JACK JONES
TOUR DIARIES
first published in Phacemag June 2018
Jack Jones has toured a lot! With his own band Trampolene but also with Peter Doherty. He recently mentioned to me that he has kept tour diaries for years! After sweet talking him Jack agreed to let me publish a few of the said diaries in Phacemag. Beautifully written they capture the events as good as any camera, although the montage above looks great as well.
The first one see’s our hero Jack Jones on tour in Scandinavia with Peter Doherty, i’m assured Peter is ok with the diary being published so thank you Peter 🙏 Ok here you go, enjoy the trip - Best pauliepaul
The first one see’s our hero Jack Jones on tour in Scandinavia with Peter Doherty, i’m assured Peter is ok with the diary being published so thank you Peter 🙏 Ok here you go, enjoy the trip - Best pauliepaul
JACK’S SCANDINAVIAN DIARY
Tuesday 13th March
Norway, Oslo - Sentrum Scen
Thanks to some Lewis Hamilton style driving by Mr Benny, unbelievably we make our flight to Norway. And when I say Lewis Hamilton, I don’t mean coasting at a girly 90mph in a mini bus down the autoroute (motorway), I mean seriously flying 140 miles per hour in a mini bus down the fast lane - nothing but French tarmac, car-shaped blurs and dust behind us.
First things first: we get off the plane. Peter tells me I look too conspicuous and that I’m drawing attention to us. I look at him and realise he’s wearing an eye-catching hat and a girl’s jacket. I say “Have you seen what you look like mate?” We queue to buy some sausage sandwiches. Someone recognises Peter and asks for an autograph. He obliges, and also does a little tapdance and nearly falls over. He’s always going an extra mile to make his fans happy.
We jump in a cab to the venue. The landscape outside is covered with snow and enormous hanging icicles. In the headlights of the car they look like frozen waterfalls. It’s not something you see everyday. Unless of course you live in Norway…I guess.
In the car we practice talking in slow-motion. But after 10 minutes we realise it takes too long to have a simple conversation. So we changed the subject to Norwegian hat kicking, which quickly became the theme of the tour. When Peter first mentioned it, I thought it was a joke, but no, it is a real thing – Norwegians do a funny dance in traditional clobber and then kick a hat off an unusually high object. Peter decides that tonight’s show will have its own hat kicking contest.
At the venue it’s amazing to see the ice and snow piled up on the side of the streets like enormous helpings of ice cream. The venue is stunningly beautiful. It looks like an old cinema and in the restaurant downstairs they’re playing “Hamburg Demonstrations”.
A few fans have already stared to queue up. Miggles and I say hello to lovely Helen and Sabrina. What would a show be without them?
Tonight I am supporting. I haven’t prepared anything. So naturally my show turns into a one man stand up / acoustic / poetry set. The audience is really supportive and welcoming and make me feel at home. I thank them for listening. I tell them I will see them later for my guitar playing duties with Peter. As I’m leaving I see a girl in the crowd and she beckons me over and asks me to sign her breasts, both of them. I’m only human so of course I say yes. It was the one of the strangest things thats ever happened to me and I think I may have finally started puberty. Double thank you.
Backstage we are all playing hockey as Miki arrives from LA with presents for all of us. Rafa gets a Star wars T-shirt. I get a Jurassic Park shirt. Miggles and Peter both get NASA T-shirts. Katia gets a cool one too – but I cant remember what was on it, sorry. Tonight’s gig attire is sorted.
We get on stage and everything feels electrifying. The chemistry of the band and the songs are melting together like the cold Norwegian ice outside. The show is all going to plan. Peter speaks to the crowd about Norwegian hat kicking, and they go mad. A Norwegian hat kicker enters the stage with a pint of beer which he spills over the stage - chaos as ever. Everyone goes crazy as the hat kicker reaches the highest high and sends the hat flying. Unsurprisingly Peter then turns to me and says – “it’s your turn now” and puts the hat even higher. So I try a Zlatan Ibrahimovic style bicycle kick and although I don’t quite look as graceful as the super Swede, I somehow manage to send the hat flying. After looking at photo evidence after the show (see montage) I look more like a swan being shot, than Zlatan. And inevitably, my jeans split in half.
We finish the set to much applause. And we have our photos taken by the lovely Cristina Massei, and a famous Norwegian video director and photographer called Stian Andersson. The rest of the night is played out in a neighbouring karaoke bar. Peter, the promoter, Ruby, the band and a handful of fans sing - Blur, Pulp and EMF until our lungs give in. Roll on Denmark.
Thursday 15th March
Denmark, Aarhus - Train
The bus waits for what seems like forever outside the venue in Oslo. For some reason, we are not leaving for Denmark until 3pm the following afternoon. In theory should give us the morning to wander around Oslo, but everyone has been up all night and walking is the last thing on people’s minds. I still try, but I instantly fall over on the ice. My footwear is made for Camden, not Norway. Thankfully no one sees me.
Finally the bus sets off on what seems to be the longest drive ever - from Norway to Denmark via Sweden. The scenery takes my mind off the journey. The sun is setting over huge frozen lakes. In the night, there’s just enough wi-fi to watch Ricky Gervais in ‘Humanity’ on Netflix. I thought it was funny.
As we arrive at the ferry, everyone is quietly dozing. But another random regulation states,’ You can’t stay on the bus when it’s parked on a ferry, you must come out onto the ferry itself...’
Everyone wakes up and leaves the bus apart from Peter, who is fast asleep.
We think nothing of it and go upstairs. But this bus driver isn’t one to be messed with and calls security. He thinks there is a fire on the bus - probably due to the amount of smoke or something. So ten minutes later Peter is escorted from the bus by the ferry security. So far so normal.
Peter decides to vent his frustration outside on the deck by playing a gig to the bar crew, in an effort to keep the bar open. I’m playing the guitar but my hands and fingers are frozen. Then Peter decides to drink a few quadruple brandies. I can report that he is human after all, as he ends up extremely drunk. When we get back onto the bus, Peter sings some impromptu new songs to the bus driver. These include “You are a grass’” and “There are two Peters on the bus (Bus driver is Peter as well) – one is a bit daft and a bit silly, but the other one is a complete and total c****”. Twenty minutes later Peter is asleep in the cupboard and I am cleaning up piss from the bus driver’s door.
Finally we arrive in Denmark. I get off the bus and am greeted by the coldest blistering Baltic wind it’s possible to feel. Jai and I quickly jump in a taxi and head to John Hassall’s house for a coffee. John has lived in Denmark for a while now. To see him in his home was sweet. He makes a great cup of coffee and we play acoustic songs on the guitar. His children run around like free mad spirits looking for chocolate, which of course they find, while Jon’s wife, Line, shows me around the house. She’s going to do some poems later.
