Joined: Aug 2009 Gender: Male Posts: 4,629 Location: By Scotch Corner
Gerald's Blog « Thread Started on Jun 12, 2012, 9:19am »
Is anyone reading Gerald's blog on the official site? I get the feeling the answer is no since I haven't seen any discussion on it.
I'm sure I'm in the minority but I never got into the whole St. Cleve Chronicle thing. I never read the TAAB newspaper and I find the same true for the new one.
Joined: Jul 2011 Gender: Male Posts: 2,952 Location: North Carolina, U.S.A.
Re: Gerald's Blog « Reply #1 on Jun 12, 2012, 9:59am »
May 28, 2012 Other Entries....June 5th The Bostock Diaries
GB TAKES TO THE ROAD!
Latest news from the lyric writer of the original "Thick as a Brick"
Well - what a change of retirement job! I was going to write my novel. And then retire (properly) on the fat and disgraceful proceeds to the little apartment Felicity and I still have near Alicante. Next, in fact, to a little bar where they serve the most delightful Olive Fatiche Poufflé. You know - the two little mounds of mashed squid and potato with theprovocative nipple-like olives mounted proudly at their peaks. Steady, old friend. Lie down, Rover!
But that's another story.
I received a phone call yesterday from a friend of a friend, asking me to pack my bags and join the Ian Anderson Thick As A Brick tour in Germany, where they need a translator/tour manager to handle the hotels, flights, backstage catering and so on. Apparently, my left-over Army skills (I was stationed briefly near Frankfurt in a misguided career move during the mid-eighties) qualify me to be über-dogsbody (delightful contradiction) and "facilitator" in getting a rock band from A to B and onwards, gloriously, to C. Combined with my snake-like wriggles, political guile and verve, I should manage the odd border crossing and crazed flight attendant with ne'er a flinch or waver.
So, off on Sunday to join Mr A and his cronies in Berlin. Not sure whether to pack a suit and loafers or take that pair of Levis Felicity gave me for my fortieth and which I have never yet worn. Still have the price tag and the washing instructions on, in fact. I suppose wardrobe conformity is a lesser consideration in the context of required linguistic and cultural skills. If you can hold the floor with attacking precision and command at Prime Minister's Questions and make your point, fiercely, succinctly, avoid the wrath of Mr Speaker and settle back back afterwards for a quick snooze, you can handle most things in life, I would have thought.
They had considered asking ex-local priest Godfrey Pitcher but his occasional lack of tact and regrettable tendency to the more colourful adjective weighted heavily against. I, on the other hand, can bite several tongues and charm the flimsies off a transvestite traffic cop with a bad headache. Not the job for you, this time, Pitcher m'lad. Best leave it to oily, silky professional that I shall endeavour to be at all times.
More from the Front on Monday or Tuesday, perhaps, when I have settled in and found my berth on the tour bus. A Mr Downs has been charged with getting me quickly au fait with tour bus life and culture. I am told that my verging-onportly frame will find a lower bunk easier to negotiate. Being close to the lavatory is a more dubious asset as you have more nocturnal traffic edging past your sleepy frame as they queue for the only piss-artist undressing room in town. Apparently, there is a Mr Lynch who requires to go rather often and, irritatingly, hums bawdy sea-shanties in the hope of inducing a trickle.
It seems that warbler Anderson was struck down by a secondary infection chest and throat bug in Stuttgart two days ago and sought medical help to get over the problem ASAP. My training in Army nursing and pharmaceutical administration could have come in handy. 250 Mg dosage of Azithromycin would have been my choice - 2 for starters and one a day for four more days. Should be right as rain in two shakes of a raccoon's short and curly.
Probationary appointment this, by all accounts, although dark mutterings have been overheard indicating that other tours may follow. I did a stint in Washington for a year when I was toying with a Foreign Office Diplomat post-army future. Frightful place but rather fun off-duty if you knew the right (and the wrong) people. So skills in slipping and sliding round the Yankee cousins may prove useful to my wayward musical herd of sheep on the frantic field of battle. Johnny Foreigner beware! Bostock will lead, marshall, rally and charge at the head of the Prog-Rock battalion with young Lieutenant Biggles in close support.
