Did i ever tell you about the time i fell down a volcano...

People will often tell you that travel broadens the mind. Billy Connolly once commented that conversely, travel narrows the mind, and the drums never stop. Our recent travels have been a great experience, and we're looking forward to our next trip over the water to North America (as opposed to 'doon the water' to Dunoon for a fish tea). During the tour, Carey reminded me of one of my previous travel experiences, and i suggested i share it with you, so here we go...

1983 was an interesting year for travel for me, it also turned out to be an interesting year for travel mishaps.

It started in the January, the family were going to New Zealand to visit relatives. "You're representing your country", my mother told me,"You'll need to wear your kilt". I argued that surely a Scotland Football shirt would allow me to represent my country equally well, but apparently not, so the kilt it was, 11 years old and forced to wear kilt whilst traveling halfway across the globe. I had to wear it for the long haul flight over, and on arrival in NZ, experienced the joy of being gauped by a large number of people awaiting the new arrivals, many of whom were holding those cards with people's names on them. Magic!

We flew into Auckland, but Were heading to Wellington. There was time to kill before our connecting flight, so my Cousins who lived in Auckland met us and took us on a quick tour around the city. The pinnacle of our first visit was being driven to the top of a volcano (now extinct) Mount Eden (i think it was) in the middle of the city. There were impressive views of the city around us, but for me, the highlight was gazing down into the huge crater in the middle of this mountain where the volcano had erupted. I decided i should go down to the bottom of the crater so when i got home i could tell all my friends that i had stood inside a volcano.

Off i went, jogging off downwards into the middle of the crater, excited at the prospect of being in the middle of a volcano. I was about a third of the way down when i realised that it was slightly steeper than i had given it credit for. I was getting faster and faster and very quickly realised that i was incapable of keeping up this speed for much longer without decking it spectacularly. Deck it spectacularly i did, tripping over a clump of grass. Normally, tripping over with a host of tourists watching you and landing on your head would be a touch embarrassing, but i had built up a fair bit of speed, and landing on my head was followed by rocketing on down the steep incline towards the bottom of the crater, and my embarrassment was to continue for a bit longer. I kept rolling until i came to a halt at the bottom. Then of course i had to clamber back out with said tourists still watching me. There is actually Super 8 footage of my re-emergence from the crater somewhere (thanks Mum) as a permanent record of my fall.

The worst thing of all though wasn't the indignity of the fall, nor even the bruises that were sustained during it, but i lost my sporran. Gutted.

The rest of the year was quite quiet in comparison. I did go on a 'foreign visit' with the scouts that summer, traveling round bits of Europe. I managed to get electrocuted on a concrete barge on the Seinne, get water blister burns on the Italian Riviera, and drop my camera from a ski lift in Switzerland... but that's another story.

Gav

The Importance of Elsewhere

The second Camera Obscura tour of the United Kingdom is finished .The van is emptied of uneaten apples. The mosaic of crusty insects is lathered off the windscreen. The band return to their decreasingly normal lives. And dream or nightmare of America. Dire diary…

Leeds, The Aire
A ninth story hotel room, a view of the lochs. The beginning of our English summer. The only venue with effective air conditioning. Backstage and ever shy, a complex chair/curtain construction is erected to retain modesty at shower time .Monkey Swallows the Universe and everyone applauds. We shamble a little but tell ourselves the curse of Leeds is history.

Manchester , The Medlock
The Dry Bar doesn’t live up to its name. We share the dressing room with imaginary rats. Warm cheese is the taste of the tour. The crowd crowed appreciatively. Cursing the filthy state of rock and roll venues. The sweat dries in The Castle under the trickle of proper beer. Bridges are built. We need all the friends we can get.

Hull, The Humber
Seven necks crane to take in the Humber. We observe a disconcerting quantity of very short people, hesitate to say dwarves, scattered between charity shops. Our favourite eccentric of the tour marred slightly by the tissue issue .We are out-shambled. Always it is by bridges that we live.

London, The Thames
Six necks crane to take in our posters on the streets of London. Very grand. Francois’ frolicking makes us feel old. My keyboard module frolics right off the stage but is tougher than me. I applaud it. The presence of some old school friends in the audience re-conjures those obligatory- performing-in-school-assembly-nerves. Perhaps one too many gin and tonics for the successful re-creation of all 958 chords in Andrew Gold’s Never Let Her Slip Away.

Norwich, The Broads
The most surprisingly charm of Britain. We are wooed again by the beauty of the Arts Centre, and attempt to woo the crowd in return. The finest record shops of the tour manned by several characters from Nick Hornby’s Hi-Fidelity. Looking up at the rafters and down at the graves. It is flint. We salute you.

Colchester, The Colne
Again we dream, why can’t all music venues be like this? Disappointingly the pulpit is shut off so Francois can’t dance there. There is something sad about a building being de-sanctified. Our only home-cooked meal produced by a very quiet man. Bless you.

Cardiff, The Taff
A claustrophobic venue ornamented by an endearingly enthusiastic crowd, perhaps due to the rejuvenating effect of Francois and the Atlas Mountains on fine chaotic form. Wales apparently renames its local beer in my honour. Garlic overload.