John, Jai and I head back to the venue, where things are already hotting up. I go in the shower, but the shower is freezing. I decide my grease and bus dirt will have to help me stay warm for tonight’s show. I run on and do a short stint, just two songs and a poem. I am astonished how attentive and appreciative the crowd is. It really knocks me out. Thank you, everyone.
Next on is John Hassall and The April Rainers who play brilliantly. Line introduces “Peter and his Puta Madres” to the stage. Tonight it feels like we are on fire again. I see Helen at the front of the crowd with a happy face, so it must be a good gig. The songs interweave with each other seamlessly and the crowd cheers for more. So we play more.
We celebrate back in the dressing room with champagne, pile-ons and a tickling contest. Unfortunately I’m on the bottom squashed the most. I feel like one of those two dimensional cartoons on Tom and Jerry. Hopefully tomorrow I’ll return to my normal shape. Meanwhile, Sweden, here we come.
Friday 16th March
Sweden 1, Stockholm - Vasateatern
We arrive in Stockholm and everyone is exhausted from what feel like countless sleepless nights on the bus. But there’s no time to rest because tonight’s another sold out show. We check into the hotel then head straight to the venue for sound check.
We’ve been practicing The Libertines legendary unreleased song “Hooligans on E”. I wonder if it will make the set tonight. With Peter, you never know what the set is gonna be. I remember one show we did in Amsterdam where the first four songs Peter played were completely new. No-one apart from him had heard them…not the crowd…not the band…that’s the charm of Peter I suppose. Anyway, the show is fast approaching and it feels like we’ve barely taken a breath.
I only have time for one song and one poem tonight. I play ‘Tonght Will Be Fine,’ as a way of trying to convince myself that tonight actually will be fine. Then I recite ‘Ketamine.’ I see lovely familiar faces at the front of the stage and a TRAMPOLENE T-shirt. Thank You Very Much.
Oh Yes, I forgot to say that our bloody guitars got lost AGAIN on the flight to Norway. So every gig so far I’ve been playing with a spare, which was sort of fine. But it still isn’t mine. But the ever reliable Andy Newlove surprised me with my own guitar before the show. I felt more joy than a kid at Christmas. I wouldn’t be anywhere or go anywhere without my Fender Argos.
John Hassall plays a beautiful acoustic set. Then it’s time for Peter & The Puta Madres to hit the stage. It’s a chaotic show, darting off in all sorts of different directions…fans shouting out songs and Peter playing them. I just stand there and admire the songs (‘Arcadia,’ ‘Liverpool Docks’ And Something else…). Backstage I’m on the phone to Wayne when Peter takes the phone off me and disappears. I wonder if I’ll ever see my phone again. But I do. Apparently he had a lovely chat with Wayne about art and paintings and stuff. All very thrilling I’m sure.
The show ends, but the show never really ends with Peter. So the show starts back up again at the hotel. Loads of fans are having the most personal show they could wish for. Peter plays and plays and plays. All night until the security guards kick everyone out.
I give Peter and Miggles and Katia and Rafa and Miki and John Hasall a hug and head to bed to practice a Buddhist mantra that John taught me. Sorry John, but I’m still waiting to be enlightened. Soon I’ll get it.
First things first: we get off the plane. Peter tells me I look too conspicuous and that I’m drawing attention to us. I look at him and realise he’s wearing an eye-catching hat and a girl’s jacket. I say “Have you seen what you look like mate?” We queue to buy some sausage sandwiches. Someone recognises Peter and asks for an autograph. He obliges, and also does a little tapdance and nearly falls over. He’s always going an extra mile to make his fans happy.
We jump in a cab to the venue. The landscape outside is covered with snow and enormous hanging icicles. In the headlights of the car they look like frozen waterfalls. It’s not something you see everyday. Unless of course you live in Norway…I guess.
In the car we practice talking in slow-motion. But after 10 minutes we realise it takes too long to have a simple conversation. So we changed the subject to Norwegian hat kicking, which quickly became the theme of the tour. When Peter first mentioned it, I thought it was a joke, but no, it is a real thing – Norwegians do a funny dance in traditional clobber and then kick a hat off an unusually high object. Peter decides that tonight’s show will have its own hat kicking contest.
At the venue it’s amazing to see the ice and snow piled up on the side of the streets like enormous helpings of ice cream. The venue is stunningly beautiful. It looks like an old cinema and in the restaurant downstairs they’re playing “Hamburg Demonstrations”.
A few fans have already stared to queue up. Miggles and I say hello to lovely Helen and Sabrina. What would a show be without them?
Tonight I am supporting. I haven’t prepared anything. So naturally my show turns into a one man stand up / acoustic / poetry set. The audience is really supportive and welcoming and make me feel at home. I thank them for listening. I tell them I will see them later for my guitar playing duties with Peter. As I’m leaving I see a girl in the crowd and she beckons me over and asks me to sign her breasts, both of them. I’m only human so of course I say yes. It was the one of the strangest things thats ever happened to me and I think I may have finally started puberty. Double thank you.
Backstage we are all playing hockey as Miki arrives from LA with presents for all of us. Rafa gets a Star wars T-shirt. I get a Jurassic Park shirt. Miggles and Peter both get NASA T-shirts. Katia gets a cool one too – but I cant remember what was on it, sorry. Tonight’s gig attire is sorted.
We get on stage and everything feels electrifying. The chemistry of the band and the songs are melting together like the cold Norwegian ice outside. The show is all going to plan. Peter speaks to the crowd about Norwegian hat kicking, and they go mad. A Norwegian hat kicker enters the stage with a pint of beer which he spills over the stage - chaos as ever. Everyone goes crazy as the hat kicker reaches the highest high and sends the hat flying. Unsurprisingly Peter then turns to me and says – “it’s your turn now” and puts the hat even higher. So I try a Zlatan Ibrahimovic style bicycle kick and although I don’t quite look as graceful as the super Swede, I somehow manage to send the hat flying. After looking at photo evidence after the show (see montage) I look more like a swan being shot, than Zlatan. And inevitably, my jeans split in half.
We finish the set to much applause. And we have our photos taken by the lovely Cristina Massei, and a famous Norwegian video director and photographer called Stian Andersson. The rest of the night is played out in a neighbouring karaoke bar. Peter, the promoter, Ruby, the band and a handful of fans sing - Blur, Pulp and EMF until our lungs give in. Roll on Denmark.
