A Cold Night In Hull (and Other Travel Memories That Seem Better In Retrospect)

It was a cold night in Hull.  It’s always a cold night in Hull, even in the middle of July.  Hazel and I got off the train from London a few days after arriving in the UK merch-less and 100% snare drum free.  Somehow it hadn’t mattered so much, that we’d been robbed in Ireland, because London is a major distraction. Our charming hotel in Notting Hill that sat directly on top of the Central Line.  The shops and restaurants of Bayswater, and the rudeness of the people who work there.  My show at the Borderline, with a great crowd there to see me open for Erin McKeown, and the splendor of Erin herself.  Visiting with friends and walking through Kensington Gardens during a major windstorm.  The Vivienne Westwood exhibit at the V&A.  Record shopping in Wardour Street, thrift shopping in Portobello and heading south of the river to see a play, then crossing back over the Thames on foot in the rain.  In London there’s a lot to look at to take your mind off things, and when that fails there’s always the pub.

But now we were in Hull, and I was having a little crisis of faith.  What was I doing here, yet again?  The shabby B&B, with preposterously themed rooms (“Egypt,” “Mexico”) and a huge TV in the parlor blaring a lurid Guns n Roses video, was all too familiar from previous trips.  The walk to the venue that seemed to take forever had both Hazel and I cursing my penny-pinching ways. “Does it ever get any better than this?”  I shouted to no one in particular.  I’d been taking some kind of absurd pride in having played this backwater something like five times.  Having my daughter along as a witness made it feel more like an exercise in futility.

But she loved the aggressively drab streets and the Adelphi, a true punk club.  She laughed when Paul, the kindly promoter, asked did we fancy a curry, exactly as predicted. We both enjoyed meeting Astrid Williamson, who would be traveling and playing with us for the next week.  The people of Hull are witty and unpretentious, and the show was decently attended. We survived the shared bathroom and slept alright in our humble little room.  Next day it was on to Newcastle.

All I knew about Newcastle was that we’d be playing with Morgan Le Fay at Live Theatre.  I also knew Newcastle to be a good-looking town, where people tended to drink heavily on the weekends. 

I’d done a little research and determined that MLF were not a) a live sex show or b) a drag performer, although either option might have been preferable to the reality.  That’s not fair to the band of course, who were very nice people and fine musicians.  It’s just their fans who were lacking.  They could drink, and they could sing along with Morgan Le Fay, but their ability to listen was limited.  This being Friday, they did cheer at any reference to beer or sex so while I was playing at least it felt like they were enjoying it. 

We got a ride to Wellingborough next day, so Hazel was able to experience the glory that is “Services.”  Things have improved greatly on the motorways, with Costa Coffee and juice bars now standing proudly alongside the Burger Kings and Cadbury candy displays.  We played in a nice arts centre in Wellingborough, and Rob the promoter thrilled us by calling up a genuine legend, Dee Generate, to lend Hazel his snare drum.  Twenty-seven years after being the youngest punk in legendary band Eater, Roger (as he’s now known) still appears to be in his mid-20’s and was wonderfully gracious.  I really enjoyed hearing Astrid play – she’s a beautiful Shetlands lass with a lovely voice who sings captivating songs and is just a treat to be around.  At Rob’s house later that night, Hazel kept our host awake until 3 or 4 AM talking about The Damned and music minutiae – she’s catching on fast.

We got to spend two more days in London, including Sunday afternoon at Come Down And Meet The Folks at the Fiddlers Elbow in Camden.  This really was one of the best times I’ve had in London.  The audience seemed to be from all over the world.  Hazel was resplendent in her yellow mod coat and my pal Dave Jacques from Nashville played bass on a few songs.  People kept putting fresh beers up on the stage but I swear I only took a few sips.

Brighton was wonderful the next day.  We took a great walk through the Royal Pavilion and down onto the pier, reliving scenes from “Quadrophenia.”  Back at The Greys, which is so small it always seems crowded, a good assortment of people had shown up.  Some of the guys from Morgan Le Fay opened and Hazel found them so entertaining she eventually ended up wearing the lead singer’s straw hat.  I’ve had some really touching moments playing music, and none more so than this night, watching a family (mother, father and daughter) singing along together to “Don’t Ever Change.”  I wish I could stop being cynical long enough to write another song like that.  But maybe one’s all I’ve got in me?

