The Average White Blog

Chicago Bulletin for July 9th

2011-07-04T11:47:00.000-07:00

Due to unforeseen circumstances, AWB are unable to participate in the late show at Park West next Saturday, the

9th of July. It will instead be a Brian Culbertson 'special' involving local guest musicians and friends from his

Chicago days. Those wishing to see the full two-band package should get the few remaining tickets for the

first show - they are still available despite what anyone there has been saying this past week - and we look forward

to seeing you there for our annual Chicago visit and apologize for any confusion resulting from this change of plans.

Alan Gorrie, July4 2011

Cornell Dupree (Dec 19, 1942 - May 8, 2011)

2011-05-19T14:08:00.000-07:00

Some sad news regarding one of our heroes. Cornell Dupree passed away on May 8th 2011 at his home in Ft. Worth Texas.

Our condolences go out to Irma, his wife of over 50 years, his family, his friends and fellow musicians.

A quiet giant, he was dubbed the ultimate un-showoff, and whether you know it or not, you've heard him.

He played on literally thousands of recordings, most famously with Aretha Franklin (Respect), but also with countless others including Donny Hathaway, Roberta Flack, Bill Withers and Miles Davis.

As part of his hometown band The Kingpins he arrived at Atlantic Studios in New York to record with King Curtis and quickly joined the ranks as the "first call" guitar for the entire Atlantic stable.

A master of understatement, Cornell was never known to play any note that did not augment the song. Listen to his work on Brook Benton's "Rainy Night In Georgia" A study in pure taste; note by note he added a depth of emotion that made the song an instant classic.

We first heard Cornell's name on "Memphis Soul Stew" from the 1971 "Curtis Live at the Fillmore West" album and it blew our collective socks off, right on cue: We were just about to record three tracks (The Denmark Street Sessions) and he helped inspire us to take the leap and form the yet-to-be-named Average White Band.

Fast forward to our fifth album for Atlantic, "Warmer Communications." We were privileged to have Cornell as a guest on the James Taylor song "Daddy's All Gone." His solo and tasteful fills still stand as a shining example of pure class, (you can't fake that!).

The soul of the man shines through, revealing the true gentleman that he was.

Onnie McIntyre

Average White Band

New York, May 2011.

Tahoe Snow

2010-11-20T13:49:00.000-08:00

Have to notify you all that we were unable to get to Lake Tahoe for tonight's concert at the South Shore Room, Harrah's, due to massive snowfalls overnight in the passes leading to the region

from the south Bay Area. Please stay home, stay warm, and don't attempt to get there unless you're prepared to spend many, many hours in stopped traffic, have chains for your vehicle, and are hell- bent on skiing/skateboarding, and you DON'T plan to get out of there until next week!

Meanwhile, we will re-schedule this date for a more clement weather period next year, and look forward to that. I hope you're not too disappointed, and that you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving.

We had to find a little light relief at the prospect of being stuck for days in one of the high passes, and that our Thanksgiving dinner call would be "The Donner Party of eight - your table's ready."

Meanwhile, we're sorry to have to miss this much-anticipated gig, and we thank the folks at Harrah's for their understanding. This unexpected winter storm took us all by surprise.

Alan Gorrie, sat Nov. 20, 2010

GOODNIGHT, LONDON

2010-09-17T10:49:00.000-07:00

Following on from my recent exhortations to snap up the remaining tickets for the Ronnie Scott’s week, it appears you took heed and promptly did same, giving us an unqualified success and sold-out shows every night of what turned out to be a magic week in Soho. From what I could see and hear around me, the reaction was palpable and genuinely appreciative, and the comments relayed to us by staff and other in-house functionaries seemed to be glowing and generous, to say the least.

The band had a blast, and most of the sets exceeded our projected energy level – in no small part to the instant feedback of yourselves out there in the house – and our ability to reign in our normal concert show to such an intimate space without noticeable compromise musically or sonically was more than gratifying for us, too. It’s always rather daunting to gamble that our kind of noise will translate to a venue as venerable, and therefore as under-the-microscope as that, given our audience’s demanding nature. Our fellow musicians (and sometime critics) and the club itself must measure us against the legends that have graced that hallowed stage. It seems our fears were unfounded, but we weren’t half on a bit of ‘edge’ to begin with, until we settled in to the vibe of the place and the routine of rehearsals and nightly showtimes to hone our knives to surgical keenness for the upcoming rigours of the weekend’s double-show nights.

There were a few lighthearted moments, too; on Friday’s first show, we heard repeated squawks from a table off to the right, as a besotted (and well-lubricated) fan tried gallantly, but vainly, to interject garbled outburst of lyrics to Let’s Go Round Again between much of our set – rather like one of those motorway service station rubber toys that you can wind up & shake, and out comes a strangled Elton, Elvis or Frosty The Snowman. It gave us, and a few in the house a spot of light relief from our otherwise determined and deeply-committed set, but culminated in her getting on stage, grabbing Onnie’s mic., and proceeding to launch into a moment of spontaneous karaoke on said song. Fred, our ever-coiled ‘mossad’ security-saxophonist, leapt across, took the microphone away, and gently eased her exit from stage right with an implored, “Not now, MUM”, to the audience which gave a potentially difficult moment a light touch while we regrouped to perform the much-desired piece itself.

A standout memory from Wednesday night was the welcome reunion with old friend Jim Mullen who sat in for the end of the set with us, and played some spine-tingling guitar on Put It Where You Want It. Jim and I first met at the Blue Workshop, a mid-sixties ad hoc fortnightly jazz & blues gathering in my hometown of Perth (along with Molly Duncan & Roger Ball – later to become our ‘Dundee Horns’ – and a fledgling Robbie McIntosh, original lynchpin to the very idea of what became AWB), which saw us all delve into hitherto untried combinations of young and uninhibited ensembles, and an anything-goes approach to stuff that was mainly and patently way above our heads, but which resonated in our souls and gave us the necessary moxie to flee the coop for London one-by-one, and end up with lasting alliances and the ensuing kudos that has provided us all with a blessed existence at the heart of our, then, dreamed-of future.

Thanks again, Jim, for another magic moment for the annals, and for an obviously-thrilled house that went away with an extra story to tell. That’s what Ronnie’s is all about, as I said in my prior piece, and long may it continue to be so. Our thanks to the staff who worked their collective ass off throughout the week, ferrying vast oceans of expensive refreshments to packed houses without ever seeming to get in our sight-line or in our ‘zone’ during the quieter moments of the set. I think the exuberance of the somewhat-gruelling week physically (and mentally) for us was best defused in a moment of farce as we departed the club doorway for the final time at about 3am on Sunday morning, as a posse of Soho’s Finest beat cops were preparing to split up and end their weekend’s street vigil and patrol, right beside us. Their brisk move off coincided with young McIntyre bumbling down the steps to the pavement on his club exodus, his gig-clothes hanging-bag over his arm, whereupon one of the protruding coat hangers snagged the belt clip of one of the members of the constabulary as he strode off, trailing Onnie with him until the pair of them seemed to engage in a mutually-shocked surreal tango in mid Frith Street as each tried to extricate the other from their highly-unconventional entwinement. Had we all stopped howling with laughter, we might have considered the possible consequence of what must have seemed to the officer-in-question a likely attack on his personage, with who-knows-what results. Fortunately it provided a brilliant footnote to an extraordinary week of music and fun, and the ability for us to put to rest a sense that this had been a big missing piece in squaring the AWB circle back to where it all began for us – just two streets away, at the Marquee, in 1973.

As the lady would say in the Greek caff round the corner, “it was luvalee week, dahlin’, dunnit?”

Alan Gorrie, Sep.16, 2010

LONDON CALLING

2010-07-24T09:06:00.000-07:00

We are coming back to London, this time to the original home of world-class jazz and blues in the capital, Ronnie Scott’s, for our Soho debut. We’re booked to play the week of September 6 through 11 this summer, and the band is full of expectations and anticipation for the visit. The only previous (and unpaid) time we were on that famous stage was at a record-company do for the press launch of “Show Your Hand” in 1973, and all I can remember is a bloody hangover that lasted a week. This time, however, the gig will last a week - we will be more abstemious.

We’ve always eagerly looked forward to our many Jazz Café sojourns over the years, but there is an extra frisson of excitement to this particular pilgrimage, as it will complete a missing piece of the AWB jigsaw puzzle. Because it’s Ronnie’s, everyone is buzzing about how we can best perform as much of our musical history as possible in that week – everything we collectively love from the not-inconsiderable catalogue of hits (and misses - some of those are the best), and in which context to play them. We’re also hoping some of our muzo pals will join us through the week for spontaneous combustions and surprise guest appearances if they’re in town.

When we were mere musical ingénues and apprentices in the late Sixties and then early-Seventies London, if there was a spare fiver in the pocket, we would go to Ronnie’s to hear an Elvin Jones, Art Blakey, McCoy Tyner, a Return to Forever or even a ribald late set with “The Melly” – all for a quid with an M.U. membership – and still have the means to order a ‘Spag Bog’ for that night’s meal (and probably the next day’s too; these were tough times). Of course there was Ronnie Scott himself, along with Tubby Hayes, Pete King, the other Ronnie (Ross), Bill LeSage, Harold McNair, Alan Skidmore, all of whom on a good night could hold their own against any NY squad – recordings prove my point – and of course, Ronnie’s pithy and witty delivery introducing his peerless performers was some of the best stand-up in town. A shrine to an everlasting and continuing musical legacy, of which we’re proud to now be a part, set as it is against today’s backdrop of machine-driven and loony-looped ‘music-products’, where the pitch-rider is far more important than the pitcher.

Dinosaurs we may seem to be to some (who obviously don’t get about enough), but take a trip to BB Kings in NY City, The Birchmere in DC, or The Greek Theatre in L.A., and see what the music does to a hardened and consummately-educated ethnic audience and you will realize that this shit is timeless, irrespective of the newer names in our lineup or the ages of its protagonists (I seem to remember Blakey’s Jazz Messengers had an ever-changing name-call too, to their constant benefit). We can’t wait to stir the porridge and lay down some grooves in a few weeks. This should be an historic, and not-unemotional week for a band that flew in the face of dire warnings back in ‘72/’73 that it “couldn’t be done”. Once again, we will bloody-well do it.

If all of this reeks of hyperbole, then wear a mask and read on. I am not kidding when I say that this is undoubtedly the most committed and spirited version of AWB since the blood-rush of the original days, and that special six who took it past the winning-post first time around. A warning, though: there won’t be any tickets left after your hols. (in fact, as I write, only Mon – Wed. have many real seat choices left, and a mere sprinkling at the weekend), so get your dibs in now. It’s our sole UK event for this year, so please don’t miss a somewhat special premiere at Ronnie’s. See you all in Frith Street, Sep. 6,7,8,9 (one show each night) Sep.10, 11 (two shows each).

A.G.

EASTER/ WESTER

2007-04-05T09:54:00.000-07:00

No visit to a foreign country is ever without event or at least some excitement, especially when that country is one never visited by anyone in the band so far. Our journey to South Africa for the Cape Town Jazz Festival last week had all the anticipation and expectation of a football team heading for a big international World Cup match among quality participants, and a chance to shine at what is now one of the world’s premier jazz events. The stellar thing about this one, though, is that it is not totally dominated by US artists – even though jazz music is by birth an American adaptation of an African theme – but rather a gathering of European, American, Egyptian and other African & South African artists who gave a stunning array of sounds, cultures and accents to a jazz-themed assortment of musical wizardry.

From the Jack DeJonettes, the Joe Samples, the Jimmy Cobbs and the Randy Crawfords of the acclaimed US jazz stable, to the likes of northern Europeans Nils Landgren on ‘bone and female trumpet virtuoso Saskia Laroo with her mixing of jazz, hip hop and funk, then of course to the joyous harmonies and voices of the Mother Continent heard from Madala Kunene, a Zulu guitar master, pianist Themba Mkhize and of course Ladysmith Black Mambazo (South Africa’s ‘national treasure’ vocal group) who preceded us on the main stage last Friday, what a blast the whole thing was! Mpho Skeef and Esther Miller – two female jazz singers who are both by now well known in the UK where they live and ply their trade but both born in South Africa - added another element to the rainbow of entertainers on (and off) stage; then back again to the US-bred Tortured Soul, and Leela James, from the New York mixing bowl – Leela’s band featuring Israeli guitar genius Hanan Rubinstein just to keep the international elements stacking up. As they say in Scotland, it was ‘pure-dead-brilliant’, and you could claim we added a touch of THAT proud nationality, too!

I guess the only other jazz festival with such a world content nowadays would be Montreux, the Swiss establishment that Claud Nobs has been growing continuously since the late sixties, and it beggars belief that there is nowhere in the USA – the cradle of Jazz – that has anything to compare in size and diversity. Shouldn’t questions be asked in Congress or something, or does jazz now have all the importance that was bestowed on its birthplace New Orleans in its hour of need and indeed ever since? After all, Jazz is the true voice of America – the goodwill ambassador to the world, if you will, from a country that truly needs all the help it can get in restoring its light of affection around the globe where so many billions of people now rightly or wrongly mistrust its motives thanks to the abysmal forays of its current presidency into the cauldrons of anti-diplomacy, confrontation and global cultural ignorance or non-recognition.

Perhaps it’s time for a New Note, or just a blue note to once again be ‘The Voice’.

Mind you, if some enterprising soul in the mould of a George Wein (founder of the Newport Jazz Festival back in the sixties) were to pioneer such an extravaganza of musical colour, he would probably find that half the invitees from other continents would be inadmissible to continental US shores by today’s haphazard, scattershot and paranoid guidelines in the INS’s “who’s welcome” playbook, since there would be numerous unconventional and cross- cultural entities to deal with whose backgrounds would likely give them the collywobbles - even if they could pronounce half their names; tough when our ‘grand poobah’ can’t even say ‘nuclear’, isn’t it?

Nevertheless, it’s good to be back in the States again (a reminder of a ‘Forever More’ song for those few of you who remember me & McIntyre’s experimental cross-country rubber band of the late 60s which preceded AWB), and we are all looking forward to a less time-consuming travel schedule than that which we’ve just been through. In the upcoming dates around the northeast quadrant throughout April and beginning of May, a four-hour journey will seem like child’s play after our continental drift across the equator and back – time for just one movie per journey, instead of trying to pack half the Netflix catalog in our bags to fuel the hours of tedium involved in execution of that marathon. I think the realization of the absurdity of such a long journey came at about 5am in Senegal, West Africa when the pilot came on after our refueling stop and said that takeoff would have to be delayed until they could get an ox off the runway! Phil, our soundman said the same thing happened last year, so we are convinced they prod this poor animal with a stick onto the runway every night just to get even with the Western World for a few minutes, and remind us where mankind originated even though he couldn’t fly then; except in spirit and soul – two things that escape all but a few of our financially-empowered gurus of today.

It may even be that same ox from the cave paintings of Mali and Namibia, the bastard!

Talking of paintings, I had a very little time to explore the national art of southern Africa being that we were there over a weekend and they do treasure their closed-shop hours from noon on Saturday until Monday morning the way it used to be in Britain in the fifties and early sixties, and no doubt through all of the Commonwealth countries. A healthy eschewal of commercialism over quality of life and leisure. Consequently, I kept bumping into ‘frame-shops’. As an erstwhile painter, I find myself in endless frame-shops and from time to time see incredibly overlooked bits of great art that have been left in these ‘service’ emporia when the artist can’t afford the framing bill and leaves the artwork behind as a deposit till the pickup can be paid for with a sale assured. I am constantly castigated for my inability or, rather, desire to market my paintings, having such an advantage as I do, when extremely talented and dedicated artists find it hard to find any outlet for their life work; Jacques Pepin, the renowned chef/teacher says “cooking can be fun, but it is serious - My métier is cooking and I paint when the mood takes me – I am a much better cook than I am a painter”. I totally understand and agree as a musician, but painting nonetheless provides another avenue of inspiration that inevitably leads to fresher musical ideas than does a one-dimensional lifestyle – even though the cave-paintings were inevitably, or rather visibly, one dimensional, they portrayed an entire visual representation of their life, their needs, their ‘gods’ (most of them animals), and their prowess over the beasts that either outran them or (when caught) fed them. I think it’s fair to say that if they couldn’t catch them, they themselves became the prey – one thing I no longer think we here today have to worry about, unless we walk around in an “Animal Farm” of our own making.

Returning to America means returning to cheese. I’d forgotten how everything you order in the States comes with cheese just about, unless you remember to ask in advance to have it held in abeyance. I have to say – and this is just my theory – that it must have something to do with the trouser width / bum sizes immediately noticeable in the street. The last two evenings I’ve gone to eat dinner and I had totally forgotten this cheese thing until a perfectly good burger, with perfectly fine meat, and perfectly cooked had a slice of USDAiry plastic welded to it without my asking. It couldn’t be removed as it was also soldered to the bun above and after the first bite it then clung to my top palette, thus ruining the joyous experience of the national dish at its best, unsullied and unadorned with cheeseandpickleand lettuceandmayo. I then had to reorder from a by-now huffed waiter and had to wait until my dining compadres were almost done before a replacement arrived, THIS time with half-done fries, obviously of the frozen variety. Then yesterday I had some delightful, fresh seafood on pasta, and again it was a struggle to fight off the cheese-waving waiter who no doubt would have camouflaged the entire dish in a flurry of grated dairy, so that it could hide inconspicuously by a desert roadside in Nevada while Blackhawk helicopters and F-15s flew vainly overhead in their search for the deadly ‘Seafood Special’ that threatens national security. Anyway, the reaction to both my eating experiences was somewhere between being shunned or sent to Guantanamo for treasonous behaviour. And don’t get me started about the breakfast roll; bacon & egg is enough of an artery-stopper WITHOUT THE CHEESE!

Which in turn brings me to another bloody eating season, and all in the name of religion. Yes, it’s Passover / Easter and whatever the other lots find as an excuse for a bout of gorging. Wasn’t it just Hannuka/Christmas/Kwanzaa etc. and we were all waddling about like stuffed animals? We had a few lovely meals in South Africa, and the portions were – well – British size, which is to say they were ample but not daunting. There really is a national conspiracy here in the US to overfill everyone, and it must be the root cause of so much of the illnesses, allergies, and other maladies real or imagined that keep the pharmaceutical companies in a close tie with the petroleum industry for No. 1 necessity in the Western World. I think the ‘all-you-can-eat’ sign should be summarily banned, just as Britain is now doing with ‘Happy-Hour’ (it is the biggest culprit in binge-drinking), and platters really should be cut down in size so the emphasis is on quality rather than quantity. But driving around the Tri-State area, watching people graze and snack wherever they are or whatever they’re doing, I would forward my personal theory that the real religion in the USA is eating, and the common god, to all, is FOOD. Perhaps the Lord’s Prayer should begin, “our father who art in kitchen……”

Right, I’d better stop before I become the target of a US-led coalition of religious gluttons and cheese farmers, and am deported for anti–obesity sedition and causing culinary unrest. I’m looking forward to the upcoming gigs with some new tunes under our (unstretched) belts, a chance to keep our wheels on the ground and, apart from the Florida festival next week, leave out the flying and the airports for a while. I am tired of buying new guitar cases as the TSA seems to have it in for us musicians, and take great pains to punish our instruments and their protective covering at every turn. Meanwhile, upstairs, we are being searched for “meats, fruits and CHEESES” – I kid you not - and the possibility that any of us are carrying $10,000 in cash. I keep no cheese in my shoes, and if I had that kind of money to carry around, I wouldn’t be playing gigs for a living – I’d be in the oil or pharmaceutical business, or be a cheese conglomerate, supplying Wallace & Gromit and an insatiable nation with its fix.