Thursday 15th March
Denmark, Aarhus - Train
The bus waits for what seems like forever outside the venue in Oslo. For some reason, we are not leaving for Denmark until 3pm the following afternoon. In theory should give us the morning to wander around Oslo, but everyone has been up all night and walking is the last thing on people’s minds. I still try, but I instantly fall over on the ice. My footwear is made for Camden, not Norway. Thankfully no one sees me.
Finally the bus sets off on what seems to be the longest drive ever - from Norway to Denmark via Sweden. The scenery takes my mind off the journey. The sun is setting over huge frozen lakes. In the night, there’s just enough wi-fi to watch Ricky Gervais in ‘Humanity’ on Netflix. I thought it was funny.
As we arrive at the ferry, everyone is quietly dozing. But another random regulation states,’ You can’t stay on the bus when it’s parked on a ferry, you must come out onto the ferry itself...’
Everyone wakes up and leaves the bus apart from Peter, who is fast asleep.
We think nothing of it and go upstairs. But this bus driver isn’t one to be messed with and calls security. He thinks there is a fire on the bus - probably due to the amount of smoke or something. So ten minutes later Peter is escorted from the bus by the ferry security. So far so normal.
Peter decides to vent his frustration outside on the deck by playing a gig to the bar crew, in an effort to keep the bar open. I’m playing the guitar but my hands and fingers are frozen. Then Peter decides to drink a few quadruple brandies. I can report that he is human after all, as he ends up extremely drunk. When we get back onto the bus, Peter sings some impromptu new songs to the bus driver. These include “You are a grass’” and “There are two Peters on the bus (Bus driver is Peter as well) – one is a bit daft and a bit silly, but the other one is a complete and total c****”. Twenty minutes later Peter is asleep in the cupboard and I am cleaning up piss from the bus driver’s door.
Finally we arrive in Denmark. I get off the bus and am greeted by the coldest blistering Baltic wind it’s possible to feel. Jai and I quickly jump in a taxi and head to John Hassall’s house for a coffee. John has lived in Denmark for a while now. To see him in his home was sweet. He makes a great cup of coffee and we play acoustic songs on the guitar. His children run around like free mad spirits looking for chocolate, which of course they find, while Jon’s wife, Line, shows me around the house. She’s going to do some poems later.
John, Jai and I head back to the venue, where things are already hotting up. I go in the shower, but the shower is freezing. I decide my grease and bus dirt will have to help me stay warm for tonight’s show. I run on and do a short stint, just two songs and a poem. I am astonished how attentive and appreciative the crowd is. It really knocks me out. Thank you, everyone.
Next on is John Hassall and The April Rainers who play brilliantly. Line introduces “Peter and his Puta Madres” to the stage. Tonight it feels like we are on fire again. I see Helen at the front of the crowd with a happy face, so it must be a good gig. The songs interweave with each other seamlessly and the crowd cheers for more. So we play more.
We celebrate back in the dressing room with champagne, pile-ons and a tickling contest. Unfortunately I’m on the bottom squashed the most. I feel like one of those two dimensional cartoons on Tom and Jerry. Hopefully tomorrow I’ll return to my normal shape. Meanwhile, Sweden, here we come.
Friday 16th March
Sweden 1, Stockholm - Vasateatern
We arrive in Stockholm and everyone is exhausted from what feel like countless sleepless nights on the bus. But there’s no time to rest because tonight’s another sold out show. We check into the hotel then head straight to the venue for sound check.
We’ve been practicing The Libertines legendary unreleased song “Hooligans on E”. I wonder if it will make the set tonight. With Peter, you never know what the set is gonna be. I remember one show we did in Amsterdam where the first four songs Peter played were completely new. No-one apart from him had heard them…not the crowd…not the band…that’s the charm of Peter I suppose. Anyway, the show is fast approaching and it feels like we’ve barely taken a breath.
I only have time for one song and one poem tonight. I play ‘Tonght Will Be Fine,’ as a way of trying to convince myself that tonight actually will be fine. Then I recite ‘Ketamine.’ I see lovely familiar faces at the front of the stage and a TRAMPOLENE T-shirt. Thank You Very Much.
Oh Yes, I forgot to say that our bloody guitars got lost AGAIN on the flight to Norway. So every gig so far I’ve been playing with a spare, which was sort of fine. But it still isn’t mine. But the ever reliable Andy Newlove surprised me with my own guitar before the show. I felt more joy than a kid at Christmas. I wouldn’t be anywhere or go anywhere without my Fender Argos.
John Hassall plays a beautiful acoustic set. Then it’s time for Peter & The Puta Madres to hit the stage. It’s a chaotic show, darting off in all sorts of different directions…fans shouting out songs and Peter playing them. I just stand there and admire the songs (‘Arcadia,’ ‘Liverpool Docks’ And Something else…). Backstage I’m on the phone to Wayne when Peter takes the phone off me and disappears. I wonder if I’ll ever see my phone again. But I do. Apparently he had a lovely chat with Wayne about art and paintings and stuff. All very thrilling I’m sure.
The show ends, but the show never really ends with Peter. So the show starts back up again at the hotel. Loads of fans are having the most personal show they could wish for. Peter plays and plays and plays. All night until the security guards kick everyone out.
I give Peter and Miggles and Katia and Rafa and Miki and John Hasall a hug and head to bed to practice a Buddhist mantra that John taught me. Sorry John, but I’m still waiting to be enlightened. Soon I’ll get it.
Saturday 17th March
Sweden 2, Stockholm - Vasateatern
After a good nights sleep I feel a whole world better. Bloody hell.... sleep is the best thing god or science or humans ever invented. I’m all prepared for the day. I get dressed, brush my teeth and decide to go and have a wander around Stockholm. But I don’t have any socks, which is shite as my shoes smell worse than a Turkish wrestlers jockstrap. Fuck It, I’ll go out without socks, even though it’s freezing.
I see the usual lovable suspects outside the venue. Music lovers queuing up in the Arctic cold. They are the true heroes. I patiently explain my sock dilemma and sure enough a new pair appears. I’m a lucky boy.
My walk takes me right into the old town. I see something called “Wayne’s coffee” so I take a selfie and send it to Wayne. Always thinking of him. I see gothic style buildings and some sort of Palace and I go and buy myself a cheap Swedish jumper on my maxed-out card as I’m freezing my tits off. It’s very cold round this way.
Soon enough it’s venue time. I’ve given my support slot up tonight to a bunch of lads who’ve come from Gothenburg. They play and sound nice. I think they were called Pretty Gathering (but that could be wrong). Peter walks into the venue wearing a brilliant pink suit and a sticker on his forehead saying “Peter”. I already know tonight is gonna be a great show.