Sheffield, The Sheaf
Everybody hums the entire back-catalogue of Richard Hawley songs to themselves whilst we are still 50 miles away from the mythical city. The leafy industrial beauty is never totally obscured by the ugliness of an empty club. Then the people arrived and all was pretty again.

Glasgow, The Clyde
Memories of the Truckers Café breakfast queasily subside.
The homecoming event, even for the homeless. I dine alone. The band perform a secret (C*ltic) huddle in the dressing room, orchestrated by Mr Pat Nevin. Overwhelming enthusiasm in the crowd throughout the entire concert. We try not to look surprised but apparently fail. Kenny fights the smoke machine because he is jealous of it. We take a bottle of whisky on stage to provide a distraction in any awkward gaps but there aren’t any. The manager sheepishly produces a plastic cup of flat champagne for everyone. We hardly shamble at all.


Aberdeen, The Dee and The Don
Outside the venue is littered with the corpses of suicidal pigeons. The worst ‘Italian’ restaurant ever; swipe the black pepper and run for the hills, I advise. See the sea. Francois and Victor sing You Shook Me All Night Long in their joyful, homoerotic, peculiar French way because it is the last night. We shamble again. It rains so much on the way home.

carey xx

We just stepped out for a short while...

Here's a little of what we did (from what my tiny mind can recollect).

In Leeds, at the Faversham, we played a good show for the first time. We've not always had much luck there (our fault, not yours). For those of you who made it, sorry it took us so long. We would never have stopped trying. Monkey Swallows the Universe were excellent. I'm sure I heard their guitar player playing Bert Jansch in a little daydream.

In a cave at the back of Manchester's Dry Bar, we turned to liquid. Did anyone see our nipples? We played on a stage made from lots of little stages. Tracyanne dished out dessert and, ever keen to meet the needs of our discerning listeners, we played Books Written for Girls. We don't play that so often.

In Hull Adelphi, there was no toilet paper. Whatsoever. And yet it is known as one of the twenty British venues which make up the Toilet Tour. Great place - the bar is a bus. Go and see for yourself. Paul the owner is quite a character...

In London, at the Cargo, it was hot again. Lots of people came to interview and photograph us. Francois and his band, harpist included, blew the audience away and made us scared to play. Tracy got confused by technology. My trousers bunched up, Larry David style.

In Norwich Arts Centre, we were taken very good care of, once again, in what has to be one of the finest places to play live in any country - and that's swearing. In an attempt to stop melting in the heat I shaved off my beard and what's left of my hair in the basement of a funny little barber shop at the top of the hill, where the man said "Bit rough, that Glasgow, innit?". Or did I just imagine that?

We all got a bit merry that night, and Gavin told us all about the birds and the bees.

In Colchester Arts Centre, another beautiful building, a nice man made a huge pot of delicious chilli, and a very quiet audience gave us a very loud cheer at the end. Francois and his gang drove home to Bristol that night, accidentally via Nottingham.

We drove to Cardiff on the 14th. It was a day off. Nigel went home to consolidate his empire for a night. We ate out in town, and then a quiet night in the hotel. The following night, at Clwb Ifor Bach, Francois had his Big Band on parade, featuring the debut of one Lee Thomson on drums. It was such a relief to see some familiar faces and afterwards to find a bar open till 2am which didn't require an entry fee or a debate with bouncers. When I woke the next morning, there was a huge green band painted across the back of my nice new white shirt. What's that all about?

Before I forget - HEY EVERYBODY! CAREY GOT HER RESULTS BACK! SHE GOT A FIRST!

In Sheffield, at the legendary Leadmill, Lee narrowly avoided being smothered by a falling banner, and one of the "meticulous" security staff didn't allow Gavin onto the stage until he had his little sticker on. Oh, and they wouldn't accept Scottish fivers or tenners at the bar. I lack the skill to convey just how annoying that really is. Still, they were a decent bunch all the same and we had a great time and the crowd were lovely. Sorry to those of you who missed out on t-shirts, there'll be more soon...

We came home on Saturday, just for the day, to play our biggest (best?) Glasgow show to date at the QM Union. We always got the impression that only a handful of people gave a toss about us in Glasgow. Maybe we didn't have enough to offer until now. Who knows? Who cares? It was the greatest.

On Sunday on a very rainy Loch Lomond, hung over, cold and soaking, rowing a small, bashed boat into Balmaha Marina, I smiled to myself and thought, "If only I had a bucket to bail this water out." More on this another time.

We finished up on Monday there in Aberdeen, at the Tunnels. Francois and Victor joined us on their farthest trip north and with Lee on drums again, treated the crowd to the cutest AC/DC cover ever. When it was our turn, we had a few sound problems but, professionals as we are, we rose above them. We did, didn't we? Thanks to Hen for being a decent bloke.

Did anyone else speak to the man at the front who appeared able to communicate only by using Camera Obscura lyrics? Does anyone know if that's a recognised medical condition?

Thank you all. Thank you all so much.

I've just read this back. It's a little dull. But then I'm a little sober; therefore, so am I. A little dull, that is.

See you in a couple of weeks, Americans...

Kenny