Talk soon, dear reader. Off to pack now. Must get an iPad. And bloody ear-plugs.
Fat Bostock kisses to you.
PS: Anyone have an email address for Tufty Parritt at Cruddock Hall? I need to send a formal objection to his planning app for another (so he says) stable block. We all know he really wants to build a Turkish Bath and Solarium in the grounds and operate it for profit. Damned woman Oona what's-she-called seems to be involved too, so where will it all end? Nothing against a bit of hirsute nudity and soapy frolics, but a step too far for sleepy St Cleve, in my humble opinion.
Joined: Jul 2011 Gender: Male Posts: 2,952 Location: North Carolina, U.S.A.
Re: Gerald's Blog « Reply #2 on Jun 12, 2012, 10:08am »
June 5, 2012 The Bostock Diaries
GB TAKES TO THE ROAD! Part 2
Latest news from the lyric writer of the original "Thick as a Brick"
GB here, with a note from the Front.
Well - I found my designated bunk on the tour bus. Corporal Micky Downs showed me to my well-equipped cocoon like a beaming front-desk manager at the Ritz-Carlton Towers and Suites. At this point, all notions of 5-star accommodation vanished in a puff of stale diesel smoke. A tad on the small and cosy side, O bunk of my dreams. And, being a bottom bunk, it necessitates a delicate Pilates floor-exercise contortion to slide crab-like into the coffin of nocturnal delight. Marginally better than a top bunk. Which I see all too easily would result in a wobbling, hirsute arse hanging out for all to see, fondle or worse, while its better half attempts the scaling of the Eiger, legs flapping and scrabbling in vain at the slippery summit slope.....
Mr Downs has, of course, long since allocated himself a middle bunk. Access a doddle. Simple sit, turn and roll into the heavenly arms of darkened privacy. A quick flick of curtain and Bob's your uncle. Personal video screen on. A/C summoned to sooth and tenderise. Job done. Fait accompli.
Day one was not too bad from a professional point of view. Discussions with the bus driver as to the best night route from Berlin to Mainz. Details to absorb regarding bus-party names, day-off hotel room requirements, near elevator, far from elevator, smoking, non-smoking, facing street, facing back parking lot, internet access, breakfast times, early check-in, wake-up calls, etc.
Etc.
BUT - then the serious stuff: preferences for seats on flights, check-in baggage rules, carry-on baggage rules, excess baggage rates, carnets, visas, vaccinations, insurances, bank transfers, withholding tax agreements. And so on. None of this was mentioned when I agreed to tag along. I assumed, in my smug ignorance, that this was a verging-on-senior part-time travel jolly. Occasional nursemaid to the frail and sensitive arts and entertainment types. Not on that nellie of yours. Tour Manager is the catch-all job designation for the poor unfortunate who has, one minute, to nurse the wounded and tearful ego of guitar Rock God discouraged from a quick fag break by a 4-foot sign saying NO SMOKING WITHIN 10 METRES OF PUBLIC AREA, and the next minute, attend to the careful negotiation of electronic bank transfer informed by gentle interpretation and manipulation of International Currency Exchange Rates.
If something needs doing, refer to The Tour Manager, it seems. In at the deep end. No buoyancy float or inflatable arm bands. Sink or swim in the shark-infested waters of The Rock And Roll Tour.
The Production Manager is Christopher Archer. A decent enough, blunt Yorkshireman who doubtless will vote Labour at the next election with only a modicum of persuasion from me. He works on the not-unreasonable principle that "less is more" regarding discipline and the management of the technical and other issues day to day. Fair enough, since everyone seems to have an innate understanding of tour bus and backstage protocols and an odd professionalism which belies their shabby dress and occasional bad manners.
The 09.00-sharp frantic load-in and reccy of the backstage at a new venue means all forces are mustered and take on their separate functions like a well-oiled sprocket. PA and Lighting crews direct and cajole a small army of local stage drew. "Humpers" as they are occasionally and disparagingly called. Most of them on bigger wages than I, most likely.