Our pre show meal arrives - a lovely pasta thing, I consume mine in three-seconds flat, then Andy Newlove (who is gluten intolerant) runs into the dressing room screaming about how they put bread all over his food. We all laugh sympathetically. But I do feel sorry for Andy, It’s not easy having a fucked up stomach, which is something I know a bit about. Everywhere we go, no matter what he says to the waiter or chef or anyone, they always fuck his food up. Which turns him gluten maximus mad! But it’s in good taste. Haha, do you see what I did there.
The show starts and everything goes perfectly. It maybe the most perfect Puta Madres show there has ever been. All the ghosts and spirits inside the venue were somehow on our side. For once in his life Peter sticks to the set-list and it flies like a free bird in a pink suit.
It goes so well we want to play forever. In fact we try to play forever, but eventually the venue turn off the PA – although even that doesn’t stop us. Eventually we bow and salute the perfect crowd and head back stage for hugs and champagne. I see Jai (Peter’s beloved friend and manager) and he’s smiling from ear to ear. I know this has been a great show and I know this has been a great tour. And I can’t wait to do it again.
Before we leave there is still time for Rafa to get in a fight of course (and knock out) a dodgy dude hanging out trying to steal everyone’s phones and money. With that, Rafa becomes the Superman and Saviour of the people, although, we knew that already, didn’t we?
Love you as ever
Jack Jones
xXx
Sweden 2, Stockholm - Vasateatern
After a good nights sleep I feel a whole world better. Bloody hell.... sleep is the best thing god or science or humans ever invented. I’m all prepared for the day. I get dressed, brush my teeth and decide to go and have a wander around Stockholm. But I don’t have any socks, which is shite as my shoes smell worse than a Turkish wrestlers jockstrap. Fuck It, I’ll go out without socks, even though it’s freezing.
I see the usual lovable suspects outside the venue. Music lovers queuing up in the Arctic cold. They are the true heroes. I patiently explain my sock dilemma and sure enough a new pair appears. I’m a lucky boy.
My walk takes me right into the old town. I see something called “Wayne’s coffee” so I take a selfie and send it to Wayne. Always thinking of him. I see gothic style buildings and some sort of Palace and I go and buy myself a cheap Swedish jumper on my maxed-out card as I’m freezing my tits off. It’s very cold round this way.
Soon enough it’s venue time. I’ve given my support slot up tonight to a bunch of lads who’ve come from Gothenburg. They play and sound nice. I think they were called Pretty Gathering (but that could be wrong). Peter walks into the venue wearing a brilliant pink suit and a sticker on his forehead saying “Peter”. I already know tonight is gonna be a great show.
Our pre show meal arrives - a lovely pasta thing, I consume mine in three-seconds flat, then Andy Newlove (who is gluten intolerant) runs into the dressing room screaming about how they put bread all over his food. We all laugh sympathetically. But I do feel sorry for Andy, It’s not easy having a fucked up stomach, which is something I know a bit about. Everywhere we go, no matter what he says to the waiter or chef or anyone, they always fuck his food up. Which turns him gluten maximus mad! But it’s in good taste. Haha, do you see what I did there.
The show starts and everything goes perfectly. It maybe the most perfect Puta Madres show there has ever been. All the ghosts and spirits inside the venue were somehow on our side. For once in his life Peter sticks to the set-list and it flies like a free bird in a pink suit.
It goes so well we want to play forever. In fact we try to play forever, but eventually the venue turn off the PA – although even that doesn’t stop us. Eventually we bow and salute the perfect crowd and head back stage for hugs and champagne. I see Jai (Peter’s beloved friend and manager) and he’s smiling from ear to ear. I know this has been a great show and I know this has been a great tour. And I can’t wait to do it again.
Before we leave there is still time for Rafa to get in a fight of course (and knock out) a dodgy dude hanging out trying to steal everyone’s phones and money. With that, Rafa becomes the Superman and Saviour of the people, although, we knew that already, didn’t we?
Love you as ever
Jack Jones
xXx
Trampolene
BELGIUM 9TH & 10TH FEBRUARY
Van / Boat / Car / Hospital / Police
GENT, Belgium
New Year/New Tour
GENT, Belgium
New Year/New Tour
We are on the way to beautiful and snowy Gent, for what will be the first Trampolene shows of 2018. The bus is full of New Year banter, crisps, other rubbish but tasty food, and several acoustic guitars. We are catching up and falling down and everything in between. Plans, dreams, nightmares - what we didn't have for breakfast - all the important stuff.
We get half way to the ferry, when Rob says casually "Jack have you got your passport?” I think "Oh fuck". I brought my camera, my laptop, my guitars, my clothes and my good luck charms...but not my passport...and Wayne forgot his phone too, which for him is indispensable …So Captain Gary performs a handbrake uturn back to London…Cock up number 1 of 2018. It wasn’t long coming. Hardly off the North Circular.
Back on track…On the ferry, and a veggie curry later (I have to mention the curry as I begged the cashier, Paul, to let me have some extras and he said yes - as long as I mention it in my tour diary..so there we are, Paul...I'm a man of my word…Me and Wayne murdered the hell out of the curry...Thank you). Driving through France, the skies were clear and blue. But as we arrive in Belgium everything turned dark, and snow covered the roads. It was quite stunning in lots of ways. Perfect people. Perfect Place.
We arrive outside the venue, De Kleine Kunst, for tonights show. We are met by Margarita. She jumps in the van and gives us her very own handmade Polish cookies. They’re lush. I've eaten ten before I take a breath. Wayne eats even more and describes them as "Bourbons without the cream bit” So there you are - just incase you're wondering what a polish cookie taste like, you now know.
We load in and meet the lovely owners who give us cocktails and nachos! I mean you can't really beat that for an introduction. Yes, cocktails. We devour them of course and share them with friends as they arrive. We see Charlene, Ditte (who I swap coats with and I end up with a grey fake fur coat…see pimp photo) and they have brought a friend..whose name I've forgotten, but she was very cool. We see Beau and his GF and Amiee and Ann and Mike and soon this pretty place with pretty lampshades is pretty rammed.
It’s time to play.
Everyone is up for a bit of Rock and Roll tonight. The smiles are there to see. We play and play. Before long I'm picking up plant pots and chucking soil everywhere and climbing all over the bar. My pedals are covered in mud. Wayne is lost in the drum kit. Rob is just laughing. Now, Lee Thomas, Wayne’s younger brother has popped up and is playing guitar. It all finishes with me doing an acoustic version of ‘Fuck Forever' and I hope everyone is happy. Apart from the plant pot, which I dropped and broke of course.