Meanwhile, whet your musical appetites – a feast is a-comin’, and happy whatever you celebrate this week with your favourite cheeses. Watch out for the holes!

ANOTHER YEAR

2007-01-11T11:12:00.000-08:00

Salutations, soul fans, and welcome to another year – the 35th in the career of AWB – and hopefully one that will wear a little easier on the tread than 2006. We seemed to be out there most of the year and the travel bag never got unpacked once; just a change of nightie to allow for climate differentials according to our next ports-of-call as they came at us thick and fast like bagels out of a dodgy toaster. Mustn’t grumble though – it’s good to be able to enjoy your collective company as much as we do, especially at this stage of the game when a lot of our contemporaries would give their top strings to have our kind of date-sheet.

Now, without dwelling on the morbid, I want to make mention of some fine people who have meant a great deal to us, who died in 2006, and left us all the poorer by their absence. Most notably, Arif Mardin – our producer, mentor and dear friend who passed away in September. It’s some irony that, at Arif’s birthday party back in March, both Peter Boyle and Ahmet Ertegun were present; now they, too, are gone and we will miss Ahmet’s earthy growl. Always the face of the Atlantic Records we knew and loved – along with Jerry Wexler, of course, who signed us to the label back in ’74 – Ahmet, brother Nesuhi, Tunc Erim and Arif were the Turkish ‘mafia’ here in New York and took every opportunity to challenge us Scots when ‘the shots’ were down, and we found a great collective kindred spirit among them and their families that sustained us in our first years of self-imposed exile in the USA.

Of course, you all know about Wilson Pickett, Billy Preston, Ruth Brown and the one, the only JAMES Brown; finally Robbie Mac. will get a chance to play with him on the nightshift – the only gig he would rather have done than be with ‘his boys’, AWB - and the guiding template for our groove from day one. Seemed he would forever Stay on the Scene – Like a Sex Machine. Alas, not.

Which brings me to where’s it all going; I still find it hard to believe that Tower records is no more, and idly wonder just how long the CD will even be around when the places to actually browse and buy are drying up. I know the argument is, “well, just go on line and get it”, but to me there’s something fundamentally wrong with sitting for hours in front of a monitor, gaining weight, diminishing sight, and atrophying everything else while blagging for music - might as well just download it, live with the squashed (MP3) quality, forget artwork & package and give it all the magic of a soft parcel from Granny, no more, no less. I hope I don’t sound dinosaurian when I say that rooting around for hot, new records used to have a certain frisson of adventure and excitement to it, but it did, and if Goody didn’t, then The Wiz might, Tower/Virgin/HMV SURELY would, and could I be the first to brandish it in front of pals and impress the gals? It all now seems so very ‘ho-hum’ as music is released before it’s really ‘released’, and you can snatch anything anytime from anywhere, if you’ve a mind to sit vegetating in front of the primal screen. It’s even got so bad that police no longer turn over your house any more in the dawn raid – they just take away your computer, since that’s where 90% of your 21st Century life will be found….wanting!

So, 2006 saw a shift of power in America, with GWB now having to make nice noises for the first time in his tenure (how uneasy that must sit with him of all people), not to mention Darth Cheney who appears to have retreated to the undisclosed location he occupied right after 911. Perhaps they’ll find him just like Saddam – beard an’ all – muttering about the apostles, Halliburton, Kellogg Brown and Root while brandishing an unloaded skeet rifle in all directions. Mind you, Tony Blair’s still sniffing around Georgie-boy like a horny cousin that needs shagged from time to time, and will go along with just about anything that’ll keep his grinning head above water. He, too, could sink his party in the UK this year with the same warhead that did for the old gang in the USA. AND, while I’m on the body-politick in some form or other, I would like to mention to you all that there is a big new push to pass legislation in Washington DC that would allow the giant media companies to own everything – TV stations, newspapers, radio, film studios, internet and outernet and for all we know your local PTA newsletter. You may recall that Michael Powell (son of Colin), then head of the FCC, tried to ram it through two years ago. Needless to say those of us who live or die via broadcasting and media activities fought hard and won that skirmish by a slim margin. Well, they’re at it again and to be brief it would mean the virtual end of independent news, radio or TV, and basically a WalMart-ization of the media. That leads only one place, the monopoly and total manipulation of news and views across the country. If you live in The States, and if you value local broadcast freedom, please, PLEASE call or write to your congressman immediately – the vote is on the 16th of Jan, next Tuesday. If you don’t know how, log on to MoveOn.org and they will tell you whom to contact. It’s easy, and we all of us thank you in advance.

Before I go, there’s a milestone I ought to mention. As of May this year, Onnie and myself will have completed a forty-year partnership which started in ’67 in London with the Scots Of St. James, a resident group at the famous club of like name (The Scotch), and where Beatles, Byrds, Animals and other rare species hung out after dark and gave us our first up-close glimpse of real stardom and celebrity when Paris was a city, and Hilton a hotel. Back then it was “I’m a Rock Star – Keep me IN here”. We then set off for Germany, Sgt. Pepper was Man of the Year, the world was our proverbial clam, and it’s fair to say we’ve never looked back except to marvel at our bloody good luck and the great friends that helped us along. A toast to all of those here and gone, and a very prosperous New Year to the lot of you. See you onstage!

A.G.

SINGING IN THE RAIN – a weekend in Seattle’s record deluge

2006-11-16T10:50:00.000-08:00

A soggy arrival after 3000 miles of tour bus, somewhat enlivened by not one but two blowouts en route – neither of them life-threatening, fortunately, but a bit frightening nevertheless, especially the one in the middle of the night in the Arizona desert. Doesn’t do wonders for sleep when you suddenly hear ‘BANG - whap-whap-whap’ from below your bunk, followed immediately by a cloud of burning-rubber gas engulfing our quarters. All that was missing were the klaxons, and the shouts of “Dive, Dive” as in bad submarine movie (that’s what our sleeping berths are like aboard the night coach). Still, we did see some amazing stars out there in desert night, but nothing left of our tyre; it seemed to have vapourised entirely, and was probably going to wreak havoc (in bits all over the highway) on some unfortunate bike or Honda Civic later that night.

Still, a kind tow-trucker fixed us up and saw us on our way at 5am in Flagstaff, after some most enlightening conversations about the temperature of boiling water at high elevations (Flagstaff is about 4000 feet above sea level), Onnie & I having absconded for a half hour for some truly tepid tea at the Transport Cafe across the highway.

The second tyre aberration occurred after our show in Portland, Oregon, this time in rainy downtown, so no danger there, but nevertheless it turned our drive to Seattle next day into a six-hour rainy marathon when the drive would normally be about two.

However, a rare night off was not to be denied us, and a sprint through the puddles immediately after arrival took us to our favourite Seattle food trough, Assaggio, where we were given the usual warmest greeting by host extraordinaire, Mauro Golmarvi. It turned out to be a provident weekend to have made the visit, as they celebrated their thirteenth anniversary on Monday (13th), our next night off, and we were delighted to join his guests and to enjoy some of Italy’s very finest wines along with Mauro’s simple, elegant and personal menu – and some really great company - in one of our favourite cities anywhere…RAIN or shine. Mille grazie, Mauro!

Now if all this background stuff seems to be a case of cart-before-horse in terms of “what about the gigs, Alan?” then forgive me blocking in the canvas with some broad brush strokes and extra colour before going into the details of showtime and adding in the bright lights of venues, clubs, casinos etc. that brought us on this long journey in the first place. I suppose I have to jump back another month and mention that it all started in Japan back in September, at the Blue Note(s) in Osaka and Nagoya (Nissan, and Toyota towns respectively) before going on to a new stage for us in Tokyo, at Duo Music Exchange, a club part owned by Jay Kay of Jamiroquai, and with a great young musical audience who just love to funk! That was special. As always, it’s a helluva flight both ways and a few days rest were in order before setting off again for sunny California, where we did half a dozen varied gigs – some by ourselves, and some with our pals Tower Of Power, and even one with War as well. We had fun with both bands and one of own gigs, a new venue in Bakersfield, saw Sal and Marcos from War surprise us by jumping onstage at the end of the set and playing impromptu percussion, prior to an impromptu late-night drinking session which led to much further merriment. Not to be outdone, both Larry Braggs and Roger Smith of Tower sat in with us on our final gig with T.O.P. in Albuquerque. Then it was farewell to these guys until next spring.

So it was on the bus again for a marathon 1200-mile ride to Petaluma, California – a delightful little town in the north end of Marin Co. which we had never visited before. A really great little theatre – The MYSTIC – which dates back to early last century, and an enthusiastic crowd to boot, who dated back to…? They were totally into it, as were the gang the next night in Portland, at a very similar setting, The Aladdin Theatre. We had some laughs there, firstly at the meet & greet for radio station ticket winners in the green room where one couple had either been taken by some ‘acid’ rain or had had a previous date with some heady elixir, and then being regaled with anecdotes from Cliff Castle of Audix Microphones who are HQ-ed in Portland, and who keep our sweet voices heard above the general din of the AWB fife & drum brigade.

And the rain fell, and fell again, then staggered to its feet, and then fell again in more torrents as we rumbled on into Seattle, which brings this little dissertation full-circle and somewhat legitimizes the dread-panned title of this piece; I should mention the stalwartness of the ‘Seattle-ites’ in their defiance of weather that would keep most Americans I have seen over the years firmly indoors. We Scots have a similar climate most of the year – wet, windswept and interesting – and so I appreciate a species which carries a brolly at all times and strides out into the night undaunted and unable to resist good music (they also seem to like AWB). They were a welcoming bunch as usual and we saw seven quite different houses over the four nights we played Jazz Alley, each as interesting and vocal as the last, but each as demographically and age-group-ically varied as the last, also. Forgive me, but I couldn’t find an adjective for ‘age-group’ so I made one up; not that forgiveness is something I seek very often, since I tend to think that one man’s forgiveness is another man’s lunch waiting to be stolen.

Of course it all comes back to food and drink, doesn’t it? From the dietetically perfect foods of the Orient in Japan, back to the hearty Northeast grub of New York, then on to the Southern Californian nightmare of Denny’s (Chez Denois, as we daub it), Wendys, Pizza hut, China Buffets (all full of Mexican patrons), Big Boys, Bigger Boys, Bad Burgers, Super-Subs, and Taco Bells (all full of Asian patrons) – what a variety of absolute shite, but all within walking distance of your BestWesternHolidayHampton. Since tour buses do NOT do a local limo service once parked for the day, that tends to be the main menu in the StripMallville of much of So.Cal. nowadays. But by good fortune, things picked up after that, on a good curry night with old pals Steve Ferrone & ‘Granny’ Grange in LA, to some fine finds in unlikely places like Mesa, AZ (GREAT Mexican), a Casino steakhouse in Alpine, CA, an Indian buffet in Petaluma, then to finding our hotel was around the corner from Corey Shriver’s ‘Wildwood’ in Portland (yes, guys, I’ll send you my haggis recipe – I haven’t forgotten), and finally back to the start of this epicurean journal that is now finally all but over here in Minneapolis.

And where do you think we’re playing…..Rossi’s, which only has one of Minneapolis’ best steakhouses on the premises and a matching wine list!

I’m off to have a couple of new holes put in my belts, and then prepare to be rolled onstage for the remainder of the week. It isn’t raining here, but I’ll sing anyway.

Happy Thanksgiving to all our readers and may you have a high (and dry) one up in Seattle!

A.G.

Farewell Arif

2006-06-17T10:22:00.000-07:00

We sadly say goodbye to Arif Mardin who passed away on Sunday. It would be fair to say that none of what we have today could have happened without him. Like so many of his protégées, almost all of whom became his musical family, he gave us the knowledge and the poise which turned our raw talents into something magical, and set us on the road to explorations and achievements we might only have dreamed of. We all remained close to Arif and his family – he and Latife were like an aunt & uncle to us - and their children, Nazan, Joe and Julie have grown up to be our friends. I can only imagine their sense of loss, and our hearts are with them in the void that he has left.

Luckily, Steve, Onnie and myself had the great fortune to be able to contribute to his last recording session just a week ago in New York, and the album he was finishing will be safe in the hands of his son, producer Joe Mardin, to lovingly add the finishing brush strokes to his life’s work – a luminary career which helped launch and establish everything from The Young Rascals in the late 60s, to Norah Jones in this new Century, and with accolades, triumphs and associations along the way which include Aretha Franklin, Donny Hathaway, Roberta Flack, Bette Midler, Chaka Khan, Bee Gees and ourselves to name but a smattering of those he has gifted with his inimitable touch.

Unfortunately we won’t see his like again; his manifesto was always that of the artist and his priority was devoting himself to showing each of us the right voices and grace notes to add to the expression of our ideas - and turn them into records that would not only stand the tests of time, fashion and changing cultures, but would become icons for generations of music lovers. His opinion was still currency and his word was bond. He never wavered in his belief that music, while the queen of our souls, was still an unfinished & imperfect lover and that there was much yet to be discovered, molded and experimented with. We will try to carry that torch on as our legacy from a consummate master, a beautiful soul, and a great friend to us all.

We love you, Arif. Thank you and farewell.

A.G

“IT AIN’T HALF HOT, MUM” and other notes from the front.

2006-06-10T10:12:00.000-07:00

Well, it all started in Dubai really, where the temperature three weeks ago was around 34 C (that’s about 94 F) in the shade and there we were dressed for the cool of the New England – and Olde England – springtime when we set off for the pleasure dome of The Gulf (Dubai), and a couple of concerts there just to soften us up for what we’re now experiencing in Kansas this weekend. Trouble is, there was a two-week tour of decidedly nippy Great Britain in between, so there has been an extraordinary amount of costume change, odd emergency clothes - purchases and subsequent luggage atrocities all round.

Nonetheless, here we are not too much the worse for wear after our exertions abroad, and more new music fans in Britain who finally know who we are and what it is that we do (I think they thought Average white Band was a spurious European radio frequency or something, over there) but some magic word-of-mouth bush telegraph brought them to our UK shows by the dozen, and they didn’t half spice up the audience from their front and centre positions…apart from the one geezer at The Jazz Café in London who stood in front of Klyde, rolled ciggies continuously (a chain-roller) and proceeded to blow smoke up in his face all evening, as he gulped for air to continue singing. Some people!

All in all, however, it has been a wonderful adventure and a load of laughs with our indomitable Scottish crew of Jim, Shona and Stodge who keep us diverted, distracted and doubled-up most of the time while we plough on through the highways, byways and Motorways of the Old Country, and of course every night is a chance to meet up with old pals after the show and catch up on another year or two of ‘shite’ between us and pick up where we left off. While all the news can’t be good all the time as we all know, we were saddened to hear of the passing of old friend and onetime agent, Ian Copeland, whose brother Miles was our manager near the beginning, and who did his level best to decapitate me and Bruce Findlay in a dune-buggy escapade at his Long Island shore home many moons ago. It would have been a good headline – AWB singer, Simple Minds’ manager and Police’s booking agent Go Off Cliff…..Hundreds homeless!

Anyway, all three of us used up another of our respective nine lives that day and it lies in the large chest of now - cherished anecdotes in hindsight, and we all offer our condolences to Miles, Stewart, and the extended Family Copeland for their (and the music biz’s) loss. Rock on, Ian!!

It’s funny how being in the United Kingdom seems to level things out; in some ways, it is the most sane and sensible place on the planet, never too hot and never too cold - and that is reflected in the evenness of the people, who just take anything and everything in their stride and get on with it all with the minimum of fuss, and any unfavourable circumstance is immediately turned into a comedic situation. Yet on the other hand it seems as if parts of the British experience have yet to enter the 21st Century, especially with regard to the lot of the professional traveler. Just try to get an internet connection in your hotel room without mortgaging your home, or get a train that runs anywhere close to the published time (English Southern Region’s timetable has been moved to the ‘Fiction’ section in the British Library), or zip, out-of-breath, into the Italian restaurant round the corner for lunch at 2.24pm…..”I sorry, seer, ze lunch he eez over, see…we open at faaaiiiiiive okay?” – “but, I have to go to work and I just want a Bolognese and I’ll be out of here in SIX minutes and, and, and, and… when actually you just want to say, “YOUR FOOTBALL TEAM ARE ALL CHEATS AND LA LIGA IS CORRUPT AND YOUR GOVERNMENT IS ROTTEN TO THE CORE AND…” and, you trail off, “I’m effing starving and will now proceed to fall on a shard of broken chianti bottle in your doorway and louse up the rest of your giorno, so help me Infante Jeeezus!

At this juncture, I should point out that I don’t really intend to single out the Italian contingent for my invective; it’s the British who have imposed this conditioning on their otherwise natural Mediterranean laissez faire, and have concocted to keep to the mandates and mannerisms of ‘Wartime’ Britain, when opening (and closing) times of everything adhered to strict codes of social mores and only the Upper Classes could write their own louche calendar of events. We lower ranks in Her Majesty’s Workforce would never have turned a lathe, finished a stainless-steel knife, built a destroyer, boiled a candy or dug up a lump of coal if it weren’t for the narrowest possible avenues of recreation & delight to make sure we had our noses to the grindstone and our shoulders to the bathroom door – the locks don’t work there, either – and so we regained our balance after 1945, and kept it through Hell & high water until Margaret Thatcher came along and blew the whole thing out of the water with her middle finger raised in salute to all those that had laid their coats over her puddles and would henceforth have to sit shivering in doorways, jobless and homeless. Ah, the Baroness Bastard.

In spite of all this, however, the spirit is still absolutely amazing, and in most places there is a sense of GoForit-ness that reminds me of the 1960s in its sheer bravado and bolshiness. The youth are in power, and the power is 240-volts AC, and it is positively zinging with inventiveness in the arts, in fashion….and now in believe it or not, cooking. I have had some of the best meals ever on the road in the UK in the last couple of years, and it seems restaurant/galleries (gourmuseums? – I dunno how you’d describe them) are sprouting up all over the country, and ‘restaurant critic’ is probably now a degree course at the London School Of Economics for all I know. Honestly, it’s that good. Perhaps I should forget landscapes and start painting food instead.

Well now, that brings me back to Earth with a dull thud…and Kansas, which was where I started this memorandum, I think. Landscape wouldn’t be their strong point, I shouldn’t think, as it’s rather like a gigantic greenish tarpaulin that someone threw loosely over the earth’s surface and it’s flat but lumpy, if you know what I mean – at least compared to my Land, anyway. There are some trees and LOTS of cattle and, really oddly, signs by the roadside that say “BEEF– IT’S WHAT’S for DINNER” – and the cattle are just standing there looking at these signs as if waiting for Gary Larsen to come out of retirement. Quite surreal overall, but the people are extremely nice and it must be easy for cycling.

Still . . .It ain’t half HOT, Mum . . . phew, get my ice cap out quickly!

A.G.

ASK YOUR DOCTOR ABOUT . . .

