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« BACK | HOME » ABOUT » THE SPIRIT SPEAKS » THE TOUR WITH NO NAME - DAY 4

THE TOUR WITH NO NAME - DAY 4

Bournemouth

The last 24 hours have seen an escalation of violence within the Alabama 3, on a scale that has lead many band members to reach for their special blankets. It's a long standing tradition that Larry gets twatted in the face at least once during the tour, but I don't think anyone expected his assailant to be our programmer, Piers. Apparently an argument over the band's accounts became personal, leading the normally levelheaded boffin to clock Rob in the eye. Wooooooo! Touchingly, the first thing Larry did was get on all fours and help Piers find his spectacles, which had become dislodged in the fracas. Then Piers apologized. Very disappointing.  


The Mountain of Love

Regrettably, the next incident in this tragic outbreak of hostilities involved me and D.Wayne. We're selling two of our own new bootlegs on this tour, the long-awaited 12-step plan, and '’Analogue On The Delta' put together by piers and Johnny. We've been promised £20 each for every night we stand on the merchandising stall and sign C.D’s for the punters, so last night there was a rush on the stall as various band members desperately prostituted themselves in and attempt to recoup all the P.D's they'd spent on Gak. There are five of us on the stall, and only two pens. D.Wayne's to my left, scrawling his moniker, when a very cute girl hands me a C.D. I grab the pen out of D. Wayne's hand. The reverend, being a kleptomaniac, is totally neurotic about people nicking his own stuff. He knocks my bowler of my bonce with a swipe of his hand. I push him back, so he falls into a pile of badly manufactured T Shirts. Next thing we’re rolling around the stall, in front of 30 or so punters gleefully filming the action for future generations on their mobile phones. Then we're in each others faces, D.Wayne grasping my wrists in a vice-like grip screaming 'Let go a me! Let go a me!’  Oh, the humanity. Last time I was involved in such bloody conflict   was at playgroup, when I nicked Wendy Tuckey's orange plasticine. Look, she had loads, and I needed it for the Dalek's ears.  


Oh Christ

On the bus, Nick Diesal, our front of house sound guy, tells me a story that puts things into a bit of perspective. He was doing monitors for The Brian Jonestown Massacre, that infamous outfit of psychedelic junkies. (They're very good actually, check em out.) The lead singer and the guitarist aren’t getting on too well. He starts slagging off the guitarist onstage, saying he can't play for toffee in front of two thousand fans. The Guitarist gets the hump and stalks off, only to return two songs later. After the gig, Nick packs his gear away and heads for the dressing room. Backstage, in the hallway, the guitarist is lying in a pool of blood, a team of paramedics and two policemen standing over his mutilated body. He'd been bottled.  

When I started writing this tour's blog I was still searching for a name it. I can't call it Revolver Soul; the album doesn’t exist yet. 12-Step Plan is too obvious. Avenginangel, our web mistress, suggested I call it 'On The Road 2009'. Er, yeah.

I decided to call it 'A Tour With No Name’. Then I showed it to Glen, our Manly technician and monitor bloke. He told me he was there when it kicked off last night, working on a tune on his laptop with headphones on. As Piers and Larry tumbled like a pair of schoolgirls around the bus as it hurtled towards Bournemouth, a sound patch came up on his computer;   

"Muppet Tractor Race". 


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© Orlando Harrison 2009