The last gig in London was ace; Sice was there, we played well and The Union Chapel is possibly the most beautiful venue in the land. Jimmy Webb, in thanking me from the stage, called me a ‘doll’ and a ‘beautiful cat’ so a decision that had been lurking around my head these past few months was made. This was to be my last live performance and there will be no more records for the foreseeable future. Everytime I play or record I end up losing money and the all the good albums and great reviews in the world won’t make a difference to that.
I’m going to concentrate instead on writing songs for other people. I don’t know how to do this but I do know where to begin; I want to spend what little free time I have nowadays working on my writing. It does feel like weight has lifted. I’m not one of those men who leave bringing up the kids and most household stuff to the little woman. We share everything and I’ve been trying to do too much lately with the usual result being that I completed nothing to anyone’s satisfaction, least of all my own.
I will still write stuff on here, chart my way through this new phase of my life and I will be posting new songs and demos whenever I can, so stick around. It might even get interesting.
Love
Martin
We need to vacate the apartments by eleven so we’re on the road shortly thereafter heading for Gateshead. By the time we hit the Pennines the rain is beating mercilessly on the roof of the Bongo and visibility is almost zero. It clears up though and we reach the Sage Theatre on a sunny, although very cold, early evening.
I don’t think I’ve ever played somewhere this large. I’m not sure that the tour is selling that well and a small audience would be dwarfed by the vast surroundings. I wander about the stage, taking photographs of Tim the pedal steel player and Jim and Justin Webb as they set up and play. I feel comfortable with them, I first met them in the late nineties when I was asked to Dj at their first UK gig at the Water Rats in London and over the years I’ve bumped into them at various concerts, annoying them with questions about their dad. They are lovely people, friendly, generous and astonishingly polite, that goes for all members of the traveling band.
I’m missing my family, at one point I mention Sonny on stage, about how this was the first time I’ve been away from him and the fact that he’s started walking while I was away. I choke up and I think I’m going to going to lose it but I get through it. I’m shattered by the end and I get catch a taxi back to the travel lodge just as the Webbs hit the stage.
Tuesday I stayed in bed until almost ten thirty, something I haven’t done in a long time. I wasn’t well at all and neither was Mary. Just our luck, miles apart and we both get ill so our friends Martin and Ffion looked after Sonny for us and for that we are most grateful. Sonny took his first steps that evening as well, it’s very disappointing to have missed that but I am proud of him, I can’t wait to see him.
I had planned to record some demos and write lyrics but I felt dreadful so I read and wrote letters. That evening Bernie went to Old Trafford to watch Utd play and the rest of us watched Watchmen which I thought was fantastic, different from the book but only a fool could expect otherwise. Mark and Stu then went out drinking and I was left alone. I retired to my room and smoked a joint out of the back window. The window faced a monolithic brick wall over the top of which the Hilton Hotel loomed out from the Manchester mist. Below me crouched an old back alley, blocked at either end by a wooden fence. I smoked and wondered why such drabbery appeals to me, makes me feel contented. I don’t know if it’s the elevated position and it’s not as if I’m not fond of a scene of a more picturesque value.. I flicked the glowing roach into the cold air and watched as it cascaded down towards the alleyway below. The path it traced was so sure, so accurate that it seemed as if an unseen guiding hand ushered it straight into a vent on the side of the building opposite. I froze, expecting at any moment the whole vent to explode and the wall to come crashing down in front of me. I wondered what I was going to tell the fire service and the police and whether I should sweep through the apartment hiding all traces of contraband. I watched the vent for twenty minutes before closing the window, turning out the light and falling into a long, unbroken sleep.
The next day I felt better. My insides were still lurching around but I felt able to get out of the apartment. I met up with my friend Adam Walton and we spent half an hour searching for somewhere to sell us breakfast. We ended up by Piccadilly Station, not the most friendly place in the world and found a bar that served breakfasts. We sat and chatted, he gave me a cheque for some art I had done for him and I put it in my wallet which I placed on the floor next to me as the table was small and it’s kinda too big for my pockets. I only bought the wallet a few weeks ago, I don’t really like them. Same goes for watches.
As I’m talking I slowly become aware of a large red presence that has somehow impinged my personal space. This huge, tiny lady had sat at the next table, facing us and was sucking at some manner of council snout and blowing the resulting smog our way. At first I was annoyed but I started to warm to her when I realised she was content to stare at us with a her mean little big boat and blow smoke in our faces. She really was enormously small, I can’t think of the proper way to describe her. Anyway she got bored after ten minutes and fucked off. I watched her waddle meanly up the road like a Glaswegian raspberry, happy she was gone so I could concentrate on my disgusting breakfast. Disgusting or not we still had to pay for it and when the time came I offered to settle except that my wallet had gone. The raspberry, that miniature giant, had taken it damn her rapacious minces to hell and back. I couldn’t believe it, I felt foolish, sick and annoyed. I really did want to beat her up, roll her into the road so she gets squashed by a bus and then spread the resulting wrinkly jam on the walls of the local old folks home for massive midgets as a warning. Adam was very nice about the whole thing of course, he paid the bill, tried not to giggle and found us a cosy bar where I could drown my sorrows. I cancelled my cards which was easy, all you have to do is listen to the same piece of rotten music for thirty five minutes, then give your details and wait another ten listening to the sound of a tapping keyboard. Ditto for the police.