2005-03-08T09:50:00.000-08:00

Having returned to the States last week to resume my customary position behind the Fender five-string bass guitar I was surprised as to how much of a culture shock it was this time around, having been a virtual absentee for some months (except for the winter gig routine) and getting used to the ‘other’ world. Suddenly TV seems alien and shrill after the relative calm of first Scotland and then the Caribbean and it appears there really must be something drastically wrong with ME, as I don’t seem to be suffering from acid reflux, multiple allergies, obesity, cardiac arrest, diabetes, cholesterol or blocked arteries, and I don’t recognize any of the small beige creatures that obviously inhabit all American toenails as being a personal problem either. Perhaps these things all come via the smuggling of illegal goods into the country – you know the really deadly things that they ask you about on the US customs form….fruit, vegetables, cooked meats, farm animals, and of course god forbid you have been near a horse, a cow, or a sheep on your foreign travel, and as for that stash of ten thousand dollars you might be carrying – well, that’s a worry.

Basically I feel cheated that I have nothing to “ask my doctor” and am beginning to feel I might not fit in here as much as I used to when there were televisual campaigns for normal things – like liquor, tobacco, detergent, things that look like butter, chapstick (is Suzy still alive?), Pillsbury dough, and great food additives such as iron filings, sump oil and broken glass. Maybe it’s just a local northeast thing, but I don’t think so.

What IS a northeast thing is this terribly boring winter stuff that keeps everyone who isn’t chomping at the bit to get on the slopes and down the piste, indoors. All we get to see are sloppy interstates with brownish snowbanks at the verges and trees that are shaped completely wrong…not a coconut in sight, and my legs and feet are rebelling at having to be covered at all times lest frostbite set in. It is all horribly unfair and I want my money back.

Which brings me again to this magic sum of $10,000 that seems to be the edge of financial paranoia to American border control, and the IRS, who will not permit us to pay more than that sum into any US bank account without a quick visit to Guantanamo Bay for a bit of third degree. Now, there was a time when 10K was a LOT of money to most people whose names didn’t end with ‘Bilt or ‘Feller but nowadays it’s kind of what I assume would be a normal wedge that people might take with them for a 3-week beano in the Caymans or Barbados or Bermuda. Let me put it this way, no self-respecting drug dealer would show his face with a mere ten G – that being apparently the significance of the amount in question, as it was seen as a nice chunk, a-ready for the laundering. So, Mr. Greenspan, or whomever decides these things, with gas heading for $3 a gallon, with homes in the suburbs regularly at 3 million plus, with every man, woman and child ensconced behind the wheel of small army tanks instead of cars, and with dinner for two with a bottle of half-decent plonk running in the region of $150 (that’s without the brandies or ports afterwards) I seriously think it’s time they made it significantly more appropriate to today’s needs, lifestyles and emergency funds – say, 20K in your underpants and we might want to have a chat to you behind the two way mirror with the snap of a rubber glove to get your full attention. And there’s another reason you won’t find me ‘asking my doctor’ without something close to malaria or poliomyelitis hanging over my immediate future. I ain’t that much a fan of the gloved hand!

Nevertheless, it’s good to see so many smiling faces at the gigs we just did last week, and I’m sure there will be a lot more this coming week when we head back into Pennsylvania, then down through New Jersey and on into the DC area for the weekend, and a trip to the crab capital itself, Annnnnapolis in Annnnnnn Arundel county next Sunday. Now, I’ve no idea who Ann Arundel was or what she did but she must have been ‘a bit of a goer’ to quote the famous Eric Idle line from Python, in order to get a county named after her. I can’t imagine it was common for women to get shit named after them back then, so she must have had some serious sway over her opposite numbers to be so honored, and in such an august and traditional spot as that. They don’t come much more hoity-toity than Hannapolis, do they? I think I would like to have met her in an upstairs room of some colonial tavern in umpteen-sixty-five, and offered her some exotic and tempting items from o’er the sea…..fruits, vegetables, cooked meats, farm animals and such skullsmugglery. As for the ten grand…..

As a parting shot on this column, I want to warn you that the new single is about to come out of the box, and it is an instrumental version of “Work To Do” which Klyde has done a beautiful job of, on guitar, and Fred lent a hand in there too with some very tasty licks indeed. The smooth – jazz genre has been trying to get us to give them an offering for a couple of years now, so we finally buckled and actually had a most enjoyable session doing that (and a brand new “Pieces” version) to add to the CD you’ve seen as the ‘Best-Of’ since last summer, and which is to be launched in April on the Liquid8 record label with the above-mentioned tracks included. There is also a 15 – minute DVD enclosed, with Onnie & myself telling all sorts of lies about our history, our present and our future (if any) and we have some bits of ‘live’ from last summer, and some of Klyde doing his six-string magic in the studio for this current issue. We hope you will want to add this to your AWB collections, and make us all Hundredaires, for our sins. With the right publicity, the right airplay, and the wind in the right direction when the bear lies down to sleep, then we MIGHT just sneak in and have some commercial success for the first time in eons, and I just might get my hands on that elusive, enigmatic and symbolic ten thousand dollars.

But I’m damned if I’m going near a farm, cows, sheep or horses before visiting you lot.

A.G.

CHRISTMAS 2004 leading to NEW YEAR 2005 leading to. . .

2004-12-24T11:06:00.000-08:00

My ears are burning. I know that many of you are a bit displeased at my recent output on this page - and that's too bad, but it has been a very busy last six months and the day after tomorrow is of course Christmas, so I am keenly aware that this is a last-minute grasp for redemption by way of a greeting to one and all (whether you have complained or not).

First, let me say that the big tour was magnificent and was easily the best thing we have done since the heydays of the seventies, and I have to admit it might have topped even that; I have never worked with a better crew, or

with better artists than Michael and Daryl & John, nor have we ever been better cared for in all respects by any tour I can recall. Of course, the technology and logistics are so much better now than then, but it's the

human factor that really counts, and that goes for all you lot in the seats as well, for making us so welcome. We knew going in that there would be an awful lot of people that had never been to an AWB concert nor had

probably heard much of our music, but saw that as a challenge we could easily handle given the 'Soul' quotient of the package and the fact that fans of the above-mentioned acts were pretty likely to find some of our ingredients to their taste. Happily, they quickly became gluttons.

Next, I have to thank Daryl in particular for coming up with the idea for this winning combination of artists and for inviting us to put three harmonious acts together to perform separately, then all together at night's end.

That's what managed to do the business in a summer that will go down as one of the worst in memory for big dates cancelled, whole tours downsized or just plain vaporized, and names with great track records taken off the

tracks and shunted into stockyards. I haven't a clue what happened out there this year - was it the 'economy-stupid'? the upcoming political hostilities (The Uncivil War)?, too many gig-nights in too many outsize venues? We'll never know - at least we were lucky enough not to feel the sting, so I guess he had the right idea after all.

After all the luxury and cosseting on the Rock N' Soul Revue, we had to come back down to earth again at the end of October and revisit the climate that we're more accustomed to, but which also gave us the chance

to be the focal point once more on our own gigs . . . the main -course as opposed to 'The Appetizer' on the grand tour. Chicago and Philly were memorable among these, and I have to say the soul food in Warmdaddy's is

spectacular. We became the Overweight White Band in just two nights there and I have developed an addiction for greens that no-one who grew up with me would believe; greens, in Scotland, were soggy, tasteless, pale mush

that filled out whatever our parents could afford at the time, and which were largely force-fed to us with the grim reminder that if we wanted to have a remote shot at survival in the early years after the Second World War when grub was mighty scarce in the British Isles, we had better siphon it up, or else.

Well, we never had THESE greens (nor the Chevy or the Baptist church) but somehow we found the path. When we get the chance to gig with people like The Rev. Al Green, it all starts to make sense; if our church had

had music like that, we would have gone, instead of refusing to sit through one more hour of grim, despairing Calvinism, blistering and excoriating sermons, and the lumpen hymns & psalms that all defined the Scottish ecclesiastical experience. In short, a must to avoid. I recall Daryl telling me

some years ago of his enjoyable memories of church in small-town Pennsylvania, and his joy at first returning from the 'Big City' (Philly) to a starring role in front of his old congregation - WITH HIS OWN MUSIC!!

Perhaps that's why the last time I drove through my Scottish hometown on a Sunday morning there was (inevitably) a mere trickle of wobbly & withered old souls attending the Lord's call - absolutely nobody else. Churches are closing faster than clams on a hot beach.

. . . BUT - there's so much more to do on Sunday nowadays.

We can shop to our hearts' content; we have adopted the American way with wretched husbands being dragged kicking and screaming round giantemporia of everything from newflooria to neuphoria; we have Sunday -

football (thanks to the new messiah, Rupert Murdoch, to whom all sport & schedules must bend to feel the cool, nourishing waft of his Foxy TV dollar), and we have decided that it is a better place now, with or without

the gods - angry or otherwise. Never again will we be forced to stop, look and listen for one day a week when we can go hurtling past the Sunday Stop like a bus with a demented driver and failed brakes. Even an old agnostic like myself isn't so sure there wasn't some merit in the 'auld wey' as the Scots would put it, and that there is a loss of cultural value as a result of today's absence of any engendered serenity. Still - one believer's

loss is another heretic's gain. (What's this - Gorrie on religion? . . . that's like Bush on English literature.)

But I digress. This was supposed to be a seasonal greeting to all of you who visit us at Daftbastards.com from time to time (and those of you who visit us all the time). I'm doing this instead of Christmas shopping, so I really can't complain at my lot. May next year bring you goodness and grace, may peace break out the world over, may the real culprits be caught and exposed, and may you all grow a third arm - or stop driving with mobile phones in-hand. Finally, may I go now?

A.G.

Just Another Average White Christmas

2003-12-24T11:18:00.000-08:00

A very happy Christmas and New Year to you all, after what has been something of an up-and-down year for most people it seems. Aren’t they all, though, when you look back on it over a 12-month period – who could honestly say that their year has been nothing but joy, success and gay abandon from end to end? Maybe when you were about ten you could probably think that way, especially since almost none of today’s complex and inexplicable customs, mores and distractions were a part of life then, unless, of course, you were born after 1972 in which case forget it – none of this applies!

What does apply, though, is the fact that we here in the Over-age White Band have seen it all, and what‘s evident is what we live through today and have to deal with on an hourly basis would have sent better men than us running for cover back then if they had so much bombardment in a week or a month, even. Never mind the televisual, radiophonic and multisensual blitzes that savage our consciousness incessantly, but just the schedules and expectations put on everyone in this infancy of the 21st century are enough to keep you permanently on a state of high alert (and anxiety) and off-balance a great deal of the time, which makes any reasoned attempt to qualify a totally great year difficult, to say the least.

Nevertheless, we’ve had some great moments to carry us through this year, from the great snowfall that trapped us in DC for three days last February (albeit with a fine Irish pub in the hotel, which ensured a recent-record weekend bar tab for AWB...nothing that would have challenged the old days, you understand) to the very opposite, a fine weekend’s reward in the Bahamas and Florida as some kind of payback. That one had its own little hiccup, though, as the US base-ball season seems to go on forever and it ended up with the Florida Marlins contending for the final game on our gig night, which somewhat dented the crowd we would have had otherwise. Come to think of it, that same extended season caught us in Boston (with the same results) a week or so before that with the final couple of games of THAT series. Our usual second house at Scullers was by then delirious, drunk or delusional, depending on their team colours, and certainly were not heading for a jazz club either of these final nights. So add these elements to my aforementioned life-complications and you get the yo-yo factor I mentioned.

We had a fairly triumphant return to Japan this year after an absence of some little time, and a reintroduction to the greater audience at the Mt. Fuji Jazz Festival, which was held on one of the hottest weekends of the year there. It’s a fantastic setting up in the mountains at the old Formula-One grand prix circuit at Gotemba (now held at Suzuka, as those who follow the sport will know) and the view was incredible till the late-day heat haze blocked out the world.

The music on offer was fantastic, too, and the Brecker Brothers (who used to play on our early albums) made an appearance, closing the first night’s show with some amazing (and amusing) moments both musically and comedically. Randy is still a fine dry wit on the mic. besides one of the few trumpet players I can actually listen to, let alone enjoy. Funny, Brian Dunne and I share the same view of trumpet – if it aint the best, it’s a friggin’ test. Marcus Miller and his two ‘projects’ were on display each of the two nights, and right after us on Sunday, Nile Rogers and Chic gave a spirited performance – the first time Onnie or I had ever seen them live. The Chic girls were stunning, and seeing Omar Hakim do that set on drums, then turn around into a deep jazz thing with Marcus right afterwards was pretty amazing stuff. Unfortunately our bus had to leave before the end as the return journey to Tokyo on Sunday night totally eclipses the Long Island/New Jersey to New York City extravaganza one encounters on summer weekends, by at least double...and then we all had early morning departures back to the States and UK respectively.

While there, though, we reacquainted ourselves with the British jazzy-soul group Incgnito, which led to a double bill at London’s Forum to end out our performing year in style. This came as the finale to our European/UK tour in November – our second tour of duty there this year, after our May success – and it seems to herald another revival of sorts for us in Greater Europe. We had some success through continental Europe in the mid nineties, but have pretty much been UK-bound in most recent years, so it’s always nice to find territories opening up again as a new generation of funksters discovers the roots, and the root-ers with them. We are already set for the UK leg of next year’s first visit at the end of May/beginning of June, so hopefully we’ll be able to continue this trend past that and get a fill of food, wine and other delights of the Continent.

Whatever, we will have all our usual commitments in the States, beginning in April with a Nor’Easter lasting about three weeks or so, and taking in some of our favourites such as The Birchmere for a couple of nights at Easter, and The Keswick near Philly for a couple the following weekend, as well as other perennials like Turning Stone and Harrisburg, to mention but a few. If I miss anything, it’s because I’m a lousy ‘lister’ and it will all be available on the website, placed by our professional and fully-qualified ‘lister-of-events’ and master-of-web, himself. I’m in the wrong union for that sort of thing.

I will stick to the matter-at-hand instead, and reiterate our holiday greetings to all of you, whichever continent you’re reading this on, and whatever particular festive proclivities you have, be it Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa or Buddha’s Big Bash, and we look forward to seeing you in the year 2004...no absences accepted or excuses tolerated.

A.G

SPRING (AND A NEW CD) AT LAST . . .

2003-04-14T09:59:00.000-07:00

..and not a moment too soon. The sun has reappeared from its gray cocoon, the temperature has risen above chilling, the war in Iraq is over, the despotic rule dispelled and disbanded, and now the looting, rioting and arson can begin in earnest. How wonderful to know that the Iraqis are just the same as the denizens of South Central LA, the only difference being the Iraqis don’t appear to have any weapons of mass destruction. It was all a ruse – I can see the headlines revisited in twenty years by the History Channel...”Saddam was a ‘Sweety’- Was only planning grand firework parade for Iraqi children”, along with the classics from yesteryear “Archduke Ferdinand still alive – World War One a mistake”; shipping news: “Marie Celeste arrives at Liverpool” and “Ghenghis Khan named Turkish ambassador to U.N.” If truth is the first victim of war, then read on – I’ve got some great lies for you this month.

Average White Band Gives Up On Album – Can’t Be Bothered !

Well, let me dispel that ugly falsehood at once...I was there when they finished it, and I saw it being hauled away in the big truck to the manufacturers – and I have a piece of paper that says “deW no pish” ..no, I’m sorry it’s upside down, it’s “Ship on Wed.” which means THIS WEEK. The brand new, never before seen or heard, first studio record in seven years from those darlings of the Twilight Home and pension fund, the Overage white Band, have a new release

“Living In Colour” (that’s color in English) ready for YOU at their first concerts of the spring beginning next week.

A platinum moment in a plutonium-seeking year, folks, and all coming to a theatre near you – if you live in the nippy Northeast that is, for now anyway.

We are going to subject you to an initial ‘private’ release on our own label for this upcoming tour where you will only be able to get your copy at the gigs, or online via our website sales department; it won’t be available in stores right away – that will come nearer summer time when people can brave the trip to Tower, Borders or Sam Goody in shorts and t-shirt (AWB, of course) without fear of frostbite or the need for kapok clothing and foot-warmers en route.

Hopefully, it’ll turn out to be one of those great summer records that we measure our lives by – or used to before we had things like mortgages, tuition fees and tax-days to serve that purpose.

AWB’s Album “Living In Colour” A Ripoff Of D’Angelo, Maxwell And The Whole Neo-Soul Patrol”

Another filthy lie, I tell you. Not once did the pair of them cross my mind while writing these songs, let alone either of them call me up to see how it was coming along. I was actually listening to old Mamas & Papas tapes and the odd Cowsills record, deliberately to avoid such malignant critique at this delicate stage so soon after birth. (it weighs 8lbs.6oz by the way, and it’s a girl) The only things we ripped off were bits of old Average White Band – who doesn’t? – some Temptations, Stylistics, Spinners, Marvin Gaye, Al Green, Stevie Wonder, Memphis Horns, Les McCann, Eddie Harris, The Crusaders, and all the usual suspects that have sat on our shoulders through every album we’ve ever made. So eat that one, you swine!

Alan Gorrie walks out on AWB Project

Well, yeah,.. but I’d left my wallet at home – and I came back an hour later, but they’d finished without me, so it’s not strictly true. Look, I was only given a year or two to come up with tunes for this record, and when all but eight of them were thrown out for riotous behaviour, I got a bit ticked off; wouldn’t you? Anyway, we worked it out in the end, thanks to immeasurable contributions from Klyde and Fred and Matt Noble, our co-producer with whom I used to write many years ago (Sticky Situation, and I’ll Get Over You, from the Aftershock album), and when they found I had rolls of quarters for the parking meters, they more or less begged me to come back. How could I refuse those sad, pleading faces?

Average White Band guilty of murdering classic songs

Not Guilty!! First of all, the evidence is purely circumstantial – no-one has heard anything yet, your honor, and even then the headline betrays a callously subjective viewpoint from those who might consider any rendering of original hits to be sacrilegious and blasphemous, unless slavishly copied and unmodified.

True, we have delved into two songs that have long been favorites – in the case of “I’m Gonna Make You Love Me,” one that has been around AWB since the very first days of the band with Robbie McIntosh at the helm, and with “Love Won’t Let Me Wait” a tune we had fantastic reaction to when we performed it in Europe a couple of years back, as an encore, and which Onnie & I did last year on a BBC unplugged session for a Scottish morning talk show. It’s also the only damn song I can sing just as easily at eight in the morning as I can late at night, so if any of you radio & TV casting directors need early am. promo slots featuring somewhat live music…..here’s your chance.

And so, if that’s all the innuendo and prevarication you can muster as a measure of misplaced pique in the face of our admittedly-oft-postponed album offering, let me assure you that it should be well worth the wait; those of you who have heard snippets live, such as “Down To The River”, “Think Small”, “Check Your Groove”, and “I Can’t Help It”

(these last two premiered at the Birchmere this year) will have an idea of the overall picture. I won’t bore you with meaningless previews of the other new songs on the record, suffice to say that the title track, “Living In Colour” is one of those rare cases where you absolutely KNOW you can bet on your own horse to finish well – and it

showcases Klyde’s vocal to great and sensitive effect.

The rest you will hear any day now, if you can tear yourself away from the endless, wall-to-wall coverage of the remains of the war in Iraq and hot foot it to one of the upcoming concerts at the end of this month into the beginning of May where we’ll be treating each concert as a virtual album-release party. Just bring your best friends, a valid credit card or wad of cash for the bar, and a fresh pair of ears for the evening. We’ll do the rest – supply the music, break out the new CDs, dress up in outrageous costumes, and perform acrobatic feats and conjuring tricks by request, until all have been thoroughly satisfied.