After the show Amiee took us to a club where people were smoking inside, like true rebels. A few bands were playing. It was cool - but not as cool as Aimee's dog who came a long for the ride. Playing fetch with a clubfull of drunken rockers doesn't sound fun to me, but each to their own....
We get half way to the ferry, when Rob says casually "Jack have you got your passport?” I think "Oh fuck". I brought my camera, my laptop, my guitars, my clothes and my good luck charms...but not my passport...and Wayne forgot his phone too, which for him is indispensable …So Captain Gary performs a handbrake uturn back to London…Cock up number 1 of 2018. It wasn’t long coming. Hardly off the North Circular.
Back on track…On the ferry, and a veggie curry later (I have to mention the curry as I begged the cashier, Paul, to let me have some extras and he said yes - as long as I mention it in my tour diary..so there we are, Paul...I'm a man of my word…Me and Wayne murdered the hell out of the curry...Thank you). Driving through France, the skies were clear and blue. But as we arrive in Belgium everything turned dark, and snow covered the roads. It was quite stunning in lots of ways. Perfect people. Perfect Place.
We arrive outside the venue, De Kleine Kunst, for tonights show. We are met by Margarita. She jumps in the van and gives us her very own handmade Polish cookies. They’re lush. I've eaten ten before I take a breath. Wayne eats even more and describes them as "Bourbons without the cream bit” So there you are - just incase you're wondering what a polish cookie taste like, you now know.
We load in and meet the lovely owners who give us cocktails and nachos! I mean you can't really beat that for an introduction. Yes, cocktails. We devour them of course and share them with friends as they arrive. We see Charlene, Ditte (who I swap coats with and I end up with a grey fake fur coat…see pimp photo) and they have brought a friend..whose name I've forgotten, but she was very cool. We see Beau and his GF and Amiee and Ann and Mike and soon this pretty place with pretty lampshades is pretty rammed.
It’s time to play.
Everyone is up for a bit of Rock and Roll tonight. The smiles are there to see. We play and play. Before long I'm picking up plant pots and chucking soil everywhere and climbing all over the bar. My pedals are covered in mud. Wayne is lost in the drum kit. Rob is just laughing. Now, Lee Thomas, Wayne’s younger brother has popped up and is playing guitar. It all finishes with me doing an acoustic version of ‘Fuck Forever' and I hope everyone is happy. Apart from the plant pot, which I dropped and broke of course.
After the show Amiee took us to a club where people were smoking inside, like true rebels. A few bands were playing. It was cool - but not as cool as Aimee's dog who came a long for the ride. Playing fetch with a clubfull of drunken rockers doesn't sound fun to me, but each to their own....
BRUGES
It's Pancakes for breakfast. Then the lovely and wonderful Ann drives Wayne, Lee, Aimee and me to Bruges. Ann has a cool tattoo behind her ear and is singing 90's classics, Backstreet Boys and Nsync while driving at 100mph. We all fall in love with Ann a little.
She drops us off and her tyres screech as she screams off. We meet the gang for Pizza in the hostel. We plan our day out in Bruges! Everyone is sampling the local 10% Belgium beer- fully immersing themselves in the cool Belgian culture by getting drunk.
We walk around the main square. I’m quite blown away by how perfect and beautiful Bruges is. I know Colin Farrell didn't like it in the film ‘In Bruges’ But I think it's alright...Nice brickwork everywhere. My old Swansea bricklayer mate Deri would be most impressed. We have chips and some waffles and go to all the places where they shot the film. We are in a dream.
Ken: “That there is place called the Gruuthuse Museum.”
Ray: “They all have funny names, don't they?”
Ken: “Yes, Flemish. In here it says, 'The Belgian’s twice sheltered fugitive English Kings from being murdered, 1471 and 1651.”
Ray: “I used to hate history, didn't you? It's all just a load of stuff that's already happened.”
We head back to the venue ‘Entrenous’. Beau is already there lining up what he calls "Suicide Shots”. This involves...get this...sniffing a line of salt...squirting lemon juice in your eye and slamming a shot of tequila. And I thought (coming from Wales) I knew all the drinking games there was to play. How wrong was I? That’s Belgian culture for you.
It's about now we arrive at the reason we are in Belgium. The serious part of the night.
For anyone who doesn’t know, we came to Bruges to play a show for a lovely boy and Trampolene fan called Hendrick. I had the pleasure of meeting him at the Forum when I was playing guitar for Peter (Doherty). He really was a good looking young lad with what seemed like the world at his feet.
He had charm and kindness and charisma. But tragically he died in a horrible accident in the river running around Bruges. It's only since then I have got to know his family, his father Mike, Mum Veronique, his step Mum and the whole family. The way they have dealt the tragedy is really awe-inspiring. Organising shows and donations to charities in his name and going to gigs to live through him.
It's emotional to see them and tonight I hope we put on a show to do everyone proud.
It starts with Hendrick’s family joining me onstage for a version of ‘To Be Libertine’ and the next thing we know the show is in full swig and I’m playing in the crowd and Mike is passing everyone drinks and the atmosphere is full love and appreciation.
We play ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ and Hendricks’ grandma (I think) takes over lead vocals and everyone is moshing around - including Ditte and Margarita who flew over from Germany and Denmark for both shows...respect...I hope we did The Hendricks family justice. I for one will always remember Hendricks as a beautiful boy and a true Libertine. RIP.
Outside, after the show, we get a bit emotional with the group hug. We take a tumble and Gary lands on the back of his head on the cobbled pavement. An ambulance takes him to the hospital for 7 staples on the crown of his head and brain scans. Despite his brain apparently poking out of his skull, he tells the paramedics "I'm fine, let me go. I have to drive the bus in the morning" ... and of course, he did.
The ferry home is quite eventful. Police were involved - not my finest hour. A joke that backfired. But no-one was too badly injured. But thats another story.
Looking forward to where 2018 takes us.
Love you as ever
Jack
xXx
She drops us off and her tyres screech as she screams off. We meet the gang for Pizza in the hostel. We plan our day out in Bruges! Everyone is sampling the local 10% Belgium beer- fully immersing themselves in the cool Belgian culture by getting drunk.
We walk around the main square. I’m quite blown away by how perfect and beautiful Bruges is. I know Colin Farrell didn't like it in the film ‘In Bruges’ But I think it's alright...Nice brickwork everywhere. My old Swansea bricklayer mate Deri would be most impressed. We have chips and some waffles and go to all the places where they shot the film. We are in a dream.
Ken: “That there is place called the Gruuthuse Museum.”
Ray: “They all have funny names, don't they?”
Ken: “Yes, Flemish. In here it says, 'The Belgian’s twice sheltered fugitive English Kings from being murdered, 1471 and 1651.”