Front Of House (love that expression) Sound Engineer Downs and Mark "Taz" Wheatley, the Lighting Director (LD in A&E parlance) grudgingly accept or firmly re-negotiate the sound and lighting mixer positions at the back of the downstairs audience seats where they will, a few hours later, rule over the carefully deployed and sound-check-tested technology like Field Commanders in theatre of war.
Gaffer-taped laminated notices oozing boldly-lettered names like Tull Production Office, Local Production Office, Band Only, and the mysterious picture symbols for the band dressing rooms are stuck to the appropriate rooms (remembering the priority for Mr A's expressed need to be close to Stage Left access wherever possible and to have a private lavatory for his doubtless exquisitely-formed bowel movements.
Internet access codes to post. Laptops, printers, battery chargers, walkie-talkie radio comms, and spent coffe cups adorn the temporary office home where we will all work for the next few hours until load-out after the show. All a-bustle back-stage for 14 hours, apart from the oddly detached, desolate Production Office calm while the band are actually performing.
The weird thing is that Mr A himself seems strangely removed from all of this, preferring, where possible, to travel alone and manage his own tour requirements. He actually books all the flights himself, I am told, and plans the tours in detail with his son and agent James. He eats lunch alone, in deserted ethnic restaurants and is never seen in the catering room at band and crew dinnertime immediately following soundcheck when the band and crew vultures descend on the freebie catering food.
There are suggestions that I might have to rent a car and drive him on some journeys but local promoters will hopefully take care of that. His wife, Shona, drives on the US tours and does all the daily tour accounting on the road. Scary woman by all accounts. Bumped into her once (literally) in the Waitrose car park at Clutterbury Retail Park. Trolleys locked in mortal combat in the fruit and veggie aisle. Admonishing me with a cluster of fresh asparagus, she trundled off muttering something about "stupid old men shopping alone...." while shaking a mane of dark hair in apparent disapproval. I - who have had to defer on many occasion to Madame Speaker - had to swallow this bitter pill of emasculation and retreat to the men's toiletries aisle to nurse my wounds. Again, all-too-literally, as her trolley had damned near taken my thumbnail off at the root. Scary woman....
So, really, I am engaged in helping with the affairs of the many-too-many rather than the maintenance and well-being of the one-and-only Mr A, the mysterious. He, the-cat-who-walks-alone, prefers to arrive quietly on foot at the backstage entrance at around 16.00 and depart the same way after the show is done, usually slipping alone into the night down carefully researched short-cut routes to his hotel. Dressed in the same drab garb of the forever-student, back-pack adorned with flute bag on shoulder and furrow-browed, he could be easily mistaken for one of his own fans, perhaps. Suits me just fine as I barely know him anyway. But I received both cheery wave and friendly clap on the upper arm by way of recognition when I arrived in Berlin on Sunday. Hardly seen the bugger since but I have my work cut out anyway in learning the ways of the wicked in backstage suburbia. Must badger him regarding the hosting of the local Labour Supporters' Summer Barbecue. Fat chance if the Waitrose Dragon gets her say. Reads the Daily Mail, apparently, and does the crossword in 12.3 nanoseconds. Draws moustaches on the faces of well-heeled footballers and Labour politicians too, I'll bet. Prof Stewart Wood - now Lord Wood Of Anfield - is a chief advisor to Ed Miliband and speaks well of her in private. Unlikely attractions of opposites, if you ask me. Unless, of course, young Woodsy is a master-spy and closet-Tory. Quite possible, now I think of it. Whoops - have I blown his cover?
And no - I can't tell you what the mysterious band dressing rooms sign are. They don't want their names on the doors as it is a give-away to autograph seekers, trainee masseuses, visiting tax inspectors, wandering trainee Tour Managers or whatever.
Oh, well: lights out in the bus-coffin now and will post this in the morning. If it ever comes. I wonder what heady delights Aurich will bring? All band and crew in a hotel for a night off there. Might pal-up with Goodier and O'Hara. About my age and civilised gents. Relatively-speaking. Nighty-night. Snoozle-oooooh.
Thank you Jim, yes those are them. Do you enjoy reading it?
I like reading this as much as hearing new lyrics! Thanks for the heads up Paul. Thanks to Gerald (Ian) for taking the time to keep us up to date and entertained.
Well like I said I expect to be in the minority, but then no one had brought it up so it made me wonder.