As for these last three, well, I did promise a few lies, didn’t I?

A.G.

JANUARY SAILS

2003-01-29T09:26:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the wonderful world of the year 2003. This is a year of unprecedented promise, of rare prescience, and of

a likely pretty ugly war, too. Many will triumph this year and even more will prosper. Trouble is many will triumph and prosper at the expense of others’ demise; but luckily these irksome victims and statistics are but a necessary hiccup in the grand scheme to rid the world of anyone we don’t like a lot at any given moment. For the rest of us, this will be a year of avoidance, a year of shrugging, of wavering, of tutting and toeing the line complacently and docilely. Speech is no longer free of course and will come to be taxed at an even higher rate as things develop, I’m sure, but for the moment I await my hoped-for rebate and continue typing unabashed and unashamed of my vulnerable position in the debate. Do we smell burning martyr?

It occurs to me on a daily basis that we’re without John Lennon when we most need him. It’s hard to find a strong voice for peace and reason anymore, although it was mildly reassuring to see a few thousand Americans join the world march-for-peace day a couple of weeks ago, and to introduce the notion to their youth that this demonstration, hitherto unneeded in their life so far, is now a vital presence to show the Jolly Rancher and his gang that they will not all toady to warmongering. All you are saying, I believe, is give peace a chance. (such a simple but timeless message, John)

As you know, it always falls to artists and musicians to be activists and protesters, or at least to illustrate the idiosyncrasies of the world we live in and to point out to our deaf and blind leaders that there is another point of view and another way to proceed. We’re living in a time of “hardball” where aggression is to be admired, and in-your-face is the place! Anything else is regarded as wimpy, liberal, lily-livered, socially inept and politically naïve. I dunno where it all went horribly wrong, but I can reliably tell you that a great many of those who espouse this manic push for intolerance and warlike zeal are driven by an incredible amount of self-interest and determination to wipe out free speech unless it trumpets their own agenda and makes their pals rich as hell. Think about that the next time you are tempted to shout “Bomb the Motherpluckers ...whoever they are”

All we are saying...

And now for something completely different:

I’d like to pass on a wonderful joke from Scotland that will appeal to all who like their humour on the scatological side, and who appreciate the great fun to be found in all matters relating to the human condition of breaking wind.

A married couple are lying in bed when the husband lets rip the most staggering thunderous fart. “What in the world was that all about?” asks the incredulous wife. “Fart Football” replies the husband, “and I just scored the first goal. One-nil to me” The wife considers for a minute, then she, too rolls over and lets fly with her own effort. “One-all” she says smugly. Well it wasn’t long before the inevitable second goal came from the husband, and another stunning equalizer from the wife, but I doubt any of us expected her to pull out number three with such gusto and élan. “Three-two to ME,” she cries. Now the husband is really pissed off and in an attempt to redeem himself tries as hard as he can for an answer, but only succeeds in shitting the bed, at which point he gets up and stomps round to his wife’s side.

“What’s going on, John” she says, noting the sudden change in his demeanour.

“Half time” says the husband – “Change sides”

For those of you who might find such stuff a tad on the ‘rich’ side, I would suggest you are probably reading the wrong web page, and certainly following the wrong band for starters. All of the prose I have dished up in the past on this page has been but a thin cultural veneer hiding a steaming vein of filth running below. Though with what’s available on the web nowadays and with the variety of so-called respectable people who are nabbed for nefarious internet ‘fouls’, I should think you’re all pretty much unshockable by now. It’s getting difficult to open up e-mail these days without first having to sift through innumerable offers for something rhyming with “Niagara” and its immediate availability by the truckload, or to download “Filthy Farm Sluts frolicking with fulsome foals & frothing Friars” – not to mention Naughty nuns and their Hot habits - part two.

I actually feel a bit sorry for old Pete Townshend, however, and am willing to believe (until proven otherwise) that he is a wee bit unlucky in that a) none of the supposedly high-ranking police or members of parliament who were arrested were named, b) he was researching a book for some time and had probable justification for investigating a facet of his abused past that is today flagrantly flaunted at all of us, and c) he had tried to tell the authorities about this ahead of the ‘roundup’ where he became the poster boy for the whole sting. I have absolutely no sympathy for any of these cretins who were repeat users of this website – I was solicited once by an e-mail that said “this can be OUR little secret” and when clicked on, there was a drawing of a child, and a banner that said “Father-Daughter Love” I tell you that my blood ran cold, and I couldn’t shut the thing down fast enough – I was trembling and felt assaulted and violated and, though I knew it was deleted, trashed - GONE, somehow I kept expecting it to reappear as if it had polluted my computer and was lurking in there waiting to shock and degrade me at some unexpected moment. Now I realize that all it would have taken for my identity to have joined the FBI’s list of scoundrels would have been to go one more step into the abyss - to log on - as Brother Pete seems to have done. I hope to Hell he’s innocent.

These days, it’s BBC world Service news, football results (fart and otherwise), new cars to drool over and the odd Daily Telegraph crossword that keeps me amused for the little time that I ever get to spend online and onscreen.

I can see how many become addicted to the box, however, and I’m sure that most of you who read this claptrap are already spending waaaay too much time on the internet when there are cathedrals to be demolished, rivers to be drained, mountains to be levelled and trees to be felled for more newspapers to provide advertising space for the multi-national corporate megaliths who need to pry us free from what little is left of our money now that the tide has turned in favour of bare-faced theft and licensed larceny at the highest level. Benevolent capitalism my arse!

Christmas and New Year holidays were good, though, and I hope many of you had as relaxed and refreshing a time as I did this year; I escaped the blitz of commercialism and conscience-twisting that goes along with the Northern

Hemisphere holiday psyche, and ran away to a desert island where I checked the news about once a week just to make sure civilization was still intact and that nobody had yet started firing shots at Iraq / North Korea / Zimbabwe / and/or enter the name of your favored foe here. It was blissful to be able to ignore the hurly-burly of the Messiah’s birthday celebrations, and instead concentrate on the construction of the perfect rum punch, learning how to correctly open a coconut, and knowing how to discern the difference between a barracuda and a needle-fish, so that at the sight of the latter I’m no longer shooting out of the water like a popped champagne cork and landing all over the surface like a madwoman’s shit. I was able to develop a bit of serenity (if not sobriety - these tropical types are not shrinking violets, after all) and for someone who logs more miles in a year than some flight crews and many truck-drivers, it is very cool to be constrained to a bit of land a few miles long and only a couple wide. Well, two and a half if the tide’s out. I saw a wonderful T-shirt down there that I think summed up their attitude to the season: it said “My Liver has been BAD – it must be PUNISHED”, and another, a replica of the shirt worn by agents of the D.E.A. In tiny letters underneath the initials it had

drunk every afternoon

But back to reality I had to come, and to withering cold and things called driving-conditions and wind-chill and

minus degrees of the kind to try the will of the most intrepid arctic explorer. There is work to be done here in the cradle of AWB, and an album to finish now that we have our vocal first mate Klyde Jones on the ship’s bridge; some pretty handy tunes are coming together as I write, and we finally seem to have the time, the space, the will, the songs, and if someone will just give us loads of money ...

Seriously, though, this is our current mission, and apart from a few select dates in February we will keep our shoulders to the pump until this is complete. I was checking racks of CDs the other day in Barnes N’ Borders or some such, and I couldn’t help but notice how irrelevant cover-art seems to be nowadays – not that there’s much space on one of these four-inch squares to begin with. However it does appear that it has little to do with the selling point of records in the modern domain, when you consider the agonizing, double-guessing, debating and redesigning that used to be part of the LP cover process, and without which you couldn’t hope to attract anyone into buying your newest offering. Now, it might as well be a silhouette of the group, some surreal symbol or ‘swoosh’ or, if a solo artist, then a photo that would give Helmut Newton, Richard Avedon or David Bailey indigestion, and would certainly have Herb Ritts turning in his grave. There certainly seems to be a vogue for what I term ‘amateur-chic’ as a design ethic, or maybe it’s just cheaper and easier not to give a shit since all the standards have slipped anyway, and let’s face it, you’re dead lucky if there’s more than one or two good tracks on a CD in the first place. So we will buck the trend, be our anachronistic selves, and we will TRY to come up with the old-fashioned goods inside and out for your delight and

delicacy.

We might fail, but we will TRY!

I will leave you temporarily with the above brief news and views update, and will go and secure my fifth layer of clothing before venturing into the arctic wastes near New York. My people are hungry and I must try to hunt a wooly mammoth or sabre-toothed attorney for dinner, or there will be much wailing and gnashing of teeth. There always is anyway – it’s what Fred does best!

Apologies to all who clamored for and were disappointed by lack of a Season’s Greeting on this page before Christmas, but I literally just had time to finish our last gig, fly back to base, quickly dig out a pair of sandals and a loin-cloth, and head back to the airport in the middle of the night for the ‘Desert-Island Special’ at dawn the next morning. I was however pained by my negligence; but my conscience cleared around the time they had brought me my second Bloody Mary, you’ll be relieved to know.

As for the perfect rum punch – one generous slice of lime, fresh from the tree if possible, some crushed ice, a jigger of Pusser’s rum (Mount Gay if unavailable), the juice of a fresh orange, and a good dash of sweet cranberry juice to top off. Shake or stir minimally, find a nearby sunset, and enjoy. Can be taken more than once a day without too much trouble, and should be! Happy New Year.

A.G.

IZZY DOES IT

2002-09-24T10:39:00.000-07:00

This week finds us perambulating across the Southern states, heading for a potential confrontation with tropical storm/soon-to-be-Hurricane Isadore, still in the Gulf at time of writing but due to land onshore tomorrow night or early next morning. Well, our bus is filthy from two days & nights of desert dust, Boeing-sized bugs and the odd fuel spill, so perhaps we’ll be all shiny and new by the time it’s had its whirly way with us and there’ll be no need to pay for a truckwash if the expected rainfall from Izzy meets its due potential.

Right now I’m attempting to control a bouncing keyboard as we pass through Oklahoma on a road that bears more resemblance to an army proving ground than a US highway, and I can only assume that the state has a) had its funding withdrawn, b) the promised “road works” we see signs for didn’t show up on the right year (they simply put up the barrels & cones to slow us all down), or c) the American Dental Association has entered a pact with the Governor to assure a constant quota of loose fillings and perpetuate their subsequent ministrations………….

“smile for the camera? - piss off, I’ve just crossed Oklahoma!

All rattling aside, I have to report a fine first week of our fall tour, featuring new singer and multi-instrumentalist Klyde Jones, whom many of you will recall from the Soul Tattoo album, and, in particular, his fine lead vocals with me on “Every Beat Of My Heart”. Klyde has filled Eliot’s vacant spot onstage in AWB as the talented Mr. Lewis has taken some time off from roadlife to find a bit of home life and creature comforts that maybe one or two of us lucky bastards take for granted, having cemented some of those things before we became famous/busy/permanently-absentee-from-realitees. We all wish him well, and I’m sure that he will benefit from some time to step back from the rigors of touring life and refocus his keen musical sights; when’s the album coming out, El? (and where should I send all this vodka that’s now piling up night after night?)

While I mention potential confrontations with weather phenomena I guess I should state my reservations against confrontations with middle-eastern firebrands at a time when our economies are going through some of the biggest turmoil in decades, and when we collectively have failed to satisfactorily finish the job set out in the last campaign (unless someone’s found his ass today while I’m bouncing through OK., or we rebuilt Kabul late last night with the aid of Donald Trump’s spare worksquad). Personally, I remember the last Gulf war too clearly; it began on the first night of our tour, and we played the next two or three weeks to tiny handfuls of diehard punters who were the exception to the masses huddled wide-eyed and glued to CNN as Stormin’ Norman and his swashbuckling band blazed their way into the patriotic psyche - and left us audience-free and broke as the cost of fuelling our bus went through the roof, and ticket sales through the floor. If that sounds entirely selfish just think of the ramifications of another more protracted and politically more complicated engagement with, again, no remote guarantee of getting the bastard, and if we do, of being able to replace him with anyone less vicious or murderous in the long run. And we cuddle up tighter to the Saudi princes in the process, while blithely ignoring that it was fifteen of their insurgents who perpetrated Sept.11 and consigned that date to Hell forever in the American and British memory. Oy McVey!

So back to the music (coffee break’s over) and a refresher for Onnie and myself especially, who have seen Klyde go back to the original vocals and versions of some of the AWB material for his template, and in doing so we are revisiting some of the ‘lost chords’ of the soaring seventies.. and his soulful voice has been causing noticeable squealing & squirming among many of the female number in the audience this past week, so I have to believe that he has stirred some of these memories in them too. Whatever the cause of this frisson of excitement in the ladies’ gallery, I can assure you it’s entirely spontaneous and unabashed and certainly nothing to do with our roadies releasing white mice among them at strategic musical moments. Once we get this leg of the tour under our belts, we intend to review some of the other gems in the old repertoire that have lain undisturbed collecting fairy dust for years, to see what might please you for a change, and further explore some of our new brother’s silk degrees (and maybe also my gritticisms, too). Then it’s on to new stuff, entirely.

All I can say in winding up is that I’m as happy as a clam in soft Caribbean sand, and please Messrs. Bush and Blair let not some misguided machismo and military madness spoil my fun right now when there is too much of beauty and soulful serenity around to be worried about warmongering, and the spoils and troils of buried oils on foreign soils, and nations coming to the boil – we all will lose in the short run, and multitudess will lose their all in the long run.

Me, I’ve got to run – I’ve a hurricane to catch.

A.G.

Reality, Fantasy And Frivolity

2002-07-14T10:25:00.000-07:00

I’m continuously being told by politicians, pundits, TV presenters, financial advisers, and sundry commentators that we all have to face up to today’s reality. That usually means I’m going to get some more bad news of the kind that will encompass a collusion of CEOs, mega-accountants or brokers who have just made off with the life savings of another few thousand (or million) wretches whose fault is nothing more than to have trusted the hitherto-respected captains of industry and commerce, and the rock upon which this modern reality is founded.

I hear from no less a figure than the head honcho at the Wall Street Journal that, well, there’s no real crime here…..this is just capitalism at work, and this is how the system shakes itself down, and we have to not get all

worked up, and face reality. The President and VeePee are all up to their chins in the same quadruple dealing

and have been for years, and the day last week when C.in C.himself stood up at the New York stock exchange and began waffling inanities about some toothless endeavour to form a “swat team” for corporate wrongdoing, while behind him the graph at the foot of America’s bed began to plummet and continued to do so all through his speech was as much reality as anyone should be asked to stomach.

Talking of reality, it is becoming scary just how much ‘reality’ television we are bombarded with. This, as you must know is nothing to do with reality at all; what is happening is that production companies in Hollywood are finding ever-cheaper ways to make programs devoid of script writers, directors, and all the other artistic personnel that go along with bona fide film and television making. Instead we are supposed to gawp at marginally psychotic specimens who are (in the guise of ‘real’ people) in turn instructed to act or overact in the most base, crass and venal of ways toward each other to satisfy the cravings, at prime time, of the moronic hordes who glue themselves to daytime television and the putrid lather of soap operas and/or MTV’s soft-porniglot. Isn’t it ironic that the only mention I have heard this president make toward his televisual preferences is that he likes “The Osbournes,” thus, in essence, showing his endorsement of – you got it – reality TV. Mind you, I shudder to think what passes for artistic taste in that philistine persona; I have a vision of JR Ewing without the script, and a gnawing suspicion that I am perilously close to being dead-on with my estimate of that cultural reality.

And so to fantasy, a much-preferred state of mind where one can at least control the scenario, the enactment, and the outcome of future situations, where we are enticed to higher artistic and cultural expectations, where education budgets are not routinely slashed to provide tax breaks/refunds etc. for the corporately fattened,

where we begin to wipe out hunger and disease and reduce international third-world debt, where the front row of

the audience resembles Claudia Schiffer, Halle Berry, Jennifer Connolly etc. on a nightly basis, and where I can still play ninety minutes of soccer, without ending up a geriatric vomiting heap after ten minutes of being humiliated by someone half my age who has the ball attached to his foot as if by string. There are other more common fantasies I’m sure we all share, some admirable and some a bit more, shall we say...dubious? But the lottery is not for me, nor the pursuit of power and untold wealth for its own sake nor living to be a hundred and ten.

The best come from the dream state, I’m sure you’ll agree, that wonderful hybrid of reality and fantasy where surreal versions of our friends or enemies do the most ridiculous things in the most improbable groups but still with a grain of likelihood and probability. The bottle-rocket you set off a lifetime ago that went through your Granny’s window as she was washing her face at the sink, and which becomes a train coming out the other side of the house, but won’t stop for you on the platform as you are wearing that dreadful shirt that embarrassed your friends at last week’s party – those same friends who have turned into a team of plumbers knocking at your door to fix the stereo you dropped while moving recently to the new house with all these corridors and odd-shaped rooms, each of which has some strange ritual going on as you open the doors one-at-a-time trying to locate the cause of the trouble – trouble you

can’t identify, but which is so disturbing it causes you to attempt vainly to cry out in your sleep. All your wife or partner hears is “AamBphhtakhssssshh,Na” And the next thing you know there’s a dig in the ribs,

light coming in through the curtains, your arm’s numb from lying on it, you’re awake, and you’re back to reality!

If all of the above seems to trivialize the subject matter for your particular taste, then please allow me a moment or two of frivolity. This column has never been more than somewhat of a stream of unconsciousness as far as I’m concerned, and something that is done on a whim and a prayer as and when the mood takes me. I doubt it even reflects much of the opinions of my fellow band-members, but then they can write their own observations should the mood take them. I must say, talking of ‘mood’ that the mood round here is very nice these days. Our

big night at the New Orleans Essence Festival last weekend was just that – BIG, and really very gratifying with the reception we got from one of the largest urban congregations one could amass in this country. All the

players were there, from Isley Brothers on the ‘mature’ tip, to Alicia Keys on the new end, and everyone in between over the course of three solid-gold soul nights. Add the comedians, such as Steve Harvey & Cedric The

Entertainer, and a terrific MC team of the Tom Joyner Morning Crew, and it was sheer gluttony. Nice to have been part of it again, and an honour to represent ‘white folks’ with readily appreciated sincerity. In fact, one girl from B.E.T. at the press conference afterwards asked how it felt to be “honorary Black folks” I leave you to deduce the obvious from this, and let’s just say if you’d told me in Scotland 28 years ago that this could ever happen I’d have suggested it was sheer fantasy, but for this more-than-averagely lucky bastard, it has become ..well, reality.

A.G.

World Cup And Other Musings From The Well

2002-06-20T10:16:00.000-07:00

As I write this, the USA is hours away from its first visit to the quarter finals of the World Cup of 2002.

Now, it may not prevail against a German team who have won the whole cheese several times before, and who are

massively experienced at this level compared to the somewhat fairy-tale US squad who owe more to grit and

unpredictability than in depth of talent, but their achievement is no less historic and heroic for that. I fervently hope that you in the States are taking note and tuning in at whatever time of day or night you must to follow their exploits and cheer them on from the homeland.

