Normandy
Rehearsals…dogs…birthday celebrations…night swimming…pub lunches…bracing walks…surprise show
Friday 9th - Monday 12th March
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
PS. To get a better idea of the rehearsal place, watch this video, ‘Étretat’, by Roger Sargent, filmed before I was a Puta Madres: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ENgUcPYr4MQ
Rehearsals…dogs…birthday celebrations…night swimming…pub lunches…bracing walks…surprise show
Friday 9th - Monday 12th March
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
PS. To get a better idea of the rehearsal place, watch this video, ‘Étretat’, by Roger Sargent, filmed before I was a Puta Madres: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ENgUcPYr4MQ