And it makes me wonder what's up with Ian with all this and interviewing himself while hopping back and forth in different chairs....
Hopefully it's demonstrating a new found interest in the overall product from Ian, if it aids his 'new creativity' then fine, but I think some of the schoolboy humour is a bit too schoolboy. I read it, but some humour is sometimes time limited, and more often I find that more prevelent in the written form. How many people go back and re-read those awful 'humour' books you get given as gifts at Christmas by Aunty Flo?
Well like I said I expect to be in the minority, but then no one had brought it up so it made me wonder.
And it makes me wonder what's up with Ian with all this and interviewing himself while hopping back and forth in different chairs....
Hopefully it's demonstrating a new found interest in the overall product from Ian, if it aids his 'new creativity' then fine, but I think some of the schoolboy humour is a bit too schoolboy. I read it, but some humour is sometimes time limited, and more often I find that more prevelent in the written form. How many people go back and re-read those awful 'humour' books you get given as gifts at Christmas by Aunty Flo?
The whole prog thing has certainly set off a spark so to that extent I'm very happy. Maybe it's the schoolboy thing as you mention and maybe it's also the colloquialisms.
Too bad we didn't have Google back in 1972. You never know, I might have been all over it.
Joined: Jul 2011 Gender: Male Posts: 2,952 Location: North Carolina, U.S.A.
Re: Gerald's Blog « Reply #8 on Jun 12, 2012, 9:06pm »
Gerald's Blog is great! We all need to have fun and not worry who thinks it seems silly and not cool. Thanks to Ian Anderson, we've all had fun singing along to songs that are totally different from other rock groups. I enjoy all the stories and crazy things he does because Ian is a prankster at heart. "Thick as a Brick" proved it in 1972, TAAB 2 does it again in 2012. ....... What other groups throw out balloons during the encore? Keep it coming Ian! If you don't like reading this stuff, you are getting too old to ROCK !
Joined: Jul 2011 Gender: Male Posts: 2,952 Location: North Carolina, U.S.A.
Re: Gerald's Blog « Reply #10 on Jun 19, 2012, 12:08pm »
June 17, 2012 Other Entries....May 28th, June 5th The Bostock Diaries
GB TAKES TO THE ROAD! Part 3
Latest news from the lyric writer of the original "Thick as a Brick"
Well, back to Blighty and the festivities of the Queenly sort. Big three days of public holiday as Royalists and Republicans alike shared in the national Jubilee celebrations and were, for a moment, proud to be British. All went off with formal aplomb and raucous street charm in equal measure.
Reflecting on the last fortnight, I think that my first trip as tour manager went rather well, on the whole. Sights to see, things to learn and new friends a-plenty.
Tom Lynch, for instance, is decent man. Ruddy, full of bluster but a contemplative, solitary figure on occasion.
I think that's what I rather like about these people: they all have the ability to be gregarious and supportive for several hours in the working day and then surrender to that innate sense of just when to turn off and seek the privacy so necessary to good mental and spiritual health. Whether sloping off to the dark and sometimes dirty seclusion of dressing room, the hastily erected private space of a quiet backstage corner or even back for a quiet spell in the tour bus.
Anderson, himself, is a master of this art. Seldom seen except during soundcheck and the actual concert, he remains in isolation in his dressing room – usually one as close to the stage as possible since there are instruments to carry back and forth. He ventures as far as catering to peruse the humble offerings of the local caterers and choose a tasty morsel for his solitary delight back at his hotel room after the show. He doesn't eat before the show as all the others do and so returns to dressing room alone. Dinner time is usually sharp at 18.00 hours - every talks here in military time – and as soon as soundcheck is over, the catering room is full within a few minutes. Sometimes with local crew too who sit in self-imposed segregation and are occasionally noisy, rude and behave like starved gannets gorging on a bucket of sardines.
There are usually some vegetarian options but they are either left untouched or, strangely, consumed quickly by the one or two veggie-eaters amongst the ensemble. Anderson has been known to express annoyance when the vegetarian option has vanished before he arrives on the scene. He eats meat sometimes but typically opts for fish and/or veg. Apparently, in days gone by, there were three or four strict vegetarians in the band or crew and they would recoil at the generous portions of heavy red meats and could be quite testy if meats were found to have contaminated the vegetables with a carelessly shared serving spoon. Understandable, perhaps but the occasional cause of impure thoughts and words.