It was therefore all the more galling the other night to hear from Onnie that NBC nightly news were dismissing them and their progress as a flash-in-the-pan, soon to be forgotten episode, and that soccer in general was no worthy sport for the American male, and was lacking in aggression and – yes – VIOLENCE (that most laudable and

demonstrable virtue to instill in our youth should they have trouble choosing a sporting activity). Then they

trotted out the slur to all that it was probably all right as a woman’s game...now just whom is that a worse slap to – the US women who have won TWO world cups already and who are young legends and role models in their own right, or the millions of young males who are dying to play team soccer at school, college, and maybe professional level. Honestly, the irresponsibility of these cretins in television beggars belief. I would sack them on the spot.

Well, summer seems to have arrived with a vengeance and the American highway is melting under our wheels as we embark on our annual pilgrimage to see how many road and air miles we can cover in the June/July period. We will

scale the Rockies to perform at the Winterpark Jazz Festival – it’s so high up sax players and singers need

iron lungs to perform, and you can flick a guitar pick a hundred yards in the thin atmosphere – and we will cool

our heels at sea level with gigs in Annapolis, DC, Long Island and the like, with welcome ocean breezes to soothe

our fevered brows. In between, the great plains will see us trundling in – and out – of such venues as Kansas City, Cadott Wisconsin, Chicago and other stops through the prairie companionship. All we can do is hope for decent weather on our outdoor shows, and half-decent air conditioning for our indoor performances. I’ve learned that the most important piece of road equipment during the US summer is a small but powerful fan to keep the sweat from blinding me while singing.

All the more pronounced when one has just come from a British and European tour, most of which was conducted

in full–length warm clothing as it was barely showing signs of spring there during our travels. We kept threat-

ening to break out the shorts, but I think a couple of us managed it only once, and that for a dare! The gigs were

great though, and we got a chance to perform at one of the many Jubilee (locally termed ‘The Jubbly’) festivals – Plymouth – that were held throughout England on June 3. I’m glad we got to do that...not because I’m a royalist or could give a hoot about the queen or her whole masquerade, but to be an alien in England with bugger-all to do on a bank holiday – especially THAT one-would be akin to watching the party going on around you from within a sealed glass soundproof tank. Instead, we had a beautiful afternoon on the clifftops above the English Channel, along with old pals The BLOCKHEADS (of Ian Dury fame) and a wonderful dinner laid on for all of us at the opulent Victorian “Grand (yes, really) Hotel”. I felt as if Oscar Wilde were about to walk in and deliver some ascerbic witticism, or at least we’d have a hushed silence for a crackly wireless broadcast from Winston Churchill extolling British patriotic fervour. As it was, we had far too much good wine, got rollickingly legless, and behaved like a bunch of, well, like a bunch of musicians.

As many of you are no doubt aware, our DVD, “Tonight” is on the shelves of most reputable record retailers and top

class bookshops like Borders etc, and documents a performance from the House Of Blues summer before last. I

have heard nothing but good stuff from people who have seen it, and I’ll have to take their word for it, as since the actual surround-sound sessions I have yet to see (or HEAR) it in its entirety. Hopefully I’ll get a chance to lock myself in a proper preview theatre at the end of the tour and quietly ‘wallow’ in it without anyone else to pass comment or require their presence be recognised. I recall being sat in the ‘hot’ seat by the engineers at time of construction, and being awed by the experience of total immersion in the sound and thinking to myself that this is what it must be like to be at one of our concerts..I could hear people behind me, the band right up front, and I got that skin-crawl I used to get as a kid when I heard a killer record. I kid you not!

As for other endeavours, no, the CD is not done yet as we can’t get off the road long enough to put in any worthwhile studio hours and get nearer to fruition. We are, however, previewing tunes from it on this tour so if you get off your arses and come along to the nearest AWB show this summer, you’ll get at least a taste of what we’re up to, and where we’re up to in it. My best guess is that it’ll be done at the end of the touring year and ready for consumption at the start of ’03; we could have certainly brought out some half-assed placebo for you this term, but neither you lot nor us would feel much better for that in the long-run, and ultimately it has to be something AWB can be proud of before it sees the light of day. Meanwhile, we’re setting our alarms for the next World Cup game and I hope some of you are as well. Besides, whether the team wins or loses, it means at least I won’t miss breakfast.

A.G.

ABBEY ROAD AND OTHER WORLDLY CROSSINGS

2001-12-02T10:57:00.000-08:00

On Thursday, on arriving from the airport, my son was playing the Beatles’ “Abbey Road” album - yes, an LP - and we were marvelling at the duet with George and Eric Clapton trading licks just prior to “..and in the end....” and he said to me, “I guess poor old George is kinda’ on the way out,” and I agreed that it would be a sad day when finally he passed away, and that the finale we had just been listening to would be a fine epitaph for him, given his unselfish attitude to life and in particular toward Eric, with whom he managed to somehow ‘share’ a wife, in a manner of speaking.Little did we realise as we spoke, that George was already dead some hours, but not till Friday morning did we get the news and realise what an eery coincidence that had been on the previous evening.

Now, I can’t claim to have been a friend of George Harrison and I think only met him once, but it is like losing a family member somehow, in that The Beatles have been such a huge part of my growing up, and I grew up in their Britain and in their times. You could say I lost my virginity to The Beatles. While he was alive - well, until his illness became widely known, anyway - there was always the slight chance that they might just do something with, say, Julian in his dad’s place, and it would give all of us Beatle fans a tingle down the spine if they did. Alas, it’s all over now for real, and that thing that first made me really want to be a musician more than anything else is no more. Onnie and I have known a lot of the ‘Beatle’s people’ over the years - their assistants and Apple staff, etc., and our years in London were dominated by their presence; we used to play at and go to the clubs they frequented, like the Scotch of St. James, The Speakeasy, and The Revolution and one way or another we became close friends with one or two of their original Liverpool pals, lovers and associates. I even had the privilege of visiting George’s baronial pile near Henley-on-Thames one grey Sunday afternoon.

So it is as if a chunk of one’s time of passage is finally gone, and sad we are to see it go. By all accounts, George was a lovely bloke, very philosophical and courageous both, and it was clear that he was the stabilising force in the cauldron of genius that John and Paul stirred up. He was also one hell of a guitar player, and an underrated composer in his own right. We did quite a few recording sessions at Abbey Road in our youth (my first ‘big-time’ audition was there), and a few years back, after an early morning arrival from a cross-Channel ferry and with time to kill before our London hotel rooms were ready, I took Dave Brunetto, our then assistant and a huge Beatle fan, round to see the old place. He was kind enough to have the picture of us sitting on the hallowed steps framed and given to me, and I found that quite comforting to look at, along with my many books and other collectables from the Fab Four on Friday night. I even had a scotch and coke (THE fave Beatle drink of the sixties) to toast his passage.

See you around, George.

In a few days, it will be the 21st anniversary of John’s demise - another of those “where-were-you-when” moments in life - and that means it’s time to write cards to people you don’t even think about half the time (be honest, now), but that’s exactly what I was doing when Hamish phoned me with the news he’d been shot. Well, that quickly turned into the news he was dead, and a first piece of the Fab Four went missing.

Onnie & I found ourselves on the Gulf coast the following Sunday amid a really dreadful Florida tour,the only saving grace being that we were able to stop the bus, take a stick and write “Goodbye John” in the sand at the water’s edge, and watch the tide take it away. I was cleaning my bike in February 1963 when “Please Please Me” came on the radio and the world stopped turning for three minutes, and about thirty-three years now, for that matter. Thanks, John!

So, we’ll break out the cards anyway and communicate with absent friends - the full list this year, since this is no time to miss anybody you’ve ever cared about after the crap that’s gone down recently, and the damage done (and still going on) around the world.

Our touring year is finally finished, and I am happy to be off the road with a chance to write some music and enjoy some quality time with mates, so I will take this opportunity to wish all our fans and friends everywhere a very Happy Christmas and a prosperous New Year when it arrives panting and wagging its tail. We’ll be back round your way in ‘02, and if we didn’t make it to your part of the world this year, then razz your local promoter(s), because we would have, had we been asked.

The Beatles, alas, won’t;..... but give peace a chance anyway, as George and John would have wished.

A.G.

HALLOWEEN, HARRISBURG, AND OTHER HAPHAZARDRY

2001-10-29T10:48:00.000-08:00

I know this is supposed to be a ‘road diary’ and we are not quite on the road yet this Monday - more sort of

at the side of the grassy verge waiting for our ride to come along with a comfy spare seat and a flask of coffee for the journey tomorrow. First stop, Pennsylvania - the depths thereof - and two cities almost side-by-side, York and Harrisburg who will be regaled by ourselves and Tower Of Power as a Halloween treat. Unless, of course, they have some trick up their sleeves that we don’t yet know about, in which case we’ll better be prepared to counter with some surprise of our own. I would personally prefer subtle means for starters - perhaps replace the M&Ms in their dressing room with my own Halloween candy recipe of vile originality - Brussel Sprouts dipped in Swiss chocolate. This is a fiendishly cunning concoction guaranteed to keep children away from your door forever (or get your mailbox tipped & sprayed next time around). Perhaps sackloads of these for the Taliban could be a little side diversion during this time of military uncertainty, and it would certainly give US a bit of a laugh in the interim while we decide exactly who we want to replace them with at some time in the future....perhaps Pat Robertson & Jerry Falwell leading a band of religious nutters from the Bible Belt wearing country-club golfbag towels on their heads. Discuss.

We are then headed for Rochester, N.Y. for our first visit there in quite a few years, at the Water Street Music Hall on Thursday. I seem to recall that’s the old brick building down in that funny little corner of warehouse buildings, restaurants etc. where a couple of on/offramps converge and diverge, making it difficult for anyone who doesn’t belong to the city to get the right turning and not have to re-circumnavigate the ring road to find it on the second pass. I remember a couple of great concerts there in the past, and always a really good atmosphere in the room. Hope to see all you Rochester funketeers there this week for your tri-annual dose of medicine. Then down the Thruway a piece, for Friday night at the Turning Stone Casino in Verona (again with T.O.P.) where Rocco Prestia and I had threatened each other with a game of golf on the day. It was 86 degrees in Fresno last month when we discussed it, never thinking ahead to the fact it’ll probably be 36 degrees by the time we all get there on Friday, so once more the interdenominational Bassists’ Classic will have to be put on hold for another season. Unless, of course, we can actually get to have them tour Scotland with us, where there would be no shortage of opportunities for such recreational comedy.

Finally, we will truck on down into The City for Saturday’s event at BB KING’S, where, as you know already, we are making our personal contribution to the disaster fund by donating the proceeds of the night to the Special Ops. Fire Company on Roosevelt Island, who took a huge hit on the 11th September, and who are Onnie’s neighbourhood firehouse. As I mentioned in the last bulletin, Brian Dunne’s family is also of the firefighting persuasion, and will be in attendance en masse to see business done, and lend moral support. Don’t forget,

Your AWB Needs YOU!! See you there.

After that we have finally some space and time to really get into the business of writing and/or scaring up material for a) the new CD, b) some new stage clothes, c) new curtains for the back lounge of the bus, and d) a much-needed bunch of stuff for this ailing page, I hear you say. I can say with certainty, however, that the DVD is to be released at the end of March, entitled "Tonight - Average White Band Live" and on the Image video label. Hopefully we can coincide our audio contribution with that time scale in order to give y’all the biggest bang for your Buick. Meanwhile, I’m off to look out my fur truss and thermal chassis for this week’s foray into the sub-Arctic wastes of the Northeast, so please do your level best to attend one of the concerts this week since a full room is a warm room, and I, for one, can’t play worth a toss when my hands are cold, and Fred’s sax sounds like a kid with a kazoo on a crowded night-flight. Just ‘peachy’. On that bent note, I will leave you to imagine other tortures we could inflict on all non-believers. Funk the lot of them, I say.

A.G.

A WHITE PAGE FROM A BLACK BOOK

2001-09-28T10:45:00.000-07:00

Well, it’s been hard to come up with anything to say that hasn’t already been said in the last two weeks by a host of columnists, sub editors, television commentators, and other shapers of opinion far more eloquent than I on the subject of the tragedy that hit New York and indeed the whole of the Western World to a degree, on September the eleventh. I have written this special piece for the website many times in my head, and have shredded it just as many times for one reason or another, as more aspects and appositions have come to light, and as my feelings on certain of the consequenses have shaped and reshaped themselves.

The one thing that is unmoved, however, is my need to assure you all of the entire band’s shock and sadness at the scale of this atrocity, and its senseless waste of human life, most of it being young men and women in their prime and with young families here in the New York area, and a ghostly roster of missing victims whose families wait overseas (many in Britain) for news that will never arrive. I don’t think there has ever been a single more cataclysmic event perpetrated in peacetime on such an indiscriminate level, against people who were guilty of nothing more than going to work in a global marketplace which happened to be the great symbolic icon of capitalism most hated and despised by the enemies of freedom and democracy. Our hearts are heavy with their loss, and the grief is shared by us all - knowing, as we all of us here do, someone or other who never came home on that dreadful day.

It ocurred to us, when at the beginning of this week we finalised discussions for a performance at BB King’s club in New York on Saturday Nov.3rd., that we would now have an opportunity to make our own personal donation to the Twin Towers Fund set up by Mayor Giuliani in response to the extraordinary needs of the victims. Accordingly, we will donate our proceeds of the night to the fund, and we would ask ALL Average White Band friends and fans to come and help swell the coffers for this occasion, and join in our tribute to the victims, their families, and the heroes who lost their lives in unspeakable ways trying to rescue and relieve others. I refer of course to the firemen, police, ambulence and paramedic personnel who never made it out, and who have never before sustained such unprecidented losses in a single incident. Our drummer, Brian Dunne, comes from a firefighting family who have lost close brethren in this disaster, and in Onnie’s little neighborhood alone, ten firefighters have disappeared. It’s tough to finish this paragraph even now, two weeks afterwards.

There are lots of observations and opinions I have wanted to share with you over this - from how it could have happened and our unpreparedness, to what should or could be done to ease the pain of its happening - but they are, as I said earlier, still in flux and in respect for the victims’ families, perhaps in questionable taste at this time such are my frustrations, my hurt and my anger at various nonsenses. I will leave these weighty issues to those better qualified and better trained to air them, in their volumes of print and acres of screen.

I would like to remind people however that the sharpest tool of hate is ignorance, and ignorance of our true character is what spawned this awful deed, so please read and listen to every source of information that you can before condoning any vengeance of hate that Britain and America might be inclined to try, however seemingly justified at this time, and remember John Lennon’s "Imagine" instead, as an anthem for this passage. The wound will heal, the scar will be huge, but there is dignity and respect for a wounded soul who can proceed with humility rather than hubris.

For America, it’s the end of the innocence. For the rest of us, we reluctantly welcome a new neighbour to the trauma centre.

Friends, we’ll see you at BB King’s on Saturday Nov.3rd.

A.G.

FIRST THIS, THEN FIRST THAT.

2001-07-23T10:32:00.000-07:00

It's been an interesting month out here on the great American continent, with a series of first-time-ever catastrophes, dilemmas and anomalies which individually might seem little more than trifling annoyances, but when taken collectively make one wonder if perhaps we are going through a slightly skewed scene in an otherwise well-rehearsed play.

First, we had the frustration of being stranded by one of this nation's two largest air carriers in Denver airport on our way to Reno to perform that night in Caesar's Lake Tahoe - the first time there for us since the Seventies. It certainly is the first time in our career that we have had a date cancelled due to an airline foul-up, and a more helpless feeling I cannot imagine than having to allow a promoter to go dark that night, knowing that with just a tiny miracle, you just might be able to get there in time for a later show................NOT.

His decision was a wise one, but a great disappointment for us to know that fans turned up and had to be turned away due to lackaband.

Sorry, folks; you will be heartened to know, however, that the airline in question are so concerned about our loss, and so contrite, that they have promised to pass on my letter to their customer service department and that we might expect an answer from them within SIXTY DAYS!!!!

By then, I calculate conservatively, they will have made another eighteen to twenty million dollars out of other unwitting and trusting passengers.

Then the same airline, on our return trip to the East, managed to lose our wardrobe bag containing a fair collection of hard-sought European stage clothes, and other vital sundries necessary to well-dressed public appearance, and causing us to scour the malls of northern Connecticut & southern Massachusetts for enough to get us through one show up in Enfield, and another outside Pittsburgh the following day. Let's just say it was an interesting sight - AWB in replacement garb!! Fortunately, this one was redeemed, and the missing item turned up two days later, crumpled and mangled, but with nothing more than a severe ironing session (or steaming, if our long-time readers can recall Fred's purchase a couple of years back, and his short sharp education in the use thereof) needed.

And so, back to the safety of our bus, or so we thought.

The second date of the next leg took us to what we assumed would be a nice, pleasant day by the seaside, at Ocean beach, Maryland, at a hitherto-unknown (to us, anyway) gig called Brewmaster's Pub, on the strip there. As we approached Ocean Beach the titillating thought of a house-brewed cold pint on tap was dancing in my head, and this state of euphoria lasted until we pulled into the carpark of what seemed a very small - but potentially pleasant - gig.

That's when the balloon burst.

We walked in to find an infinitessimal stage in a corner with ONE guitar amp, and ONE bass cabinet sitting there, all lonely-like......no drums in sight, nor anything else that was promised us, as per every gig we do. To cut a long and harrowing story short, the neglectful Promoter had left procurement of same until the last minute, that had come and gone, and not until eight o'clock at night did some local heroism and much threatening provide a drum kit that would have been more at home in a scout hall than a professional gig.

After electing to try our best to do the gig so as not to disappoint fans who were making the trek to Ocean Beach (and mindful of the Tahoe fiasco a week earlier) we then learned that the promoter was trying to charge $25 entrance, after contracting with our agency to only take $15., and telling callers that it was $10. We protested that this was scandalous and wrong, but he refused to budge, and, as a result, many who came with families etc. were not able to afford this amount, and, after all, why should they when the circumstances that were provided to us prevented any chance of a grade A performance.

But it gets better.

Having played the show (full length plus encore, to a small but noisy crowd), Paul, our tour manager went to settle up with said promoter, who proceeded to storm out of his kitchen/office/den, swearing and knocking drinks out of Onnie & my hands, soaking us in beer and wasting some decent scotch (a capital crime where we come from), and then to have us bodily thrown out of his club! Un-frigging-believable, and yet another first in our recent history. I definitely got the impression that it's certainly not the first time he has done this, as his tantrum was carefully rehearsed and choreographed for maximum surprise element. So a word to the wise: Never, never be tempted to go there to see any band, no matter how attractive the prospect might seem. Let him rot in his little seashore swindlery, and may his toilet run forever.........it had no soap in it anyway. So much for employees washing THEIR hands!

Never mind, it has been smooth sailing since then, and we have had great concerts in Omaha, St.Louis, Boulder and Silverthorne, Colorado, and Portland, Oregon since then, and we are about to finish up our Vegas dates and head for California.

But I'd like to leave you with one more 'first' in our experience, that being the thrust of this diary entry in the first place. As we came down the escalator in an airport the other day, we were all astounded to be confronted by a security person wearing a blond wig, tons of makeup, but with a voice like a cross between Jack Hawkins and Barry White, if you get my drift. Fortunately, the surprise was not all ours, for Fred and Brian had their 'teeth' in......a truly frightening and hilarious sight in and of itself.

Then, as if that were not strange enough, one of the 'stewardesses' on our plane was also a 'man-man', as Brian calls the great undecided.

I can now finally reveal the airline;

it is "Man-Man United"

See you down the trail, podnahs.

A.G.

