May 27 - Bush Hall, London England

The alarm was set lightly for 8am. It rang for thirty minutes before I figured out that the extremely repetitive harpist busking outside the Chartres train depot didn't exist. Time to scramble. I threw a hefty chocolate sponge called pudding into my mouth in exchange for my last Euro. We hurried just in time for a truck to block our exit from the hotel, and watched two men deliver 850 sandbags of flour to a bakery. Life is exciting when it's happening.

We made it to the Calais car ferry around 1:30. The next available boat wasn't until 3:25.

A saucy immigration woman assumed correctly that I was the drummer. I asked her if I looked like one.

"If there's such a thing as a look."

A mother hen type eyed our embarkation cards.

"The Bi'uh Teeuhs. Think I've 'eard of 'em."

Having done our driving duties for the day, Reid and I ate Cornish pasties and got pissed on the ferry ride to Dover. We were certainly not the only ones…well actually we were the only ones eating Cornish pasties.

Mike was condemned with the task of driving from Dover to London during rush hour. The Garmin 250 said we should go through the most congested part of Central London that it knew of. We spent 17 minutes in Trafalgar Square, 13 minutes at Piccadilly Circus, 33 minutes along the River Thames past Waterloo Station, and 20 minutes in Shepherd’s Bush. Last year before our London show, I went out for an amazing dinner at the world renown St. John’s. It was the best meal I’ve had in the United Kingdom. This year I ate a dry ferry pasty and filled a 1.5 liter bottle with my own urine.

Our triumphant return to Bush Hall! In September we opened for Magnolia Electric Company, playing to a packed house. We were a success to end all successes. It was weird though, there weren’t any homecoming floats for us. Or any ribbon cutting ceremonies or over-sized keys to the city for us either. Huh. There was a nice British woman who informed us that we were late. Like really late. Like three and a half hours late. Like the doors are opening soon late. But for real she was nice about it. We had four minutes to load in, set up, and soundcheck. We did it in four seconds, and used the remaining time to lift weights and never compromise our integrity.

Backstage there were crisps, carrots, hummus and pita bread that were washed down with beer and wine. We met and chatted with Leif Vollebek from Montreal while Reid hung out in the backyard with the chickens.

I forgot how icy these London audiences can feel.

There were six or eight tables set up for people to enjoy the show seated up front. The rest sat on the floor. Polite silence. Smiles. Unsmiles. Acknowledgement of the possibility of fun. We played the set. Mike made fun of Margaret Thatcher. I pointed out that no one was dancing. They seemed to like it. I don’t know. It’s London. Everyone has to protect their excitement. Heaven forbid you should feel something.

I guess Beth Orton was at the show. If so, she’s a tall one. The Brits surprised everyone by buying some merch. We all drank too much and I drove us a few blocks to Jim’s Guesthouse, where Reid’s strange-looking 20 pound note was rejected.

“I don’t know what that is but my boss won’t like it.”