Grenoble, France (13)

“FROM GRENOBLE, IN THE FRENCH ALPS, WEIGHING THREE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY POUNDS………..ANDRE….THE….GIIIIIAAAAAAANT!”

This, due to an unhealthy obsession with the WWF as an early adolescent, is the only association I have ever been able to make with the town of Grenoble, in the French Alps. Thankfully, this is no longer the case. The next time somebody casually drops the word “Grenoble” into a conversation, I will be able to conjure up an image of a quarter-filled adult cinema, which is where we played tonight. Okay, so it wasn’t an adult cinema, but looking out into the audience, and seeing the dark shapes fidgeting in their seats while the more rabid gentlemen sat right up the front, one couldn’t help but feel like a tired and haggard pole dancer, as opposed to a tired and haggard musician. So this,




plus this



Are the two images I now associate with Grenoble, in the French Alps.

The day began with much promise. I drove into Grenoble with the Dimi Dero Inc. folk, as I’d been playing truant in Paris the day before with a friend, running through the Catacombes (The Bone Express) and plonking out on the grass in front of Sacre Coeur for most of the afternoon. When we arrived, we were immediately whisked away by the venue owners and promoter for dinner. During this dinner, I realised something a little disturbing: These dinners are starting to irritate me a little bit. Well, this particular day anyway. I was tired. I needed a shave, and a little lie-down before the show. I didn’t need conversation, nor fish covered in orange cream, a salad of raw shrimps and cantaloupe and of course, more fucking bread. But it is considered very disrespectful to decline the dinner in France, so having propped my eyelids up with toothpicks, I smiled and nodded through the meal, then when the time was right made my leaving sounds, checked into Hotel Splendid, found my room, collapsed on the bed, wondering, among a thousand other things, about the footy scores, had an argument with a friend back home via text message, slipped over in the shower and hit my head, but not hard enough, pulled disgusting, filthy shirt, after disgusting, filthy shirt, out of my suitcase, chose one to wear, and then headed back to the venue, to play for twenty five people. The atmosphere of this place, this anomalous place, was as electric as a balloon that had been rubbed on a kid’s head for two minutes. Dimi Dero Inc. played a fine opening set to all the flashers and lechers in the back rows of the theatre. Then we played (I think I will no longer describe actual performances unless something unusual occurs while on stage. Just assume that they are brilliant unless otherwise informed). And having just written that in brackets, something unusual occurred while we were playing. Just before beginning “Motherless Children”, the last song of the set, Mike suggested that we get the entire audience up on stage to dance, and they duly obliged, while I happily sat in a chair in the fourth row, playing along.

Whatever gets you through the night.\\


Gerona, Spain (14)



Departure time: 12.00 p.m.

Well, it was supposed to be anyway, except we were waiting in the car park a little while longer for a member of the entourage to show up. Turns out he felt like having a little lie-in, and woke up at twelve. Which is fine I guess, as long as the member isn’t the tour manager, or anything. Ahem. So, after a pretty passionate discussion about responsibilities and job descriptions (“Have you even DONE THIS BEFORE??”—“This is how I do it, man”----“But…do it?…Huh?....wha?”) The Partridge Family hop into the car and head south to Gerona, Spain, some six hours away. We probably should have left at ten thirty in reality, because we turned up very late. The staff at the venue seemed a little put out by our tardiness, but were willing to make some compromises. Then something strange occurred. At the behest of the late guy, we were made to cut our soundcheck down to twenty pointless minutes. While monitors were still sending jolts of feedback through our skulls, and while Ryan was still unpacking microphones, late guy was ordering an end to it, using throat-cutting gestures, and lots of wrist /foot-tapping. This bugged us all. A lot. Something had to be said. Something was said. Said loudly. Very loudly. Boy, was I loud (“AND DON’T YOU DARE TELL MIKE TO SHUT UP AGAIN!!!)*. The others came over after a couple of minutes, stepped over my shaking, foetally-positioned body, and offered the late guy a trip for one, back to from whence he came, with one hundred Euros spending money. Bizarrely enough, he refused to take the prize and wanted to play on for the cash. He’s a trouper, I’ll give him that.