OKAY IN THE UK

2001-05-26T10:06:00.000-07:00

Since the last bulletin to this organ of gossip, opinion, and insight into the ever-changing travel world of AWB, many miles and many hours of music have been tucked under our belts in, first, a 'northeast' tour of the United States, and now the second week of our UK run is almost over here in Ronnie Scott's, Birmingham.

The first stop over here, though, was in the glorious homeland of Scotland, where I reckon we had the best four concerts there since the old heyday, an opinion seemingly shared, for once, by press and media alike, not to mention the reaction of the fans and our good friends - who are at times also our fiercest critics, such is their determination to see us as good as they think we can be. It's always nice to be able to live up to those high expectations.........it makes all the hours of preparation, travel, meditation (yeah, right!) and concentration seem worthwhile when the music comes out of the machine exactly as you planned it.

I should begin by commending all the guys for their unbelievable stamina and determination to perform better than ever. They had the unenviable task of flying overnight to London, then, after a 3-hour wait in London airport, another flight to the very north of Scotland - Aberdeen - for the first gig that same night. Onnie and I, who had been in Scotland for a few days prior, to take care of newspaper interviews and radio stuff for our home press & broadcasters, had a leisurely drive through the bucolic Scottish countryside to meet this dishevelled bunch lurching through arrivals at Aberdeen airport, while we sat sipping cups of tea with our pinkies raised in traditional 'proper' manner - just to remind them that they were in Scotland now, and they play by our rules!

Anyway after a couple of hours of communal power nap, a fine gig to a packed house ensued, and of course it was the first time Aberdeen had seen this particular line-up in action. The last time we played there was, I am reliably informed, 1994. How time flies when you're doing the same. Edinburgh (The Capital) was next, for two absolutely hammering nights with our home crowd baying for blood, and we obliged them by opening every vein we had. I think I'm right in saying that it's the first time in our careers that we have actually been given a five-star review in Scotland. There was always something missing for every critic who ever covered us in the past...sometimes they just wanted to have a go at us for daring to leave Scotland.......but this time they had to say it was all as right as rain - and in Scotland they know a thing or two about rain, let me tell you.

A pleasant Sunday night in Ayr, on the south west coast saw the end of the Scottish gigs, the end of the brilliant heatwave that had miraculously engulfed Britain for the previous ten days, and the end of our collective battery power, as jetlag and anticlimax finally kicked in as soon as the show was over. Sitting at the hotel bar afterwards, it was all we could do to sink a pint, never mind hold a conversation. Someone would start by saying, "I was just thinking............." and then tail off into silence, which in turn would be broken by a sigh or a belch from another, quickly followed by a 'useful' question such as, "What time tomorrow do we..................zzzzzz" A thoroughly depleted bunch and a funny end to what had been a marathon of sorts. It reminded me of the old joke about the two guys that stagger into a Scottish pub, carrying their sozzled pal between them. They deposit the drunk at a small table, whereupon he proceeds to put his head down and go to sleep. Undeterred, the two mates who are in no great shape themselves go to the bar and one orders three pints. The other one looks at him, they both look over at the sleeping figure at the table, and the barman says, "Nah, he'll never manage a pint." "Aye you're right," says our drinks orderer, "Make that two pints an' a large whisky instead."

Forgive me if I have said nothing so far about the US gigs we did in the three weeks before all this stuff, but somehow it all seems like months ago in the scheme of things. That, too, was some stretch of work, and in the middle period there we actually did thirteen shows in ten consecutive nights - an all-time record for this band, and not something

to try too often as the tolerances for Murphy's law to kick in are pretty tight with that kind of schedule. Nevertheless, we had some great shows with Tower Of Power, in theatres and casinos around Michigan, New York Pennsylvania, Connecticut and New Hampshire, and a bunch of our own headliner shows in Ohio, Indianapolis, and quite spectacularly in Louisville Kentucky, home of Muhammed Ali, and the subject of one of my last WhitePage entries, as I recall. What a great gig that turned out to be.

I suppose you're getting the idea here that things are going pretty well all round and that I'm simply blowing our collective trumpet a bit too much, and if that's the impression I give, then I suppose it's fair do's.

How many bands at this stage of their career get the opportunities we have had recently, and then go on to maximise them and turn them into even more ambitious undertakings. Not too many, I think. We may not be able to chase a football as fast as we once could - with the possible exception of Adam, of course - but the grit is all there, and the fire is very definitely well-lit within everyone here at the A. W.of B., a publicly-registered band of gypsies, wiseacres, and erstwhile buskers who have neither the will nor the wit to know when to quit!

Once again, the Tom Joyner Morning Show was another little milestone for us in that it was the first week of the show's being broadcast in New York, and therefore we were the first act to appear on the show there, albeit we were actually broadcasting from Cleveland Ohio, where that week aired from. So there we are onstage, in the second of our three mini-sets that we do on the show, we're in the middle of "Pieces," and I look round to see Tom (who dances & sweats his way through four hours of a 'revival meeting' of a show) advancing across the stage towards me shouting, above the band,"Dig in, man......WE'RE IN NEW YORK" What a completely happy moment, as I'd failed to grasp until then what it meant to him, after all these years, to finally get syndicated into the biggest music city of them all - and one that has steadfastly refused to air the biggest urban morning programme in American history. It made the 4.30 am departure to the gig all worth it.

Well, it's now the 8.30 pm departure to a sold-out Ronnie Scott's here in the middle of England, where you see a different slice of urban life to that of middle USA. The streets here are heaving with revellers every evening, young women tottering along on impossibly high heels, barely dressed at all, screaming and laughing their way to the next disco-bar, pub, or club, while their maurauding bands of boyfriends become more pissed as the night wears on, and are to be found, by the time we make our way home from our gig, arguing futilely with doormen and bouncers who are trying to stop them gettin in to the 'honeypot' inside. It's a hilarious mess of seething humanity, blaring mm-tsss, mm-tsss tecno-disco-retro-metro music that comes out of every establishment, and street bars & cafes where everyone sits to be seen and, hopefully, clocked by some worthwhile 'pull' or other.

Who said youth is wasted on the young? they seem to be doing just fine, thank you very much. I only wonder where they get all the money for these eight-hour nights of drink and other stimuli...cos none of it comes cheap round these parts. Ah, well, that's what larceny is for, I suppose.

On that philosophical (our Irish soundman - Phil O' Sophical) note, I will leave you to go and put on my impossibly high heels and skimpy dress another night on the town. I'll write again when I've growed up.

A.G.

APRIL FOOLS, EVERYONE

2001-04-08T09:56:00.000-07:00

A shorter than usual entry for this month, due to an overload of artistic shenanigans here in the AWB camp; between writing, rehearsals, video production, and the vetting of arrangements for the upcoming tour, there isn't a lot of time to sit down and put my thoughts together for your edification.

Needless to say, we are all looking forward to being out on the road again beginning with a double show at BB King's in New York City, on the 18th, and then packing in another sixteen gigs inside twenty days, taking us up to the first week in May. Some new territories, too, with Louisville and Lexington in Kentucky, then Sault Ste Marie way up in the North of Michigan where Lake Superior tumbles into some other great big puddle (Lake Inferior maybe?).

The last time I was in Louisville was in the seventies, and unfortunately a death occurred at the concert, which seemed to 'unhinge' a certain member of our party to the extent that he threw all, or most, of his hotel room furniture into the swimming pool late that night. What he didn't know was that in the dining room there were two large windows in the wall which gave an underwater view of the pool. Imagine, if you will, all these people - families with small kids, etc. - wandering in for breakfast, to see lampshades, chairs, cushions and the like bobbing past the windows.

It got worse, too.

Molly, our legendary tenor player came in, sat down and placed his saxophone case beside his chair, and joined the rest of us who by now were weak with laughter at the aforementioned scene. Almost at once, a waitress with a large tray of breakfasts for a family behind us, tripped over his sax case and launched an array of eggs, bacon, mixed fruits, teas, coffees and sundry toasts into eternity. I'm sure you all know the feeling when you're trying your hardest NOT to laugh, but it's just no good; the fuse is lit, and the powder is ready to go..............

We were escorted out of town by the police, and invited never to return - well at least not any time soon! I think you could say we've kept our part of the bargain, but it's time to see the old place again, so we're looking forward to that very much. See you at Jim Porter's then.

Sculler's jazz club in Boston should be fun, too, and we plan a little 'looser' kind of gig there, where we can stretch the playing aspect a little more than in the usual concert scene. It'll be more like playing at Ronnie Scott's in England - much more intimate. No, don't worry, we'll all use deodorant.

Hope you've found copies of the new "Goldmine" magazine, featuring your trulys on the cover and a lengthy article within about the band in its various incarnations, and a potted history of our long and chequered career. I've yet to read it myself - it looks pretty daunting, I must say - but if nothing else it'll probably assure you of a good night's sleep after a few hundred paragraphs. Basically, all you really need to know is that we all got together once upon a Saturday in July 1972, wrote some stuff, liked it a lot, decided this might be a good way to avoid work for the rest of our lives, came up with a daft name, eventually made an album that did the business, toured like Billy-Oh for about ten years, got fed up of each other, broke up for a while, and then started the whole stupid game all over again with a couple of better-looking young guys to stir it up a bit, and here we are now - older, no wiser, but still able to dress ourselves and stand up to pee.

And Fred has yet to sabotage anyone's breakfast with HIS sax case.

So go and air out your dancin' shoes, and press your best zoot suit, we's a- comin' to town any day now, and Heaven knows we need to see YOU. No absences will be tolerated unless accompanied by a valid note of excuse written on hundred-dollar bills only, and hand delivered by beautiful young ladies in each case. We'll be bringing some new stuff for you as well - caps, ball gowns, new pictures of our ugly mugs, etc. - so will get your opinions and critique at the table after the show, no doubt.Until then, keep an eye out for us....we'll be the ones in the big bus with the highlander in the front. Bet you didn't know that A.W.B. stands for "A Wet Bagpipe", now, did you?

Till then, Och aye the noo' an' dinna lose yer sporran wi' the porridge in it!

(a cheap and tacky bogus Scottish saying with no meaning whatsoever)

A.G.

ANOTHER YEAR

2001-01-29T09:39:00.000-08:00

A very happy new (well, slightly used) year to all our friends & supporters.

It seems I’m back again after a very welcome break over the holidays in which nothing much happened anywhere at all. No peace was achieved in the Middle East, no improvement was seen in British railway performances, no new wars were declared and none were won or lost.

Our agent in Britain is bemused at the suggestion that we might do interviews as a means of publicising our impending visit there in May. Apparently this is a novel (or unusual) idea. When I pointed out that promoters must be somewhat foolish to refuse such assistance, she replied that it’s British bands who are generally unwilling to participate, and thus the marriage of convenience between press, artist, and promoter is no longer a working arrangement. Oh, well....I guess it’s ‘uncool’ (the worst media offense in the UK...........we are always guilty). Anyway, I know there are some of you out there who don’t mind hearing us quizzed and grilled on-air or in your local paper about our preferences & peccadilloes. Wake up, UK, there’s a lot to be said for artist participation in the furtherance of audience attendance!

I see the new American president hasn’t wasted any time in gittin’ jiggy wid it. His promise of centrism, co-sponsorship and bipartisanship has got off to a wonderful start with his nominations for certain major stewardships in the US government. If you have Christie Todd Whitman in charge of the environment and John Ashcroft in charge of the law, then why not invite Robert Mugabe to come over and run agriculture? It’s about the same thing, don’t you think? Why do I smell a rat here? This seems - to this casual observer at least - like ‘middle finger’ politics at work and I sense that the liberally- minded of the country’s citizens are in for a ride like a twin -engined turboprop in a Texas thunderstorm...one that may last four years, unless common sense or civil disobedience prevails.

One of the nicest things about being away in the West Indies recently was the fact that you could go grocery shopping without being assailed by piped music or other acoustical placebos for the weak of mind. My kids and I wrote at least three great supermarket spoof songs while tearing up the isles, merely by drawing inspiration from daft slogans on soap packets or noodle boxes, and having no interrupted thought train to contend with. Come to think of it, now that the USA has done away with the annual (tiny) stipend that retailers & restauranteurs used to pay to the Performing Rights societies to pass on to the writers of those songs, I advocate banning the use of background music in public places. It’s bad enough that a deluded senator from Wisconsin, a state that has no songwriters anyway, should have been able to put this poisonous appendage to a copyright-extension bill and thus deny songwriters of a hard-earned portion of their income, without then having to suffer the ignominy of being forced to listen to non-stop muzak while furiously trying to write new stuff in one’s head. Just try it sometime; think of, say, an obscure track you know by T.O.P or an old E.W.F. fave, while The Carpenters are singing "We’ve Only Just Begun" out of a speaker above your head, and you’ll get an idea of our dilemma. Of course, we could volunteer for self-imposed house arrest, and insist that our better halves or significant others do all the shopping. But then that rules out going into restaurants, bars, elevators, toilets...everything.

We are under siege.

I read in the English papers that fox hunting has finally been banned by law. Not that the Prime Minister, Tony Blair was there for the vote, of course - he never is these days. Well, that will protect about twenty foxes annually, since the huntsmen rarely catch a fox anyway...they’re all half sozzled, and the dogs are dopey creatures for chrissake. What it will do, however, is put thousands of countryside workers out of jobs which have been there for centuries - and expose the sly old fox to a new and worse threat, that of being shot or trapped (a much more hideous demise than being cornered by other animals, as all creatures in the wild are on a daily basis, with or without mankind’s meddling). Come to think of it, the entire policy of the current British regime as regards the countryside is one of ignorance and convenience. Ignorance of the plight of farmers, villagers and land-stewards, and convenience to those city slickers in power. As John Mortimer, the creator of "Rumpole" points out in his book "Summer Of A Dormouse", the Labour government is standing by while agronomy collapses just as Margaret Thatcher presided over the death of British industry. As always, it is the pets, whims and peeves of the Londoners that dictate what the rest of the country must suffer. (witness the Millenium Dome).

To turn briefly to farce, I was amused but disappointed to find on my return that my local small-town football team (soccer, to you Yanks) had gained national notoriety for the first time..... not for their sporting achievements however, but for their antics off the field: two of its star players had been seen inhaling portions of the sidelines in a well-known watering hole-cum-disco in the town. A right couple of geniuses, I must say, and a credit to their Colombian sponsors! They wonder why they’re fired mid-season.

Which brings me to A.W.B.’s own season; although we don’t officially get under way until April, we are going to be appearing in the Washington DC area for a couple of nights at the beginning of next month, Fri.2nd and Sat.3rd of Feb. in Annapolis, and Alexandria respectively. The Ram’s Head in Annapolis is apparently sold out already, so I would urge you to direct yourselves to the Birchmere in Alexandria for the Saturday show there. It’s a great room to play in, and to watch from, and I hear the food ain’t bad either. They do dinner before the show. That’s the only live work we’ll be doing till we start up again in mid April with a bunch of dates, both on our own and with our buddies, Tower Of Power - all in the Northeast quadrant of the United States. Then we go directly to the UK and Europe for the rest of May and the beginning of June, to a Scottish mini-tour followed (so far) by dates in England and Holland.

All that seems a long way off right now, though, as we continue to dig ourselves out of the snow and cut fishing holes in the ice. I used to think Minnesotans were barking mad but now I’m not so sure there isn’t a wonderful logic to sitting out there dangling a line through the frozen lake, safe from politics, media and muzak. Provided you can avoid frostbite and divorce from ‘ice widowship’ this might be the only solution to winter, other than going straight back to the Caribbean on the next cargo plane.

We look forward to seeing all you stalwart and faithful, around the DC area this coming weekend.

Ha-wan, two, three, four.........changalangalangalangalangalanga

A.G.

Farewell, Century 20

2000-12-20T11:00:00.000-08:00

The half century since the birth of Rock n' Roll has seen the unfortunate demise of almost all of its creators. A healthy lifestyle this Devil's music?...........hardly, and if it had been, then it would never have outlasted the men and women who barged their way into our collective heart and soul, not so very long ago.

The varieties and variations in the music form that we first heard from Carl Perkins, Elvis, Chuck Berry and Little Richard, only served to foster the illusion that time sped up toward the last quarter of the century, as we raced through rhythm n' blues to funk, to soul, to soul r&b, to hip-hop, to rap, right up to the present melting pot where the right concoction of all and any of the above guarantees a great concert - a packed nightclub - a crazed crowd - a BIG record .........a bloodletting, if you will. And they said, in '58 and '64 that it wouldn't last! Well, they were right in a way - it didn't simply last - it changed and twisted and morphed into a vast collage of sounds and cultures that no one could have readily forseen. However, the world was never the same again.

That quarter century has been our home, too, and it is odd to think that if somebody had told me in my early teens that this is where I'd be now, I'd have taken his candies AND followed him home just to hear more. This is the dream of a lifetime being able to create that concoction and perform it afresh night after night, and then be able to conceive new music, make new records, and have them accepted by an audience as sophisticated (and spoilt) as it is in the beginning of the new Millenium. By the way, I'm sorry if you disagree that the new one begins now, especially after all that money you must have spent last year on champagne and party favours, but you see I've always remained a Millenium separatist, in that this is the actual, factual thresh- hold of the new, glittering 21st Century. Official, certified, rubber-stamped and approved by Romans, Saxons, Huns, the Mongol hordes, and whoever started the old clock running at 'Year One' (not year None).

Hence 2001. God bless you, Stanley Kubrick, 'Hal', and the tribe of apes we rode in on to the tune of "Thus Spake Zarathustra", and the feeling of gobsmacked euphoria as we left the cinema that afternoon in London. It didn't hurt either that John Lennon, Paul and George were also standing on the same pavement, equally gobsmacked and totally oblivious to the mild frisson of excitement that ran along Old Compton Street as we realised we were in the presence of royalty. Such are the rewards (small but hugely meaningful at times) of risking one's all for the vagaries of the business of show - a career that allows for the oddest hours and therefore the strangest of rendezvous and encounters that will sometimes keep your spirits up and your disappointments diminished. So it has been for Onnie and me since forging a partnership in 1967, and seeing it develop into what would eventually become AWB, in 1972, along with the other great characters that took the icy plunge with us.

And amazing, too, that the start of the new century sees the start of a brand new regime in the United States - albeit one that has a long way to go to legitimise itself in the world's eyes. Great Britain has one of the strongest voices in real international terms that it ever has in our lifetime, Scotland has her own parliament for the first time in hundreds of years, and no millenium bug in sight anywhere. Yes, there's much to be thankful for but yet much to be mindful of in light of the awful conditions that many people in our so-called civilised countries live under, never mind the third world and the strife-ridden war-torn wastes of the mid East and the Balkans.

So we are lucky and fortunate to be in our relatively safe havens at this juncture and privileged to have been this year the honourees at the Nordoff Robbins awards in Glasgow, Scotland back in September. I thought it might be fitting to include a selection of photographs from the gala evening that Onnie and I had with the local intelligentsia and high- lifers in our homeland, not just to show off......although there's nothing shy about either of us if there's a whiff of posturing to be done, and a gullible crowd of onlookers to be bedazzled......simply to share our obvious pride and gratification at being given the kind of recognition that goes way beyond anything that charts, sales, or 'industry' can give. This was a night to celebrate a long road with old and dear friends who had started alongside us, and who have similarly made it through all the puddles and pratfalls, and are still in our corner when push comes to shove.