The engaging young Ryan O'Donnell is finding his feat, both on and off stage, and settling in nicely. The audience seem to really like him and he has the theatrical skills to carry off a difficult task. Somewhere between acolyte and anderson's younger self, he manages the trick of being his own man while mimicking the ancient master and taking on the odd vocal line or prancing step. He has some set pieces to sing on his own while Anderson plays the flute motifs and interludes and they trade story-line character in other parts. It certainly brings alive the parts of the arrangements of the original Thick album impossible to recreate without the extra stage presence of the new boy.
There was a definite mood-swing towards more relaxed and confident performance in the two short weeks I was tagging along with them. Having safely got the first UK tour behind them with its inevitable shaking-down period of technical and artistic evolution, there is now an odd mixture of comforting routine in the air which seem to allow (I don't entirely understand these musicianly processes) for the more improvisational elements to shine and develop. A few little changes to the show are added each day or two and the detail sparkles.
I await the call to arms from someone on high – maybe Mr A himself – to announce the requirement or otherwise of my services for the next bout of touring. I am not, it seems, needed for the brief appearance in Italy this week when they are doing a festival TV appearance. But Iceland sounds fascinating. Never been there before so it might be a real treat. And then on to the Montreux Jazz Festival and some shows in the Czech Rep. And Austria.
The concert promoters usually provide a local tour manager or minder for the band and a technical Production Manager to work with the IA crew but having the savvy GB along might just smooth things further given my abundance of tact, oily charm and the wily stealth of the seasoned campaigner who needs to get things done and done NOW!
I wonder if I shall be asked to procure a tart or some evil-smelling drugs? Or gruesome porn for the tour bus? Apparently, these sorts of duties are not entirely uncommon for Rock Band Tour Managers but so far, no luck, in my case.... Maybe there will be surprises just around the corner but I fear that, if there are, they will be to organise a museum trip or entrance to a lofty medieval cathedral. Some rumour even went the rounds last week suggesting a fishing trip in Iceland. What next? A dominoes championship? Embroidery classes? Whale-watching? A visit to the Puffin Appreciation Society Annual Lunch Barbecue in Reykjavik? What ever happened to Rock and Roll? Eat whale meat, I say! Stab a dominoes opponent with an embroidery needle. Punch the lights out on a puffin.
But then, what can you expect from the quaint culture surrounding a tights-wearing old man who plays a flute in a Rock band?
Hey, ho. Better get the laundry done and take the wife out to a Sunday pub lunch. The Dirty Duck has a new supplier of fresh farmed donkey and it is exceedingly lean, succulent and truly scrumptious, 'tis said. The old bag will probably have the prawn cocktail as usual and after dithering for an hour choose the sirloin steak steak, well done, with a little English mustard on the side. B****cks.
Joined: Jul 2011 Gender: Male Posts: 2,952 Location: North Carolina, U.S.A.
Re: Gerald's Blog « Reply #16 on Jul 11, 2012, 8:02pm »
July 10, 2012 Previous Entries May 28th/ June 5th / June 17th The Bostock Diaries
GB TAKES TO THE ROAD! Part 4 - To Iceland
Latest news from the lyric writer of the original "Thick as a Brick" note: previous posting was missing two pages. Gerald getting senile
Iceland was rather splendid. A full three nights to enjoy the land of midnight sun. The weather - far from the much-touted promise of rain, wind and misery - turned out nice again. As George Formby used to say. Sun shone most of the time - even out of Mr A's arse - and there were only one or two showers which stopped as quickly as they began.
Anderson has been there before, of course. This was his 7th Icelandic concert, so I was told just before the first of two shows in the shiny new concert hall by the harbour in Reykjavik, only completed in the last few months. A proper Classical venue in a glass-covered structure, it is a fine example of modern construction technique allied to traditional interior materials and acoustic values. A teensy bit lively for raucous rock music perhaps but I'll bet the local orchestra love it.