(And just quietly, between you and me, reader, things have been a little better since. A little. Will it last? Of course not. Shut up.)

Tonight’s dinner was at The River Café. A modern brasserie/shrine to Bruce Springsteen, situated approximately 7.3 million km from the venue, near the New Jersey Turnpike. The owner was very fastidious when it came to making all things Springsteen related. Even the waitresses looked like “The Boss”. Our “Nebraska” era waitress, brought over our first course of “Corn in the U.SA”, followed by our mains of “Dancing in the Duck”. Everybody had a hungry heart that night, and ate with gusto. Towards the end of the meal, a dishwasher wearing a bandana, burst through the kitchen doors, screaming “I’m on fire!” From out of nowhere, a huge black guy wearing venetian-blind sunglasses came over and beat the flames out with a tenor saxophone.



Bravo.

And keeping with my policy of not describing actual performances unless something truly amazing, strange or even mildly interesting occurs, we shall load the van up, have a little kip, and head to…..


Perigeaux, France (15)

It may be worth mentioning at this point, that we are now three days into our ten-in-a-row stretch. When we began working on this tour back home we stipulated with the booking agent that we wanted one to two days off per week. Through experience, the band has learnt that these nights off are very helpful when it comes to maintaining it’s collective sanity. This request, along with a request for a van that is visible to other drivers on the road*, has been duly ignored by said booking agent. It is not advisable to play ten shows in a row, in any situation, but when you factor in seventy or so hours in a car, criss-crossing Europe like a massive fucking shoe-lace, eighty more decibels of noise a night than is healthy, a van that actually seems to shrink if you leave it out in the rain, and not enough time to sleep, it goes from being not advisable, to some of the worst advice going around. Hey, Gorka in Bilbao! Hey Booking agent! Hey you! Do you read this? Huh? We’re coming to Bilbao (as I write) in three days!! WE HAVE A COUPLE OF ISSUES!! ARE YOU COMING TO THE TABLE?? PLEASE COME TO THE TABLE!!




Pardon me.


So we’re late to soundcheck again, but this time it’s because the Spanish-speaking Global Positioning System in the car, wanted to visit his great grandmother in a remote village in the south of France.




After a tearful reunion between piece of hi-tech equipment, and confused old lady, the GPS finally leads us to our gig in Perigeaux, near Bordeaux. Soundcheck completed, we are lead to the dining room for the obligatory, long, sociable, lactic French meal. I don’t want to seem ungrateful. I really don’t. It’s just that after sitting in a car for five hours, then unloading half a ton of black boxes and soundchecking, all you really want to do sometimes is nothing, Sweet nothing. I think perhaps The Drones were a little unsubtle tonight about not wanting to hang around for dinner. As twenty or so staff and friends stood over on one side of the room, drinking their incredible wines and making happy French noises, there we were on the other side, using plates or bits of bread as pillows, or walking around the room trying to find wireless internet hotspots. Some guests of honour, we were. Our apologies, Valerie and staff. Finally Mike and I check into our room, our really weird room with no curtains or bathroom door, and catch half an hour of the Eurovision song contest. It was a jubilant feeling, knowing we were to visit several of these countries over the next few weeks, not needing to feel musically-intimidated by them in any way, shape or form. I’m not sure who won (apart from “songwriting”), as we had to leave before the end, but we took a lot of strength and inspiration along to the venue that night.

And we had a great show! Lots of people! Lots of cheering! Lots of thankgodforthatIthinkIwasgoingtotopmyselfifthiskeptups!!!!



Our very own Eurovision.

But this is only the third show of ten in a row. Will we maintain? Or will we implode in the van, covering the windows in blood, guts and half digested croissants?




Stay tuned folks, for more adventures through France, and our exciting and much anticipated boardroom meeting in Bilbao.

The guitar player.