Sheeness, to be precise. We’re headquartered at our buddy Mark Ellen’s, brother of Rob Ellen – the Scottish promoter and grand master behind this entire affair. Mark lives about an hour and a half east of London where the Thames opens up into the North Sea. Just across the street from his flat there is a sea wall. Go UP the stairs and you’ll find the ocean. So it seems we must be below sea level. Kip Boardman and Rob crash in twin beds in the upstairs bed. Shawn takes the ladder up to the attic. There’s a guy named Jim on the coach in a blue bathrobe watching TV. Tony Gilkyson and Paul M are in the most comfortable quarters at a B&B down the road. Paul L sleeps down the lane past the pub at Mark’s buddy Russell’s basement flat. Paul L bravely wandered into this stranger’s basement. But the biggest risk can offer the biggest reward and don’t you know it: Paul L arrived past noon this morning with tales of indulging in the sweetest of Moroccan fruits.
Last night’s gig turned out great. The Borderline is a stinky basement club in one of London’s oldest neighborhoods that has hosted many great bands over the years. We see posters for Tony’s sister Eliza, our friend’s, Dave Alvin, The Believers, Gina Villalobos, Carlos Guitarlos, and bands that made the MTV cut: Janes Addiction and the like. There’s people there and they like the music. We see friends from Cole’s: Chuck and Georgia. Holy shit, globalization is real. Rob’s sister’s friend from Paris is there with a gang. And then there’s folks who’ve heard us on the BBC, including an L.A. native who does the Production Design for the Cohen Bros. Movies. He arranged the Clansmen during the cross burning scene in “O’ Brother…” If only he know, we’re their biggest fans. Tony’s set is rousing, the crowd cheers enthusiastically. The Hawks get a big encore, and we all sell lots of Cds. We may avert losing our shirts on this tour, knock on bar counter wood.The solid state Fender amp blew up on the Hawks’ last song, as did the bass amp. Mark Ellen did a quick switch this morning. Now we’ve got a solid state Peavey.
Somehow jet-lag doesn’t seem to be slowing us down too badly. Was it the No Jet-Lag pills PL and RW chomped every 2 hours all the way across the Atlantic? Was it the overnight flight? Was it the lamb kabob from the shop across from the club? Whatever it was it seems to have worked.