to Sarah’s where I’m staying. Sleep, lovely sleep. Wake. Shower. Coffee. I read the Artrocker on her coffee table. It’s all plush nowadays, who knew. We drive to the station, we have a hug and I thank her profusely. It’s sunny again today and I’m in high spirits which is just as well as I’ve got a pretty epic journey to to Sheffield, about 230 odd miles. Hampshire looks lovely and green. HKGC are the nicest people ever. Right now, I feel like I’m winning. Nights like last night restore my faith in what I’m doing and there are good people out there to work with.

By Loyal Trooper