Ray: “I used to hate history, didn't you? It's all just a load of stuff that's already happened.”
We head back to the venue ‘Entrenous’. Beau is already there lining up what he calls "Suicide Shots”. This involves...get this...sniffing a line of salt...squirting lemon juice in your eye and slamming a shot of tequila. And I thought (coming from Wales) I knew all the drinking games there was to play. How wrong was I? That’s Belgian culture for you.
It's about now we arrive at the reason we are in Belgium. The serious part of the night.
For anyone who doesn’t know, we came to Bruges to play a show for a lovely boy and Trampolene fan called Hendrick. I had the pleasure of meeting him at the Forum when I was playing guitar for Peter (Doherty). He really was a good looking young lad with what seemed like the world at his feet.
He had charm and kindness and charisma. But tragically he died in a horrible accident in the river running around Bruges. It's only since then I have got to know his family, his father Mike, Mum Veronique, his step Mum and the whole family. The way they have dealt the tragedy is really awe-inspiring. Organising shows and donations to charities in his name and going to gigs to live through him.
It's emotional to see them and tonight I hope we put on a show to do everyone proud.
It starts with Hendrick’s family joining me onstage for a version of ‘To Be Libertine’ and the next thing we know the show is in full swig and I’m playing in the crowd and Mike is passing everyone drinks and the atmosphere is full love and appreciation.
We play ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ and Hendricks’ grandma (I think) takes over lead vocals and everyone is moshing around - including Ditte and Margarita who flew over from Germany and Denmark for both shows...respect...I hope we did The Hendricks family justice. I for one will always remember Hendricks as a beautiful boy and a true Libertine. RIP.
Outside, after the show, we get a bit emotional with the group hug. We take a tumble and Gary lands on the back of his head on the cobbled pavement. An ambulance takes him to the hospital for 7 staples on the crown of his head and brain scans. Despite his brain apparently poking out of his skull, he tells the paramedics "I'm fine, let me go. I have to drive the bus in the morning" ... and of course, he did.
The ferry home is quite eventful. Police were involved - not my finest hour. A joke that backfired. But no-one was too badly injured. But thats another story.
Looking forward to where 2018 takes us.
Love you as ever
Jack
xXx
Normandy Peters Birthday
Rehearsals…dogs…birthday celebrations…night swimming…pub lunches…bracing walks…surprise show
Friday 9th - Monday 12th Marc
Friday 9th - Monday 12th Marc
I’ve just been on a two-hour flight (Berlin - Paris) and a three-hour car drive (Paris - Normandy). My neck, my legs, my head, my everywhere is stiff. But as I rub my eyes and shake off the blues, I realise I have arrived at one of the most beautiful places in the world. It’s the family home of our very own piano playing princess Katia. This is where Peter and his Puta Madres will rehearse before the much anticipated (by us anyway) Scandinavian tour.
Rafa is singing ‘Nothing Compares To You” into my ear. On one level, this is obviously distressing. But then I have a private moment realising how much I’ve missed this mad Spanish cat. I walk through the gates of the house overlooking the sea. The first thing I see is a bashed up Jaguar parked across Katia’s family’s radish patch. I recognise Peter’s unmistakable parking skills. I smile.
I look out at the white cliffs, rocks and trees in front of me and I’m reminded of a painting by Monet…then uncannily enough I find out this is where Monet sometimes actually worked and what I’m looking at is exactly what he painted. Fair play, it was a very good likeness.
Rafa and I jump into the practice room. This has been set up by the ever reliable crew - Andy Newlove and Benny. We start playing and laughing, and everything clicks back into our memory like riding a bike, as if our last show finished yesterday.
We are playing ‘I Don’t Love Anyone’ as the door bursts open, and Peter comes crashing in. He’s a formal dresser normally, but today he is sporting a Fila track suit jacket. I say I like it so he immediately takes off and gives to me. I bloody love it and wear it for the whole tour…before, inevitably, I then lose it in scenes of madness. An impromptu rehearsal ensues. Everything sounds better than I remember. Everyone sounds fresh and looks rested. Yeah - The Puta Madres are alive and kicking.
A mild panic soon ensues as we hear that Peter’s beloved huskies “Narco” and “Zeus” have escaped. Last time Zeus was found by the police halfway to Paris. Anyway, Rafa whistles with his fingers and the pair come running back. Rafa has a strange connection with these dogs which I cannot be explained.
We decide to walk the dogs down into town, along the sea front, with the mountains haunting and beautiful in the foreground. They look like wild Wolves running free, quite beautiful, quite France - Thinking of France I see Miggles walking ahead with a cigarette. His denim jacket is ripped. He’s a cool French dude.
Soon enough we find ourselves at the only Pub in the whole town. Within a minute of entering, we’ve booked ourselves a gig. We’re sampling the local Rum punch and having a right old Jolly French time.
We get back to the house where there’s a power cut and everywhere is lit by candles. Peter plays guitar long into the night surrounded by candles. I watch for a while and am reminded of Nirvana Unplugged. I sit next to him. He carries on playing and I fall asleep. Tomorrow we have a gig. It’s also, I forgot to say, Peter’s Birthday. It’s going to be a long memorable day I am sure. Although some bits may well become unmemorable.
I don’t want to wake up, but I turn over and stir my eyes. My window is open. It’s freezing. I wanted the beautiful French scenery to seep into my mind as I slept. The fresh air is peacefully drifting in from the sea. It’s so quiet. It’s so Beautiful. Maybe this is heaven? Then Peter breaks into my room shouting, in his own inimitable style, “Bum The Welsh boy!”- tickling me and pulling off my duvet. If I wasn’t awake I certainly am now. Welcome to the rock and roll world.
Its Peter’s birthday, so naturally I got him an old school A3 typewriter. I think he likes it. Katia has got him a whole hatful of brilliant amazing presents. We say he’s 21 and never been kissed. He smiles.
We head out to a restaurant for a liquid lunch with the dogs. The champagne is flowing, cigarettes are being chain smoked and the dogs are being treated to whatever they want. Peter’s birthday is going very well, and completely as per plan.
We arrive back on the house to find an incredible spread of food laid on by the neighbours. Jams, pancakes, soups, couscous, lamb, muesli, bread, eggs, olives. Everything you could imagine, but no birthday cake. We eat and laugh and spread joy round the table.
The night burns on. We play a brilliant secret gig in ‘Le Yard Pub’ to twenty French fishermen. I think it might go down in folklore. Not only because it was a great show, but also because Peter’s dogs were watching and every few minutes let off horrendous dog farts. Every 5 mins a tray of rum punch or whiskey would arrive and quite rapidly everyone started to enjoy the quaint ways of this French life.