So predictably I spent the rest of the day drinking, ending up in a curry house with the others and a man named Moff who I know through Twitter and had I’d met up with earlier and had enjoyed spending time with. It’s not the wallet she stole, or the cards or the photographs, receipts, driving license etc She stole another piece of goodwill and that is in short supply these rotten days. She owes me and I will collect.
Woke at 5.30am. I could hear Sonny shouting from his room which was normal but something wasn’t quite right. Mary was breathing gently beside me, lost in a house of dreams and as I got out of bed the whole room span around me and I had to sit straight back down. My stomach was cramping and I felt sick. I’ve had food poisoning recently and that’s what it felt like. I got up slowly, Mary woke up and we took Sonny downstairs for his breakfast.
As the morning slipped by I felt progressively, worse still Mary had taken the van to be serviced and it had taken far longer than expected. I was home with Sonny so by the time the prearranged meeting time spun around I hadn’t packed or even showered.
Finally we left around midday. Steaming up the M4 in our beloved Mazda Bongo. The band is me, Bernie on drums, Mark on Bass and Stuart on keys. Bernie played on ‘Advertisements for Myself’, ‘Ye Gods (and little fishes)’ and has played live with me in the past. I’ve known Mark since I moved to Cardiff, he owns the studio where I record and rehearse. He is also one of the sweetest men I know. Stuart plays with Mark and Bernie in the band Vito.
Soon after joining the M4 I had to concede that I was too ill to drive and Mark took over. I napped, bent almost double in the front passenger seat that had been pushed forward with the weight of our gear and bags. We arrived at the Royal Northern College of Music, a hushed, velvety space on the Oxford Road. We dumped the gear on the enormous stage, found the dressing rooms and plugged all our machines in. We used to get into dressing rooms and start demolishing the rider, we wouldn’t have had anything to plug in but now everybody is armed with laptops, phones, sat nav, bluetooth speakers, electric mangle etc
The Webb brothers turn up. I haven’t spoken to them for four or five years and it’s great to see them. There’s James, Justin and Christian plus Cornelius who I’ve not met before. Glen Campbell’s son, Cal, is drumming for them and Englishman Tim is pedal steeling. Romeo Stodart from the Magic Numbers is also part of the line up. No sign of Jimmy, apparently he doesn’t show up for soundchecks. Fine by me, I’m scared of him.
I don’t feel well at all at this point, my guts are performing acrobatics within their rib ringed arena and I can’t stray too far from the gents. I just want to do the gig and go to bed. The sound onstage disappears, only to reappear elsewhere, the floor monitors are important now, to pin down this elusive noise and make some sense of what’s going on. All this will change once the audience take their seats, the sound will settle. I no longer fret about such things. I don’t fret about anything anymore; I know the songs, I trust my band so other than unforeseen technical dramas there isn’t much that can go wrong. I don’t have to worry about my voice because i don’t smoke anymore and haven’t had a hangover for over a year.
We go on early, just after half seven. I can see that my mum and my sister and her partner are here just as the lights go down. It’s very quiet out there. The soft seats rise up in front of me, occupied mostly by middle aged couples and I find that I actually prefer this to the squall and chat of a normal gig crowd. I find it easier to collect and pace myself. I feel relaxd and rwlly enjoy the concert. We’ve started playing ‘Good Life’ as well which is one of my favourite songs to sing (odd that I got Sice to sing it on record). The audience listen and are appreciative, the boys think it was the best we’ve played and I manage to sing in tune and not break anything. Win.
I get back to the dressing room just as Jimmy Webb arrives. I’m introduced to him by Justin and he fixes me with a steely glare and says he is pleased to meet me. I am scared of him. He is a formidable presence.
I head down to the bar to have a drink with my family, Bobby Boo has turned up with his lady, Claire (they missed the gig) and I decide to try and drink my way through my illness. Never the best idea but one that my limited imagination often pushes forward when decision times comes around. I spot my old friend Andy Jones who used to run a great record shop in Liverpool called Pink Moon. I bought many records there that I still cherish today. It’s great to see him albeit briefly as he has a train to catch. The rest of us chat in the bar, Mark, Stu and bernie join us and we decide to head off the Big Hands and get smashed.
The whole crew gig bar Jimmy ends up in Big Hands, Bobby Boo manages to steal, smash or knock over everybody’s drink in the club and gets thrown out, nothing changes. We stay until they close and then pile into the kebab place next door. By this time I feel alright and demolish an enormous kebab back at the apartments.
Apartments? Oh yes, Mary booked the hotels and discovered that it was cheaper for us to stay in an apartment for three nights (we now have two days off) than in a Travel Lodge so we’re swanning about in a swish Deansgate Apartment block, getting kebab everywhere and lowering it’s market value every minute we’re here.
Then, bed.
I’m really made up to be involved with this. Starts in Manchester tomorrow. Tour diary to follow…