Might go there again sometime with the old bag and absorb some serious kulcha. And even a few rays, if we get lucky. I might arrange a whale watching trip and see if whales can be persuaded to tastier morsels than plankton and krill. Thigh of bag or a rump fat wifely fillet, perhaps? Hell they can just have the whole thing if I can tip her over the side without anyone watching. Cripes - better be careful. She might read this, although computers and media technology are not her forte. A wheelbarrow, long-handled Dutch hoe and olive green gardening gloves don't chime well with the subtle delights of Facebook and YouTube.
The shows went quite well from where I sat although Mr A is never satisfied and always feels he can do better. Technical issues bother him the most. But luckily, all the audio-visual bits seemed to run on cue, after a few nervous moments at soundcheck.
I took to the 101 district of town with the "Jazz Trio" - Messrs. Goodier, O'Hara and Hammond, who tend to gravitate towards the delights of coffee houses, museums and art galleries. We sat in a few funky coffee places where local musicians often entertain in the evenings, pretending not to notice the local Icelandic lassies in their short summer dresses exposing pale moonlit knees and ankles quite unused to the long hours of June sun. They pretended (much more convincingly) not to notice us either. Made a damn good job of it, in fact.
Mr A went off with with wife and bairn to the West of the island to visit a glacier and shoot a few minutes of video for Icelandic Television who will broadcast the concert later with some interviews and other material.
Local promoter Daniel Birgisson was a nice young man with earnest expression and a good line in dry wit and cutting humour. His small team had taken care of everything and it was easy to see that band and crew were more relaxed knowing that business had been taken care of and things ran like clockwork.
The food was a touch different to the Dirty Duck and whale was indeed on the menu as was puffin - the local avian symbol wildlife to be found in all the local gift shops. The Icelandic Horse was a close second in tourist tat terms but not to be found on the restaurant menu, sadly. Hardly prime cut of donkey, I would think, but might have been interesting. I stuck with the whitefish and the lamb for the most part downed with an expensive Icelandic beer. We met up with the crew at "the Angry Puffin" a greasy watering hole near the German Pub where FO was busy with some rather fruity language lesson to a bemused blonde waitress who had probably never been closer to Berlin than the Icelandair check-in counter at Keflavik....
There were a couple of Indian restaurants in town and Anderson chomped on a specially-provided take-away midnight snack back at his hotel room after the show. I should know. I was sent out to get it from the Shalimar in the show intermission. The Shalimar is actually proudly Pakistan rather than India in cuisine and some spineless locals tend to shy away as its reputation for the fierce and fiery rivals the geothermic activity which abounds in this beautiful Northern Isle.
We Brits apparently invaded Iceland in 1940 to combat German initiatives in the North Atlantic but after initial formal protest, a nod and wink seemed to herald acquiescence on the part of the government of the day who issued the edict to the natives to offer no resistance and to treat the invaders as honoured guests. Better the next-door neighbours than the Hun, they rightly thought. So we (The Brits) settled in as an occupying force but passed our territorial conquest on the to American cousins pretty damn quick as the costs and demands of the expeditionary force were too great in the mounting and difficult days of early WW11. The Yanks, of course, stayed until the bitter end a few short years ago when the last few F-15s took off for the flight home to heroes' return and decommissioning. And so, the longstanding US military presence, so redolent of 40 years of cold war hostilities, finally drew to a close in 2006.
After the economic meltdown in 2008, when the three big Icelandic banks went bust, precipitating - at least in part - the collapse of the house of cards the fat-cat bankers built, Anderson and his pals went out to do a couple of charity concerts in aid of Icelandic families who had been made homeless as the mortgage crisis ensued and also for disadvantaged Icelandic children, in conjunction with Icelandair. He wisely involved some local artists as guests in the concerts and played with them performing their own songs.
Fishing, Aluminium processing and tourism are the three main money-spinners. Go there when you can. Go there while you can as one of the most violent volcanoes and seismic areas threatens to blow its top faster than you can say "Yellowstone". Last time it did so was over two hundred years ago and it is said to have caused the deaths of 23,000 poor folk in the UK alone with the resultant plume of ash-fall and pollution. It has, of course, yet another unpronounceable name. A few short hours from North America and Europe, Iceland straddles the N. American and Eurasian tectonic plates. Very evident in the thrusting little country bravely surfacing above the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. Icelandair, Iceland Express and a few other airlines can whisk you there in the blink of a puffin's eye.