The next part of the night gets quite cloudy for me. I’m pretty sure Peter and I ended up going swimming, which isn’t a good idea because neither of us can swim and the water is bloody freezing. We both survived, just, and walk home singing songs with our fellow Puta Madres about QPR and our love of life. I fall asleep on the sofa. Peter on the kitchen table. Rafa woke us, and dried us off and sent us to bed. When Rafa is the responsible one you know it’s been a heavy night. I should get a tattoo saying I survived Pete Doherty’s Birthday.
Jai, Peter’s beloved manager arrives the next evening. Everything feels like its back in the right place. We watch a bit of the new Trampolene documentary and a couple of films. We practice again. We play ‘Ride Into The Sun’ as the sun fades behind The Channel. Life is good here. I feel Lucky. Scandinavia awaits…
Love as ever
Jack Jones
xXx
Rafa is singing ‘Nothing Compares To You” into my ear. On one level, this is obviously distressing. But then I have a private moment realising how much I’ve missed this mad Spanish cat. I walk through the gates of the house overlooking the sea. The first thing I see is a bashed up Jaguar parked across Katia’s family’s radish patch. I recognise Peter’s unmistakable parking skills. I smile.
I look out at the white cliffs, rocks and trees in front of me and I’m reminded of a painting by Monet…then uncannily enough I find out this is where Monet sometimes actually worked and what I’m looking at is exactly what he painted. Fair play, it was a very good likeness.
Rafa and I jump into the practice room. This has been set up by the ever reliable crew - Andy Newlove and Benny. We start playing and laughing, and everything clicks back into our memory like riding a bike, as if our last show finished yesterday.
We are playing ‘I Don’t Love Anyone’ as the door bursts open, and Peter comes crashing in. He’s a formal dresser normally, but today he is sporting a Fila track suit jacket. I say I like it so he immediately takes off and gives to me. I bloody love it and wear it for the whole tour…before, inevitably, I then lose it in scenes of madness. An impromptu rehearsal ensues. Everything sounds better than I remember. Everyone sounds fresh and looks rested. Yeah - The Puta Madres are alive and kicking.
A mild panic soon ensues as we hear that Peter’s beloved huskies “Narco” and “Zeus” have escaped. Last time Zeus was found by the police halfway to Paris. Anyway, Rafa whistles with his fingers and the pair come running back. Rafa has a strange connection with these dogs which I cannot be explained.
We decide to walk the dogs down into town, along the sea front, with the mountains haunting and beautiful in the foreground. They look like wild Wolves running free, quite beautiful, quite France - Thinking of France I see Miggles walking ahead with a cigarette. His denim jacket is ripped. He’s a cool French dude.
Soon enough we find ourselves at the only Pub in the whole town. Within a minute of entering, we’ve booked ourselves a gig. We’re sampling the local Rum punch and having a right old Jolly French time.
We get back to the house where there’s a power cut and everywhere is lit by candles. Peter plays guitar long into the night surrounded by candles. I watch for a while and am reminded of Nirvana Unplugged. I sit next to him. He carries on playing and I fall asleep. Tomorrow we have a gig. It’s also, I forgot to say, Peter’s Birthday. It’s going to be a long memorable day I am sure. Although some bits may well become unmemorable.
I don’t want to wake up, but I turn over and stir my eyes. My window is open. It’s freezing. I wanted the beautiful French scenery to seep into my mind as I slept. The fresh air is peacefully drifting in from the sea. It’s so quiet. It’s so Beautiful. Maybe this is heaven? Then Peter breaks into my room shouting, in his own inimitable style, “Bum The Welsh boy!”- tickling me and pulling off my duvet. If I wasn’t awake I certainly am now. Welcome to the rock and roll world.
Its Peter’s birthday, so naturally I got him an old school A3 typewriter. I think he likes it. Katia has got him a whole hatful of brilliant amazing presents. We say he’s 21 and never been kissed. He smiles.
We head out to a restaurant for a liquid lunch with the dogs. The champagne is flowing, cigarettes are being chain smoked and the dogs are being treated to whatever they want. Peter’s birthday is going very well, and completely as per plan.
We arrive back on the house to find an incredible spread of food laid on by the neighbours. Jams, pancakes, soups, couscous, lamb, muesli, bread, eggs, olives. Everything you could imagine, but no birthday cake. We eat and laugh and spread joy round the table.
The night burns on. We play a brilliant secret gig in ‘Le Yard Pub’ to twenty French fishermen. I think it might go down in folklore. Not only because it was a great show, but also because Peter’s dogs were watching and every few minutes let off horrendous dog farts. Every 5 mins a tray of rum punch or whiskey would arrive and quite rapidly everyone started to enjoy the quaint ways of this French life.
The next part of the night gets quite cloudy for me. I’m pretty sure Peter and I ended up going swimming, which isn’t a good idea because neither of us can swim and the water is bloody freezing. We both survived, just, and walk home singing songs with our fellow Puta Madres about QPR and our love of life. I fall asleep on the sofa. Peter on the kitchen table. Rafa woke us, and dried us off and sent us to bed. When Rafa is the responsible one you know it’s been a heavy night. I should get a tattoo saying I survived Pete Doherty’s Birthday.
Jai, Peter’s beloved manager arrives the next evening. Everything feels like its back in the right place. We watch a bit of the new Trampolene documentary and a couple of films. We practice again. We play ‘Ride Into The Sun’ as the sun fades behind The Channel. Life is good here. I feel Lucky. Scandinavia awaits…
Love as ever
Jack Jones
xXx
Peter Doherty & Puta Madres
Manchester 7th December
"Now they know how many holes it takes to fill The Albert Hall" : Lennon...
It’s late. It’s dark. It’s raining. It's Manchester. We are bowling up the M1 towards the Northern Powerhouse. The twists and bumps in the road have become familiar to me. I can feel the rubber tear at the tarmac as I rest my head on the window.
We arrive in Manchester at 6:30am. We check into the Britannia hotel. We’re just in time for breakfast. Peter wanders over and helps himself to bacon and sausages with his bare hands. Food, especially of the stodgy sort, helps the hangover.
I check into my room and see it’s a smoking room – I didn’t realise smoking rooms still existed. The carpets smell of smoke and there’s a tiny astray on the side table. Pity I don’t smoke. Otherwise I could take full advantage of this nicotine dream.
We only get a few hours rest before soundcheck is called and the music begins. On the way to the venue I stop at an Oasis photo exhibition. Photos by a lady called Jill Furmanovsky. The access she had was amazing. The picture that stays with me most is one of Noel peeping out at the crowd (without them knowing) at Man City’s stadium in Maine Road. He seems as in awe of the fans as they are of him.