Because there’s always cause for renewed cynicism when the itinerary includes places like Leicester.  This is quite a large city with a very diverse population, and I know I’ve played a decent show here before.  But this particular night was doomed, with the venue being switched at the last moment to an awful black basement and an opening band that made me feel completely uncomfortable with their lack of humor and camaraderie, so determined were they to put on a good showing for a supposed record label that was coming to see them.  Plus, they sucked.  I was close to suicidal by the time I got back to the hotel where Hazel had wisely spent the evening.  Next morning I walked through the rainy streets and felt a little better, mostly because I knew we were heading to Scotland.

Throughout the trip, the phrase I repeated most often was “Do you we have everything?” Getting out of a taxi, or leaving a hotel, bus or train, “Do we have everything?” spoken in a shrill, frantic tone until it was almost a joke.  The one time I was just too fed up and sick of it all, leaving Leicester, was the one time I didn’t bother to say it and ended up leaving my guitar on the train we’d just exited.  As the train sped away towards Sheffield I stood wailing on the platform until a kindly conductor put his arm around me and promised to get it back.  As we rode the next train, I sobbed so much the conductor addressed the entire train over the P.A.:  “Will the passenger who lost her musical instrument please remain on board the train, REPEAT, REMAIN ON BOARD THE TRAIN at the next station and I will bring the missing instrument to you.  If you depart the train and try to find the instrument yourself, we will have to leave you behind.”  Sure enough, the guitar was held aloft as we approached the next station and I gratefully took it from the conductor, then consoled myself with a dry chicken sandwich and bottle of wine.  Hazel, while sympathetic, understandably pretended not to know me.

Playing in Glasgow that night was a revelation – for some reason the people here really understand me.  Maybe everyone who plays this town feels that way.  It’s without a doubt one of the best live music places in the world.  We spent the night at Lindsay and Avy’s in Grangemouth and made it into Edinburgh the next day for a look around.  What a gorgeous town, but a tricky one to play.  The Red Bar in the art college had that indie air I thought I’d worked the last ten years to get away from.  There were some decent hard-working people there who actually wanted to hear Astrid and I but overall what a huge disappointment as far as sound, atmosphere, money, respect…wait, isn’t that everything?  Oh well, it got some nice reviews, but how good can you feel about the ones that include the words “soldier on”?

The Wild Boar in Aberdeen on a Friday night is exactly what you might imagine, though the balance of listeners to drinkers is more in our favor.  I have the feeling Aberdeen is a very interesting city, I just never get to spend enough time there to figure it out.  Our host Alan serves us tea and haggis sandwiches at 2 AM while we listen to Ivor Cutler and The Fall. 

The next day we are up early to get to Cumbria.  It’s a ridiculously long way to go for one gig and requires renting a car, but at this point I feel like I’ve got the driving thing down.  I take the full coverage in case of another break-in and we set off with Astrid on what is a truly breathtaking drive.  Clouds and sheep and hedges and tumbling hills, tiny roads and villages and the tiniest village is apparently the one we’re scheduled to play in.  The soundman is deaf, everyone’s drinking heavily and the only point of it all is just one more gig remarkable for the surrounding circumstances rather than the actual performance itself.  The location is heaven on earth but this inn is closer to a biker bar in Alabama.  We retire quickly after playing, as Hazel and I need to get up at 3 AM to catch a flight from Edinburgh, 4-5 hours away.  We hear laughter and people careening drunkenly down the hallway outside our room.  “Dah-ling, you’re not lea-ving?!” croaks the 50-something leather clad barmaid when she sees us trying to tiptoe out the door.  As we load up the car, she tumbles into a beat-up van that’s blasting Neil Diamond at top volume. 

“Mom, slow down!  I thought you said we’d leave early so you don’t have to drive too fast!” Hazel shouts from the back seat where she’s trying to sleep on the pillow I’d just stolen in a rather pathetic attempt at retaliation.  “I’m only going twenty miles an hour!”  I yell back as I careen around another rabbit.  They seem to be coming at me from all directions as the sun starts coming up.  We listen to the Velvet Underground and look through the windshield at the sunrise, eating caramel logs and bacon rolls and it feels like we’re the only car on the road most of the way to Edinburgh.  “I know you say it wasn’t worth it to take that gig, and right now I totally agree with you,” I tell my daughter, “but four months from now you’ll remember this moment and change your mind.”  And of course I was right.