And a reminder that charity (Nordoff Robbins Music Therapy is one of the most successful and meaningful children's charities) is the keynote at this time of renewal and festivity. Please give as much as you can to the bellringers and the tin-rattlers who brave the cold to warm someone's Christmas season or fill someone's belly who would otherwise stand outside hungry. We all spend far too much on ourselves and our inner circle anyway, so throw some extra to the collectors of conscience while there is still time for it to get to the people who are desparately relying on it for any glimpse of the Holiday cheer that we take for granted.

Finally, let us wish all of you a very healthy and happy holiday season, and I hope you will join me in making a toast to the new era, even if you did that last time - I know we did, as we were part of a rather large and salubrious gathering in Dallas for the occasion - and remember, there's never an excuse for not celebrating something or other, so it might as well be a new Century.

We'll see you in the new year......as we begin the countdown all over again!

Merry Crimble, everybun, and a Hairpiece New Ear.

The Crescent City

2000-10-05T10:47:00.000-07:00

New Orleans is one of the great loves of my life. Over the years she (it is most certainly of female gender.......or I'm unwittingly gay) has provided me with much warmth and affection, a ready and sumptuous welcome, and a tangible feeling of well-being when I allow myself the time to stop and savour her many-faceted delights. They are borne on the bayou breezes....... the smells of fried okra, crawfish, hot peppers, catfish & oysters cling to your senses, and are as exotic a stew as is to be found anywhere on the planet. So it goes for the music, and music is most certainly the life-blood of N'awlins. It is everywhere in a libidinous and carefree way, an extrovert whore who cares nothing about her weight & size, but only about her passions and her next shot or whatever to maintain the fun and fury of the moment.

And where there is music of this rare depth and commitment, there is an audience to match. We had just such an audience here two nights ago, at the House Of Blues (though the venue, great though it is, is probably irrelevant - it would have been the same at Tipitina's or elsewhere). From the moment we walked onstage, to the final rousing notes of the encore, the spirit in the house lifted us to the kind of heights we marvel at in the local musicians from the wards of New Orleans....the Nevilles, the Meters, Dr. John, Allen Toussaint & co, and Ellis, Wynton and Branford Marsalis, to name but a few. Then there are the lesser-known gems that we are beginning to discover, like Kermit Ruffins, a younger version of Louis Armstrong, who must find it impossible to frown in life, so thoroughly happy and alight is his persona when he performs with his B.B.Q. Kings. We were lucky enough to catch another of his sets last night, on our rare night off, at the old Bon Temps Roulee; you will hear more of that joint, as it features in a song I've been writing over the last four years. "Four years?" you say - yes, sometimes songs, like sculptures or paintings, take much revisiting for little bits of paint and clay that, over time, make the gradual but uncanny difference between the mediocre and the truly formed.

Even the sunset here is a work of art; the sun doesn't simply go down at seven o' clock, it puts on a performance worthy of the great emperor that it is, tumbling across the gulf coast sky with an intensity that blisters the senses and strips them of their paint, but like a great molten magnet it pulls you in towards the orange and red, turning to sapphire, and eventually to the deep ink, and, of course, the real reason for existence here - the night time.

Well, we have no more nights here this visit, so it's back to the road and the reality, as we head north towards Virginia, Washington DC and finally Philly area for the final three hits of this run. However, I must divert from the tour for a second to let you know about a rare and wonderful event that took place just one week ago, in Glasgow, Scotland, no less, and where the great and collective 'WE' were honoured by our own countrymen with a lifetime achievment award for services to Scottish music and culture over the last 28 years. It certainly was a glittering occasion, held in the magnificent City Chambers of Glasgow - an incredible marble edifice that was opened by Queen Victoria in 1888, and the likes of which would be unfathomable in this day and age of minimalist and economist architecture. By jove, in those days, budgets were for wimps...........when the design called for marble, ships were sent to empty the quarries of Italy to provide the pillars & pilasters of this towering statement, and the finest of painters were called in to decorate this Scottish Sistine Chapel with a pictoral ceiling sixty-odd feet above the floor of the main chamber. Quite awe-inspiring, and a fine place to be given the accolades of one's fellow musicians, media, and others of note in the fabric of Scottish life at the sharp end. Only Onnie and I were able to attend unfortunately, but, like Stuart Adamson who accepted on behalf of Big Country, we share the honour with everyone from the past to the present........Molly, Roger, Robbie, Hamish, Steve, Eliot, Fred, Adam, and also Pete & Tyger, who were such a big part of our resurrection.

The only problem was the leaving, next morning, to begin what was for us an incredibly arduous journey, first to London, then on to New York, where we met the rest of the troops, and a dawn flight to Houston, Texas, to begin this run through the South, which brings me back to New Orleans again, as we pack up the circus tent and prepare to leave here. A last but fleeting touch though, just to point out what a massive cultural (and geographical) divide between the opulence of our surroundings back in cool, rainy Glasgow last week, and our presence here in the heat and humidity of this swampy delta, where it seems all of America's substance is washed down the mighty Mississippi through this final cleansing stop, before being released into the Gulf for recycling, and rejuvenation in the form of rains returning northward to nourish the soul of the land.

Right now, however, and before this all begins to smack of a paid 'travelogue' for the Crescent City, I must answer those (two) of you who were clamouring for some political comment or other, in this season of election fervour. I think that my views are of very little importance in the present scheme of things, but the one thing I do want to impart to everyone right now, is that I hope you will all damn well get out there and VOTE. If you aren't registered, and are eligible, GO to the post office or wherever, and fill out the (very simple) form that allows you to practise what two world wars have been fought for and lives sacrificed to preserve - freedom and democracy. Only by your vote will the right man win. Only by your vote do you have the right to complain, criticise and control what happens afterwards. Only by your vote do you have a voice, and a very, very valuable one at that. Right now, ask yourself what either of the candidates would pay for your committed vote were you able to call them up and offer it unconditionally; quite a lot, I'm sure.

It doesn't matter if you adhere to the widespread body (there's that whore again) of opinion that neither candidate is made of Presidential stuff; I've heard that one before and it didn't make any difference to the fact that you're going to get at least four years of one of these characters, so you may as well take a moment to make a decision, and then put your choice in the only place it matters - the ballot box. Where I come from, everyone votes. Grannies are wheeled from sickbeds, workers miss their midday bite, chairmen are chaired (or whatever pompous and highly visible conveyance can be found) to the polling booth, but no one would dream of missing their chance to make their presence felt.

Otherwise, we might as well cancel the whole process, and then kids wouldn't get a day off school, and that's a scary thought, kids, isn't it?

Well, music's alive and well I'm delighted to report, no hurricanes have yet destroyed much of anything this season, Onnie & I have recoverd somewhat from our travels, and the general air of well-being is firmly in the tyres below us...............did some smart-ass just say 'bowels?' Let's not go there, please. Why scratch the otherwise perfect veneer of respectability that covers the rest of this piece, to reveal the soft underbelly of filth and cheap humour that lurks just beneath.

It is time to look northwards to fall weather and cool nights, so my advice to you all is to huddle together for warmth and safety. It may not protect you from everything, but it's a lot more fun than sleeping alone. Saves oil, too.

Time for Community coffee and beignets at the old French market, so I will pack up my ancient Remington, my quill pen and indian ink, and saunter - yes, saunter through The Quarter to gratify this last craving for "Storyville." Who knows, I might bump into the ghosts of Sidney Bechet, Jack Teagarden and Satchmo on the way home from The Nightshift..............

Alan

Cloudy - chance of Heaven...but Stop The Rain

2000-07-20T10:31:00.000-07:00

If I find that any of you out there were engaged in rain dances toward the end of last week, I swear I will personally hire whatever means of transport necessary to visit your neighborhood, along with members of the New England Witches Coven, some fanatics from the "Nuisances For God" Northeastern sept, a few mercenaries from the Guns Of Vengeance Social Club, and maybe a couple of nasty people as well, since I hold you directly responsible for an historic 'first' in our entire career - TWO consecutive washouts (Fri. & Sat.) when monsoon rains called off both Pittsburgh Boardwalk, and McGeary's in Albany.

Talk about frustration; to travel all that way (about 1800 miles round trip) and to set everything up each afternoon, and to stand there helpless while the elements literally piss all over your cruise, is just too unfair. And unfair to all those good folk who remember two smashing gigs last summer at each of these respective gigs. There is, however one small crumb of comfort in the story, and that is that last Wednesday saw us complete the show we had truncated mid-set last year, at Riverbend pavilion in Chester, Virginia. You may recall my dissertation on that one, when the mini-tornado touched down during Pick up the Pieces, and blew away drums, tents, covers and all, only for one 'Martian' lady backstage to enquire when we would be going back on! (she probably thinks nothing of taking her vacuum cleaner through puddles)

Otherwise, this has been a superb summer season for us, all the way since California, and even Vegas before that. Talking of which, we have been asked back to the capital of Wager-World for a concert in September, at the Fremont Street Experience, an open-air event celebrating the original 'strip' in Vegas, which I guess they are trying to give the kind of status that Memphis gives to Beale St., or New Orleans to Bourbon St., etc. Anyway, it should be a grand night with us on one stage, and our pals Tower Of Power on another, a couple of blocks down. Hopefully we're not both playing at the same time, as that would prove a dreadful conflict of loyalties for most of our fans, who seem to like both of us in equal measure. If that's the case, we'll just have to turn up the volume to twelve, or bribe someone to switch off their power supply. Then they'll be simply "Tower Of................"

I note with complete indifference that while we have been barrelling round this great Nation for the past couple of months, that there have been two rather large political conventions which seem to have something to do with finding something for CNN News to cover in the midst of a delegational drought, while legislation languishes, and the Prez putters along unnoticed (save for his Barak & Arafat show). Now, far be it from me to suggest that all of you feel this way - for all I know you have been glued to your televisions, hanging on every (rehearsed) word uttered by Herr Bush, Goofy Gore, and their middle-management minions, but it occurs to me that, on a scale of one to ten, this has had all the entertainment value of post-anaesthetic dentistry, or the semi-finals of the all-England croquet tournament during a rain-break ( not to mention the Women's Rural Institute's annual bake-off, when they couldn't get the camera started till after the oven doors were closed )

Honestly, what a load of insignificant, pompous, self-aggrandizing, bogus and bewildering ballyhoo this is; thank god for the finals of Euro 2000, the international soccer championships in Holland & Belgium, which saw France (the world champs) narrowly beat Italy for the title, after a series of great displays from the likes of Portugal, Romania, Spain and Holland in the run-up to the eventual final pairing. It was some of the best and most skillful football ever, and some of the most gripping television, too. Seldom does sports coverage get to that level, but it must be said that the answer to this is in the fact that it was a truly international endeavour in the filming, broadcasting, and local delivery of the programs. How nice it would be to watch these world events here in the USA, if, instead of ABC or CBS and their plodding, non-stop, inane (and often ill-informed) commentaries we could have the local feeds, who really know their stuff in these sports, and who know how to let the drama of the moment speak for itself instead of babbling ceaslessly over the entire occasion as if it were no more than a backdrop for their self-appointed importance.

Send them all back to the political conventions, I say. They deserve each other.

Oh, yes, I know where we started all this: touring, summer, music, entertainment and the wonderful world of AWB as it relates to you and me. Well, we have one more weekend of gigs to go before taking our annual break, which we manage to convince ourselves is hard-earned and well-deserved, despite convincing evidence to the contrary. I refer to several embarrassing instances recently, when five of us were seen strolling on the beach at San Juan Capistrano on a glorious early-summer evening, for all the world like five carefree girl scouts on a break from their jamboree (that is until some rotten little kid's kite suddenly nosedived and almost decapitated Matt......then we showed our true colours - the mood got ugly); then the day I was spotted nonchalantly whacking my way around the golf course near Atlantic City (Hey, I made twenty-four bucks off two old guys that insisted on playing for an ante.......what could I do, for chrissake?), and then of course the ultimate gruelling chore a couple of weeks back, when we all had to show up at Dave Brunetto's wedding and were forced, against our will and better judgement, to consume vast quantities of fine wine and champagne while doing our bit to bid our boy farewell, adieu, and God speed.

Dave will be known to most of you as the extremely charming and witty young man who has for years manned our public relations station (the merchandise table, to you) in a manner and style that would have suited his lookalike, the young Dean Martin. D.B., as we call him, was always an erudite and inspiring fellow traveller with a wealth of knowledge, and rapier of wit when challenged to a duel. No surprise then, when, at the end of his wedding night speech, he toasted his new bride affectionately, then after a perfect pause, added, "............and at table fifteen the Average White Band will be signing autographs after the show...."

Cue the applause, bring down the curtain, and give the band a break - QUICKLY.

A.G.

Ups and Downs from the Left Coast

2000-06-14T10:15:00.000-07:00

Well, what a weird and wonderful week this has been in the world of AWB, full of highs and a couple of lows just to make life windswept and interesting. First, though, the peaks have been unexpected in some cases, such as the triumph in Scottsdale last Tuesday - a gig that the promoters almost cancelled on us, and which turned out to be really well attended, and with a great audience (sound familiar, anyone?), and last Friday we had the pleasure of none other than Mr. Steve Ferrone sitting in with us for an impromtu version of "Person To Person" and "Schoolboy Crush".

Magic moments indeed, and certainly charged with some emotion, as it has been over ten years since we played a note together, and you would have thought that we'd done this only yesterday, so tight was the groove! L.A House Of Blues was, of course, 'slammin', and we had our best reception yet from the Hollywood crowd - loud, rowdy and crowded. Thanks, L.A.

Now the 'lows': An unfortunate situation developed over the last week involving our attempts to move.........not cancel.....a show in New London from the Saturday to the Sunday evening due to what I will honestly say was an "offer that could not be refused," to stay one more night on Martha's Vineyard for a very, very special show. Now, this is where touring with the schedule we have makes life very difficult when these kinds of situations crop up, and our inability to get to points of communication allowed for misunderstandings and misconceptions to rule the roost.

Suffice to say, without boring you with the details, everyone was able to make it happen and we are delighted to be doing that particular show on the Sunday evening, 23rd July. Bring da whole family...rack up the kids, jack up the car by the beach, and let's have a midsummer night's scream.

What all of you should know, however, is that the band's opportunities to scan the website are few and far between, so if you really want to have a go at us for some particular gripe or other, or are just in the mood for a bit of sport and jousting at our expense, then that's not really going to achieve very much, especially when you cannot possibly be aware of the facts as we are, and just how much we try to be accessible to one and all within the bounds of reason. If anything, one person's gripe that they couldn't get to meet us when we'd spent over 45 minutes with fans after a very strenuous show, is really making a jab at other fans who did. It is very easy to please most of the people ALL of the time.......but there's always one that gets away, so be aware of that, everyone, and bear with us if you're ticked off for a minute. This band will usually find a way of turning that into a smiley-mouth before you've got your pen back in your pocket.

And so on to Sam FranksDisco, and our next gig at "Slim's" (named for its owner, Boz Scaggs, whose nickname locally was Presidio Slim), where this will be our first visit, much looked forward to by all. It is sooooo hot here this week, I can only hope you've paid the electric bill, Boz, and the air is turned up full, or else we'll have casualties galore - on and off stage. "FUNK BAND FIZZLES INTO PINK FOAM" could be a potential S.F. Chronicle headline for Friday morning.

Now we await the first childbirth as a result of a union via our website, and a bottle of the finest when we hear the news........provided it checks out true, so don't any of you suddenly jump up with a false claim on a bottle of bubbly, and a tape of baby noises and a used diaper :-) On that charming note, I'll leave you for a cool drink before boarding the coach.

Alan

A WORD OF WARNING

2000-06-09T10:11:00.000-07:00

Ladies and gentlefolk of the record buying public, I come among you now to warn of a supposedly German release purporting to be an Average White Band "Best-Of" and featuring a motley selection of songs entirely unknown to us, unrecorded by us, and certainly never even performed by us...........titles like "Sweet Lorraine" etc., and then with some version of "Let's Go Round Again" tacked on for a tiny modicum of legitimacy. This appears to be only available on the internet, so do not be tempted to reach for your plastic, log on, and aim to purchace this piece of nonsense.

It is a sham, a fake, bogus, a simulation, a pretense, an unscrupulous attempt to fleece the ever-growing legion of AWB fans who log on to the web to find the latest tidbits offered at the base of the fountain that is our continuing output. And it's not real, either!

On a happier note, thanks to all who came and saw and concurred in Las Vegas, Phoenix, Los Angeles, and last night in San Juan Cappucino. Lovely shows, all of them, and you have been more than generous in your praise and applause. It is the food we artists thrive on - the very air we breathe.........and so much better for our energy than drinking the blood of newly-borns, don't you think.

But if I live to be a thousand, you'll know I've reversed my theory on that 'Gory' topic. More from this page later in the tour, when Matt stops whipping me toward the impending bus departure for the next stop on this merry-go-round.

Once again, beware the phony Teutonic release. 'Tis a travesty!

A.G.

THANK YOU, KAY

2000-05-20T10:08:00.000-07:00

A very personal and heartfelt thanks to all our friends and fans in the UK for the wonderful reception we had over the last two weeks touring the 'sceptered isles'. It began with the usual splendid hospitality of Steve and Linda at Ollie's in Ascot - already one of the premier R&B/Jazz/Soul venues in the Home Counties, and they're planning to enlarge and improve it all before our next visit. Now that's what I like to hear.........perhaps the 'big' boys like the Jazz Cafe could take note, and do something about the PA system, or the accoustics, or whatever. The word is IMPROVE.

Can you imagine the stick we'd get if, when we came back to Britain, we didn't improve on the last time around, or at least make strenuous efforts to change, challenge ourselves, or at least try some new approaches? I can hear the moaning already, were it not for the fact that we really do make changes (sometimes subtle, but always in flux and in character) all the time with a view to keeping everyone just a little bit surprised and energised by our presence. Good on you, Ascot (nice crowd response, too)

On to Southampton, and what I can only describe as the one audience on the whole tour that gave us the impression of being slightly baffled by it all. I think it's the 'Southern Tribes' thing (and you can't get more southern than Southampton), although along the coast a bit in Brighton, I hear there's a very healthy scene for funk/soul/acid jazz, that I would really like to explore next time around. Anybody listening there, Brighton? Still, the hotel were very friendly, and the breakfast was brill.

Then a Saturday on the railways experience to take us to Bromsgrove, where Andy put on a first-of-its-kind marquee gig at the beautiful Tyler's Lock on the canal there, and we had a fantastic little gathering on what should have been a dismal, wet night in the Midlands. Lots of fun, and a genuinely ecstatic reception from a bunch of people who appreciate our kind of music, and who will definitely be there in 'doubles' next time around. Well done, Andy - it's going to be a great gig once people in the City (Birmingham) realise it's for real, and that you're putting on the best. Nice, also, to work with the Bullet Sound guys from Stoke-on-Toast....... always a great bunch to have a few drinks with - and they're all called Dave to avoid confusion!

So to the Jazz Cafe for the sixth year running. The Monday, our first night, was surprisingly free of hassle compared to previous visits when the (minimal) sound system has at times conspired to make our initial setup and soundcheck something of a nightmare. This time, however, thanks to a combination of Phil, our sound engineer's expertise, and a couple of pre- planned accoustical shortcuts, it turned out to be a very relaxed and quite pleasant afternoon in the bat cave, culminating in an off-the-cuff taping for London Live, the BBC's local affiliate, who came to the soundcheck with their state-of-the-art digital recorder, and we were able to whack off a couple of live tunes for their early evening broadcast. The gig went very nicely, too, and from then on each night got progress- ively better both musically and attendance-wise, culminating in a really stonkin' night on Wednesday, when our old friend Daryl Hall, and his phenominal guitarist, Paul Pesco (he of many Madonna records, amongst others) took the stage with us for an encore rendering of "Work To Do", complete with Paul's George Benson-esque guitar solo which brought the balcony to its collective feet, and the standing floorbodies to their knees. A great night.