The self-professed "smallest watchmaker in the world", The JS Watch Co., has a little shop in the main drag where, in a tiny workshop, Gilbert O Gudjonnson lovingly assembles a range of Icelandic watches designed by the four-man JS Watch team from parts and movements manufactured specially for them by Swiss and German suppliers. His latest creation is the the Sif N.A.R.T. Icelandic Coastguard model, as supplied to that elite force of intrepid air and boatmen. Anderson wears a JS Watch as do other notables, including director Quentin Tarantino, the Dalai Lama, Elvis Costello and, the now most punctual, Yoko Ono. Visit their website at http://www.jswatch.com for the low-down. Tell 'em I sent you. Gilbert might make you a cup of coffee.
Iceland has an ancient language of Old Norse. Just like that spoken by the Viking hordes who settled a thousand years ago. So don't try to pronounce local towns, streets, mountains, or public facilities unless you have swallowed some Novocaine. Toungue twisted beyond recognition and in throes of terminal spasm might well result. The toilets in the airport have a name like "Snyrtingar" or some such. Anderson took himself off for a quick "squirt in the snyrt" as he loudly announced, before the flight home. At least we all finally learned some bloody Icelandic.....
I write this from the heady hills and woodlands of the Czech Republic, having just landed from Switzerland after three days in Montreux for the Jazz-fest. Another marvellous place, Montreux, and popular with the Anderson family, band and crew.
We play in a Czech castle tomorrow night and apparently Anderson's dressing room is in the tower. Lock the bugger up, I say. The key is a whopper. But knowing Mr A, he will probably just invite everyone up for a bondage party after the show. Maybe Berlusconi is flying in for a triple B event. (Bondage, Brick and Bunga.)
Over and Out. GB signing off. Kisses and soupy dribbles, you rascals.
PS
Send a copy of the Guardian if you get the chance. Or even the Daily Mail. But only for the crossword.
GB TAKES TO THE ROAD! Part 5 - Czech Castle and Spain
Latest news from the lyric writer of the original "Thick as a Brick"
The Czech castle concert was, in fact, not in the castle itself, but set on a grassy plain under the castle on the opposite bank of the river. Loket Castle. Nice little town. Very little town. You could toss a Latvian lap-dancer down the full length of Main Street. Explored the town in 5 minutes flat and spent a quiet moment in the church. Thinking about lunch.
Then on to Austria and another castle - this time IN the castle - at Kufstein. Proper 1-metre-thick castle walls, high over the city and with the dressing rooms actually the gun turrets. And cold and clammy they were too. Glad I am not an 18th century gunner. Freeze the cannonballs off a Feldzeugmeister.....
No Ryan on these shows so Mr A was singing all the parts and I missed my favourite flute lines in Childhood Heroes section of TAAB1. But you can't have everything.
A few more Austrian shows followed then back home for one night and a brief moaning session with the Old Bag. Apparently, someone left the garden gate open while I was away and Drew-boy Lancome's cattle got in and ate the contents of the vegetable garden. At least now it won't be bloody runner beans every Friday, Saturday and Sunday for the next 47 weeks.
And so, to Spain with Ryan back on the rooming list. At least you can get an honest Indian in the Costas. Brit ex-pats and senile grand-dads pushing baby buggies down the pedestrian tourist zone have nurtured the many Indian restaurants to open their doors. Not, actually up to much in terms of sub-continental cuisine but at least an alternative to pseudo-Italian pizzerias and touristy tapas bars.
We landed at Murcia's airport, San Javier, with most of a day and a long night to kill in the suburbs of that town before the first show at the so-called Jazz Festival. Some band and crew headed off for the longish walk to the beach but I didn't as I had to finish the next batch of tour itineraries before a quick stroll down the road for lunch and a quick poke around in the local food supermarket for water and snacks. Prices pretty reasonable, in fact, with Spain in deep recession and not exactly bustling with tourists. Pleasant enough. Reminds me of the first holiday with the Old Bag when we danced the night away and lingered long in each others' arms after cool, fruity chilled drinks in the verandah bar of the Hotel Ponce Matador in Costa Del What's-it. Before I saw the light. Don't know what came over me. Or her.