I’m feeling just a little bit inspired and play ‘Bring it on Down’ in my support slot tonight. I follow this with another of Manchester’s greats The Smiths - ‘Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want’...What a song.
The crew - Andy, Iain and Brucie along with Miki & Drew get up with me and perform an epic version of ‘Alcohol Kiss.’ I make eye contact with a few new friends in the crowd. I do love this town and these people.
They make leaving the stage hard to do, but I will be back on again shortly.
It’s getting close to show time and Peter is anxious about the show. It's a surprise to see this from someone who has headlined festivals and played humungous shows all over the world – but I think it shows how much he cares and what a full-body experience he goes through for every show.
Peter starts this one on his own doing some acoustic songs. We walk on halfway through a stadium singalong of ‘Albion.’ The crowd is so loud I can barely hear my guitar. This venue is one of the best in the country. It feels like it might have been built especially for Peter - the lighting below the seats, the huge organ - it feels spiritual.
We blast through the set. But as I play the intro to ‘Fuck Forever’ our time is up. The plug has been pulled! But that does not stop the crowd. They sing & shout every lyric to the song. All the way through. It’s so loud and choir-like it raises the hairs the back of my neck. Peter is also taken aback.
Suddenly I see Drew dive off the front of the stage into the crowd. They catch him and then he disappears. Next it’s Rafa – the drummer with enough character to fill the Albert Hall himself. Then I look at Peter….we both smile… he starts to step back…so I run around and give him a push and a nod – next thing he dives off the front of the stage and into a sea of arms all ready to embrace their hero.
He looks at me and waves his hand – so (of course) I jump. After surfing around for a bit Peter and I are flat on the floor of the Albert Hall with hundreds of voices screaming and shouting and telling Peter how much they love him.
We’re maybe moments away from being crushed and he says “nice and cosy down here” and I say “Yeah, maybe we should have a nap” we laugh and he puts my head on his chest and starts to sing “silent night holy night….” The seconds of peace are disturbed as we are yanked out unceremoniously by our ankles by Security. Everyone takes a bow and we leave…
A few minutes later I realise we can’t find Rafa! In fact we don’t see him for about two days and when he does return he’s lost his trainers and his t-shirt. All in the name of Rock and Roll.
As we go to leave in the car, there is some noise in the back and we discover that some fans have stowed away in the boot. Peter gives an impromptu acoustic set before they politely get kicked out.
Back in the Hotel I’m in Peter’s room and reading his latest work. It’s a brilliant little fictional story which involves The Puta Madres and Rafa as a wild man. I hope he’ll publish it one day.
Outside now, and the sky is black. But there are no stars shining tonight. It doesn’t matter. I'm a bit star-struck with Manchester, the show, the crowd and I'm hoping my shiny spirit is reflecting on Manchester's wet pavements for everyone to enjoy.
Love as ever
Jack (bedroom guitar hero) Jones
Bed-time-tour-diary
xXx
We arrive in Manchester at 6:30am. We check into the Britannia hotel. We’re just in time for breakfast. Peter wanders over and helps himself to bacon and sausages with his bare hands. Food, especially of the stodgy sort, helps the hangover.
I check into my room and see it’s a smoking room – I didn’t realise smoking rooms still existed. The carpets smell of smoke and there’s a tiny astray on the side table. Pity I don’t smoke. Otherwise I could take full advantage of this nicotine dream.
We only get a few hours rest before soundcheck is called and the music begins. On the way to the venue I stop at an Oasis photo exhibition. Photos by a lady called Jill Furmanovsky. The access she had was amazing. The picture that stays with me most is one of Noel peeping out at the crowd (without them knowing) at Man City’s stadium in Maine Road. He seems as in awe of the fans as they are of him.
I’m feeling just a little bit inspired and play ‘Bring it on Down’ in my support slot tonight. I follow this with another of Manchester’s greats The Smiths - ‘Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want’...What a song.
The crew - Andy, Iain and Brucie along with Miki & Drew get up with me and perform an epic version of ‘Alcohol Kiss.’ I make eye contact with a few new friends in the crowd. I do love this town and these people.
They make leaving the stage hard to do, but I will be back on again shortly.
It’s getting close to show time and Peter is anxious about the show. It's a surprise to see this from someone who has headlined festivals and played humungous shows all over the world – but I think it shows how much he cares and what a full-body experience he goes through for every show.
Peter starts this one on his own doing some acoustic songs. We walk on halfway through a stadium singalong of ‘Albion.’ The crowd is so loud I can barely hear my guitar. This venue is one of the best in the country. It feels like it might have been built especially for Peter - the lighting below the seats, the huge organ - it feels spiritual.
We blast through the set. But as I play the intro to ‘Fuck Forever’ our time is up. The plug has been pulled! But that does not stop the crowd. They sing & shout every lyric to the song. All the way through. It’s so loud and choir-like it raises the hairs the back of my neck. Peter is also taken aback.
Suddenly I see Drew dive off the front of the stage into the crowd. They catch him and then he disappears. Next it’s Rafa – the drummer with enough character to fill the Albert Hall himself. Then I look at Peter….we both smile… he starts to step back…so I run around and give him a push and a nod – next thing he dives off the front of the stage and into a sea of arms all ready to embrace their hero.
He looks at me and waves his hand – so (of course) I jump. After surfing around for a bit Peter and I are flat on the floor of the Albert Hall with hundreds of voices screaming and shouting and telling Peter how much they love him.
We’re maybe moments away from being crushed and he says “nice and cosy down here” and I say “Yeah, maybe we should have a nap” we laugh and he puts my head on his chest and starts to sing “silent night holy night….” The seconds of peace are disturbed as we are yanked out unceremoniously by our ankles by Security. Everyone takes a bow and we leave…
A few minutes later I realise we can’t find Rafa! In fact we don’t see him for about two days and when he does return he’s lost his trainers and his t-shirt. All in the name of Rock and Roll.
As we go to leave in the car, there is some noise in the back and we discover that some fans have stowed away in the boot. Peter gives an impromptu acoustic set before they politely get kicked out.
Back in the Hotel I’m in Peter’s room and reading his latest work. It’s a brilliant little fictional story which involves The Puta Madres and Rafa as a wild man. I hope he’ll publish it one day.
Outside now, and the sky is black. But there are no stars shining tonight. It doesn’t matter. I'm a bit star-struck with Manchester, the show, the crowd and I'm hoping my shiny spirit is reflecting on Manchester's wet pavements for everyone to enjoy.
Love as ever
Jack (bedroom guitar hero) Jones
Bed-time-tour-diary
xXx
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