Organised some tickets and passes for Anderson's old pal, Christopher Riley - originally pink Strat-playing rhythm guitarist of Johnny Breeze And The Atlantics - a Blackpool band who played at the youth clubs and bars around the time of Anderson's original musical beat group venture, The Blades, back in 1966.
The Blades were soon to become The John Evan Smash, when C. Riley joined as guitarist briefly and helped form the band's early departure from the local pop scene into Blues and Jazz. Mr Riley is now officially retired and has lived in Spain for the last 15 years, recently taking up the flute, as he told me. Came across this splendid historical site listing the various bands, clubs, agents etc of the Northern Music scene of the early 60s.
After few more hot and blistering Spanish dates, we got home to Blighty after two nights of very little sleep due to early morning travel starts after very late shows. Had to help organise the Spanish fan club people for after-shows but they were all very well behaved and easy-going. Some "meet-and-greets" as they are known in the trade, are truly frightening. Pushy, grabbing, middle-aged old tossers trying to get their entire record collection signed and then moaning worse than the old bag when, on the strict orders of the Hitlerian Mr A, I restrict them to only one autograph each (plus photo - if they can remember how to work their cameras...). Pushy, grabbing, middle-aged old tossers should be restricted to House Of Commons where they belong. I should know; I was one of them. Or, perhaps, the wine and drinks section of the Clutterbury branch of Waitrose.
Two nights now to recuperate at home again. Then off to not-so-sunny Luxembourg. Yes - another castle.....
Have to plan a quick holiday sojourn in the first two weeks of August when the band and crew take the official Summer break. Escape Lord Bloody Coe and his Bloody self-serving Olympic Bloody Games. Arrogant glory-seeking son-of-a-sweaty-trainer. AND ex-CONSERVATIVE politico wanna-be. Don't get me started... Anyway - it could be back to Iceland. But the Old Bag would complain about the weather, the food, the volcanoes, the Puffins - anything else that doesn't take her immediate fancy. Whales will have to go without a meaty treat. Maybe Bognor Regis again? Or a caravan in Wales? NOT the Costa-del-what's-it, that's for sure. The Hotel Ponce Matador has probably been pulled down by now and turned into high-rise condos. Called the Ponce Matador Condominium and Spa Complex, no doubt. With gymnasium and Latvian masseuse inviting a quick dip in the whirlpool Jac-off-cuzzi. Sorry about that. Coarse and unforgivable. Excuse. Don't know what came over me. Or her...
Over and Out. GB signing off. Kisses and tidbit tapas, you rascals.
After few more hot and blistering Spanish dates, we got home to Blighty after two nights of very little sleep due to early morning travel starts after very late shows. Had to help organise the Spanish fan club people for after-shows but they were all very well behaved and easy-going. Some "meet-and-greets" as they are known in the trade, are truly frightening. Pushy, grabbing, middle-aged old tossers trying to get their entire record collection signed and then moaning worse than the old bag when, on the strict orders of the Hitlerian Mr A, I restrict them to only one autograph each (plus photo - if they can remember how to work their cameras...). Pushy, grabbing, middle-aged old tossers should be restricted to House Of Commons where they belong. I should know; I was one of them. Or, perhaps, the wine and drinks section of the Clutterbury branch of Waitrose.
I got two autographs despite the advices thrown by the giant who goes everywhere with the band and also performs the funny prostate sequence. Ian might have recongised me as Janu from the Tull Board. LOL.
The other signed by Ian one was already posted by me at the San Javier thread.
This one I've displayed here holds some other emotive autographs I'll comment later on.
pd. The Spanish Tapas are far better than the Indian menus. Prices in Spain still are reasonable until September I reckon
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Thanks for the heads up Paul. 
Thanks to Gerald (Ian) for taking the time to keep us up to date and entertained. 
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Love the blog as well. ![[image]](http://i229.photobucket.com/albums/ee281/januca/001-1.jpg "[image]")