I had a feeling when we found that we could end the tour with a double- night stint in Edinburgh, that the Gods were definitely with us this time around, and there was a distinctive 'tingle' in the air from the get-go at the Liquid room there. It had been two years since we last played on native soil, and we were as ready as you can imagine for this one. All the heavies were there for the Thursday night, and we had some raucous response from the Embra' hooligans, some of whom joined us for a little reception that the wonderful people at the Point Hotel threw afterwards in our honour. First, let me say that it's one of the best hotels in Britain, if not in Europe - very much high New York style, and design-conscious to a 'T', without being witheringly trendy. Full marks to Andrew Doolan and his fabulous staff for making our stay the highlight of the tour. Thanks also to Liz Smith, and Pauline for their unbridled hospitality.

Friday night had all the promise of a grand finale to the tour, since all tickets were sold out in advance, and we knew that there was a strong national presence of people from all over Scotland in the house. Nothing, however, prepared us for the reception as we walked onstage while Adam played his thundering drum intro. According to our sound- engineer, Phil, the needles in the mixing booth went off the clock when we climbed aboard, to what can only be described as a "Hampden Roar" (the national football stadium, for those unacquainted with the term). It was pure dead brilliant. From that moment on, I don't think I stopped grinning like a demented daschund all night. The band was truly on fire and the audience knew it; they also knew all the words of every song, and there were times when we literally could have stopped singing, and simply let them get on with it. We eventually did, in the encore, when we finished up with "Let's Go Round Again," much to the amusement and amazement of all present.

Altogether a fitting end to a lovely tour, and a moment to savour and dig out of the memory banks when faced with the odd 'difficult' audience, or less-than-wonderful circumstance, as one does in one's travels as an itinerant busker. In this business you learn to take the rough with the rough.

We now set off for the absolute cultural antithesis of Edinburgh, steeped in history and antiquity that it is.............Las Vegas; mind you, I wouldn't be surprised if they had a fake Edinburgh Castle by the time we get there. After all, a bogus Eiffel Tower, an ersatz Statue of Liberty, and a few phony pyramids are already in place, and every time we go there another travesty of tackiness has been erected with a view to hoodwinking the hordes of midwestern junket gamblers that this is what the world at large has to offer, and that there's really no need to leave American soil, let alone bother to own a passport. Well, who am I to burst their bubble. After all it was Kant who said that "the only reality is that which resides in the eye of the individual." It's just that a lot of people need glasses out there. Wagons Ho, and see you in Vegas or California.

A.G.

MUSINGS

2000-04-21T10:04:00.000-07:00

(A purely personal and unofficial view) - any reference to characters real, living, or even imagined, is entirely intentional -

After a long absence, I thought it was time to bring everyone up to date with the goings on and various happenings around the AWB campfire, now that it has been relit for another touring season. The first run of the year turned out to be a very successful and fulfilling one, with a series of wonderful concerts with our good pals Tower Of Power, and an interspersing of some nightclub dates of our own, most notably The Tralf, in Buffalo, where we had an ecstatic reception from a jam-packed house, and The RamŸs Head in Annapolis with a ditto there. Two of the triumphs were, we felt collectively, Stamford Connecticut, at the Palace theatre, and in Boston, at the Avalon Ballroom - none of which either band has played before, and both of which seemed to take a bit of convincing to put on the show in the first place. Well,I both found out the die-hardiness of AWB/Tower fans, and both were tremendously well-attended; also, both were on absolutely crappy nights, weather wise, but that did little to deter the faithful from braving the elements for a good dose of rhythm and blues, served up at fever pitch by both bands. Thank yŸall kindly.

Now we get ready for our next major expedition, to the Motherland (well, it is for me and Onnie, anyway) of the UK, which will deliver us to London for three nights at the Jazz Cafe, and a much-looked-forward-to return to Edinburgh for a couple of good nŸ sweaty nights at the Liquid Room, there to finish up the tour in style. IŸm always being accused (fairly, I might add) at home, of our neglect for Scotland in our annual touring schedules, but it is an unfortunate fact of life that there are so few venues there that seem to be remotely interested in AWB, or its music, that it becomes virtually impossible for us to play in our own country. No longer is soul music the common language that it was when we were growing up in Scottish cities - when Stax and Motown reigned supreme(s), and the New Orleans funk of Lee Dorsey, Allen Toussaint, The Meters, and Fats Domino was all over the dance floor like a cheap suit on a dwarf skeleton.

ItŸs probably one of my biggest disappointments that a whole generation of young Brits is growing up with little or no knowledge of real honest soul music and steaminŸ R&B. I read with some degree of apoplexy in the UK Sunday Times a week or two ago that Macy Gray is (I quote) œThe reigning queen of R&B.” Give me a break....what does R&B stand for in that context....rough and ballsy? Give her her due, sheŸs a storming success on these shores, and her music ain't half bad, but sheŸs as much to do with R&B as Oasis have to do with surf music. Talking of whom (just so I can alienate a few more of you), these guys have done more for soul music than anyone could have foreseen......by driving people away from puke-rock into the waiting arms of music that demands neither posturing nor posing the way these two twerps play it. How can the world take British music seriously when the charts are dominated by crap like Pond Life, Stoops, or other such totally manufactured and manipulated messengers of teenage trivia, when there has always been a tradition in the past of well crafted and world influencing music and lyrics, starting with Stones and Beatles, and going on until recently with the Peter Gabriels and the Stings of this world. Really, the mind boggles. I believe the phrase is êdumbing down,Ÿ in the States.

Anyway, to brighter things. Aha........just when you thought i was going to change direction, I surprise you by having a êgoŸ at the USA, and its idiosyncrasies, too, just to balance out the two sides of the Atlantic. Throughout this tour of the northeast, almost all weŸve seen on US television has been the most absurd and ridiculous brouhaha over the small refugee kid from Cuba, Elian Gonzales. Now exactly how the êmost powerful nation on earth,Ÿ as Americans like to remind us, could get so embroiled in a virtual custody battle over a boy in a rubber tyre that happened to be spared another day at sea, is beyond all comprehension. And what are these Miami Cubanistas thinking when they do all they can to prevent him seeing his dad, for chrissake? TheyŸre as nutty as old Fidel himself, who must be absolutely pissing himself as this farce continues unabated, dragging along with it like a bad flood, the President, the Vice President, Secretary Of State, and god knows how many blathering politicians of dubious motive.

Yes, America may have its music scene together (and we have the Baptist Church to thank for that in the first place....I suppose we canŸt expect much with the Church of England or the êWee FreeŸ in Scotland as our wellspring), but Lord does it have its head up its rectangle with its ideal of democracy - oh, and defense, that other bastion of tax-spending by the êleader of the free world.Ÿ Defense against whom, exactly? Are we to suppose that Castro is going to launch giant cigars at all major cities, while millions flee for shelter as Cohibas rain down on this blatantly unprotected nation.......I think not. Meanwhile the poor get poorer..........but, boy, can they SING.

And thatŸs what itŸs all about, really. Singing for your supper - the only life we know - but we can observe, and we can see, and sometimes itŸs hard to keep shtum while all about you is going to hell in a handcart, and nobodyŸs putting the big foot down. WhereŸs Gulliver when you need him? œHi, IŸm Mr. BIG, and IŸm so sorry I stepped in all your shit....I thought you might have sorted that out by yourselves.” œ...but, no, it seems you needed old Gullible here to come and bang heads and wakey-wakey you all up”

And so to the final lesson: open your books at Marvin Gaye, Isley Brothers.....no put away the Gallagher Brothers, weŸve covered that in the last chapter.....and look again at Al Green, Aretha Franklin (now THEREŸS the queen at last), and check out œHow does it Feel” by DŸangelo for starters. Then thereŸs Lauryn Hill, Mary J., Mint Condition, Eryka B., and try like hell to get some Kirk Franklin and the Family. ThereŸs gospel that will curl your hair and bring you to your knees. Only then can you see some of The Light, and I know itŸs difficult, but DO try to avoid boom-chick, boom-chick, boom-chick êrave-house-trip-hopŸ dance music for just one 24 hour period. Yes, I know itŸll probably mean doing no shopping of any kind whatsoever (certainly not clothes), going near no British airport or public place for that matter, and you may have to have double glazing speedily installed, as passing êyoofŸ vehicles will pollute the unwary among you, and then youŸll have to start all over again.

Meanwhile, for my êhomiesŸ in Scotland, it looks as though êThe ForeignersŸ have won the Scottish Premier title again, with consummate ease, leaving all our provincial clubs fighting over the crumbs of discomfort, and I believe that St. Mirren are looking so good that they have now installed seating there that actually faces the pitch! Amen to that.

- Alan

Season's Greetings

1999-12-20T11:04:00.000-08:00

Well, first I guess I owe you all an apology of sorts for a temporary lapse of reportage from this page over the last two months, but that would be totally out of character and I'm sure you're all by now aware that if I'd had something worthy of your attention, I'd have let you know.

Unbelievably, it's that time again, when the world goes into overdrive in a frenzy of guilt-ridden gift buying and seasonal swarming, preventing any sort of normal passage to and from the habits that support and comfort us through the other fifty-one weeks of the year, rendering people like me helplesss and cringing in a futile attempt to escape the maniacal fervour that seems to fuel the the entire season. Like Jack Nicholson's 'riddler' grin fixed, rigor mortis fashion, to cover the blatantly stressful foreplay to Christmas.....and this year's millennial New Year.

Now let's get this straight - next year will actually be the final year of the second thousand, because they didnít start counting with year zero. No, they started the whole thing at year one, so this brouhaha about upcoming New Year's Eve is just that....hype and tripe, because thereís another year to go before we technically enter the new era.

However we will buckle to popular pressure and drink the toast among you all, for fear of being seen as luddites and flat-earthers amidst a sea of bacchanalian revelry and wild gratuitous sex that will no doubt prevail on the appointed evening. I donít know which comes first, but weíll just have to wait and see how they do it in Dallas, Texas, since that's where we are performing this time around, along with the Pointer Sisters, among others, including some circus act (which may well turn out to be the pointed sisters, for all we know)

All I've seen of the 'holiday spirit' so far, however, is road-rage and competitive hustle to gain THAT parking space, or THIS shirt with the totem (last one in XXL, sir) and THOSE shoes for New Year.......you know, the ones with the lizard tongue and the rhinoceros-scrotum uppers, when the guy that's really got it together is the wee fella' with the bald head and the saffron robe sitting crosslegged in the foyer chanting his mantra away all to himself, and anyone who has a spare nanosecond to listen, never mind make a donation to the spiritual tribes that sent him here in the first place on a fool's errand of timing and placement.

So, friends, be kind and patient and generous.......do not pass him, or his buddy outside with the bell and the Starvation Army hat trying to gather a meagre pittance for the less fortunate among our fellows - you know, the ones who made a botch of their first year in day-trading and the legions who lost it all at the roulette table, for theirs is a world of self-loathing and furious recrimination that can only be assuaged by your personal donation. As for the poor and the needy........let them Cut Cake!

On a sad note going into this annual hullabaloo, I have to report the death of Jeannie Duncan, wife of Mollie, our original venerated sax player and pal who now lives in Majorca, Spain. Our heartfelt wishes go out to him and son Dan for this very unfair loss. She was someone who has been around this extended global 'family' since before the white band even started, and we all shared the best and craziest of times together. Mollie and Dan, however, are currently working on a recording project together which they hope to release in the new year and which, word has it, is sounding very good indeed, so there's hope and inspiration to balance their sadness.

I suppose this is as good a time as any to give my personal benediction to all who have helped make 1999 probably the most successful of our 'second-time-around' career in this business of show. Who could have imagined that we'd be included in two hit movies - "Bowfinger" and "Blue Streak" - plus a national car commercial in the United States, as well as having our first major-label record release in thousands of years with "Face To Face.....Live" being distributed by EMI Capitol back in August.

Quite apart from those lucky strikes, this has been the best touring year since the seventies and our heyday, not just because we managed to visit even more of the Globe than usual, but because audiences everywhere have been responsive beyond belief, and generous with their praise when we meet people after the show at the merchandise stall; this seems to have become a popular post-coital event that makes our evening as well, obviously, as yours. Thanks to you all, chums, for being a part of our re-surgence (and for willingly being part of a CIA experiment to see if we could still brainwash the general public into parting with its hard-earned pocket money).

Well, it remains only for me to relay the best of holiday wishes from everyone in the band......Onnie, Eliot, Fred, Adam and myself, and also from Matt, Phil and Ezrah (our doughty crew) who hope that you will find us somewhere in your neck of the woods next year, and, having survived whatever Y2K is going to throw at you, will be ready to join us in something WaY2funK for words, and Y not I say, when our continuing motto has always been that most positive of ancient Latin sayings, "Nil te illegitimae carborundum"..........roughly translated as "Don't let the bastards grind you down!"

Happy holidays to one and all, and may Santa fill your sheer nylon stockings with untold goodies.

A.G.

Road Warriors' Guardian Angel Busy Again

1999-09-22T10:38:00.000-07:00

At about four thirty yesterday afternoon, just off to the side of I-70 about three miles west of the Eisenhower Tunnel right on the roof of the Rocky Mountains, and aboard a very seriously broken down bus (whose brakes had failed, and with a six-mile downhill gradient facing us) and with the first snow of a coming winter starting to swirl about, things did not look at all good for us, starting out for San Diego on a run that would take us all the way through the Rockies, and then the canyons of the Colorado River, and finally all the way across the Mojave Desert. We had only done sixty-odd miles of a one thousand, one hundred - mile total, and here we were with all our cellphones getting no signal, and awfully, awfully stranded and vulnerable, as huge semi - articulated trucks thundered past us on their downhill runs, each one swaying our parked home - on - wheels sickeningly as they went, and nothing but two bits of 'fallen rock' under our wheels to keep us from hurtling on downwards into eternity.

Thank the Big Yin for falling rocks, I say, for without them we were surely doomed to suffer a very scary ride before careening off the highway into the void below. However, just as we were starting to recall bits of Piers Paul Read's book, "Alive", and tales of the Donner Party were filtering into everyone's psyche, a freak cloud clearance gave me a weak radio signal that allowed us to call an emergency dispatch centre, who in turn sent a Highway Patrol car to our rescue. Never have so many hooligans been so happy to see a policeman in their lives, as by now it was growing dark, and the snow was becoming a soon-to-be serious issue as well.

A good natured and thoroughly helpful chap he turned out to be, too, and in what seemed comparatively no time, he had a giant tow truck summoned from Denver to take our ailing vehicle off the mountain, and a warm passenger van en route to similarly rescue its weary, wary occupants. Meanwhile he had lent Matt, our fearless tour manager his own warm car to dial up all the hotels he could, in that city (all sold out due to a massive convention - except one - the most convenient and comfortable one for us, that miraculously had just five rooms suddenly open up due to late cancellations). I think Matt enjoyed his little power play from the cop car, for when I went up and lent in the window, pushing a pen towards him and intoning, "would you mind blowing into this, sir.." he immediately adopted a very stern and believable manner, and replied, "step away from the vehicle, sir" and followed it up with the classic TV drama words, "and kindly remove your hands, slowly, from your pockets!" Of course, by now the cop was pissing himself, and I think was totally pleased to be able to take part in our rescue.......we were his first band, I think, although he says they have several of these rescues every week up there.

As if all these 'lucky' coincidences weren't enough, we then heard from the driver who took us the sixty miles back to the hotel, that had we been five minutes later in getting through to his dispatcher, there would have been no more drivers on duty, and heaven knows what then could have happened to the chilled bodies of the average white (now a bit blue) men. Hence my 'guardian angel' headline to this piece - that's twice now in three months, if you recall the Memphis rescue on the fourth of July.

I think we have to review certain procedures thoroughly, as we're pushing our luck with that overworked heavenly intervenor, and I wouldn't want to test our fortunes a third time, any time soon. We shall set off in a few hours, in a brand new vehicle, currently speeding toward us across the plains from Kansas City, and we will surely achieve the fastest load-up known to man, as we have a scant eighteen hours to make the journey to the coast, so will take turns to sit up through the night, and day with our driver, chatting away about anything and nothing in particular, as that is the best way to keep someone from the eventual fatigue and loss of focus that inevitably sets in after about six or seven hundred miles of constant forward motion. So, you see, truth is...

How to be a successful musician........1) learn damage control 2) never 'diss' your band members or crew - your life may depend on them 3) know how to ingratiate yourself with fire, police and ambulance people, not to mention hotel managers and breakdown mechanics 4) NEVER leave the whisky on the bus if you are forced to abandon ship 5) NEVER start a journey without said refreshment in the first place - there are no St. Bernard dogs in the Rockies,

6) be at all times totally, totally positive that you're going to surmount ANY situation, and you surely will, and 7).....oh, yes - it might be an idea to learn an instrument, too.

Have fun, but, you know what.........don't try this at home. For a quiet life, see my forthcoming book about the Music business, tentatively entitled, "1001 Much Easier Ways To Earn a Living" - Part one: rocket science and brain surgery.

See you all on the other side of The Great Divide.

A.G.

A White Thang

1999-07-29T10:36:00.000-07:00

Well, here we are at the end of the tunnel, with just two dates left before we split up and scatter in a bunch for our summer break. Surely the Gods are telling us it's time after last night's experience at Chester, Virginia, where we got blown away half way through the set, as a windgust of frightening proportions descended from a gathering thunderstorm and took out Adam's drumkit, the mikes that surround it, the roof over the mixing desk (with Phil surrounded by punters trying to hold it down by the stanchions) and an ominous, deafening roar that I really thought was the onset of a tornado. Very scary indeed, and then the lightning started, followed by the inevitable rain etc., but what was incredible was that, with all this going on, some woman backstage came up to me and said, and I quote.."Why don't you go back on - the lightning's finished..." I can only assume she's been sruck directly a few times, and has therefore incurred the lack of cerebral functioning that often ensues such trauma. People are amazing!

I suppose it had to happen eventually, but really we have been incredibly lucky over the years, never having had a rain-out, or cancellation (before last night) due to weather - and we do plenty of outdoor concerts each year. Actually, now that I start to think about it, a funny 'Python-esque' scenario springs to mind.....Adam staggering off with a crash cymbal embedded in his neck, Phil disappearing aloft tethered to the remains of his tent roof...feet flailing, and the rest of us fried where we stand (in a puddle onstage), our hair vertically 'charged' in best Don King style....... Yes, madam, the lightning may well be 'finished' for you, but for the rest of us...........

For those of you who tune in - or should I say log on - to this almost-monthly ramble, from Britain, it may be hard to understand American weather in the months of July and August, and just what it is that everybody's going on about. I mean, you will know that by now some 120 or more people have died from heat this week, and storms have done for many more (and their belongings)..but yet, it doesn't quite seem real from that distance, given that "storms" around the UK are cold nasty windy things that blow your toupee off in winter, not summer, and surely, you must think, hype and exaggeration of the usual American TV-ad. style are at work here. Let me assure you that nothing could be further from the truth. You see, first, it's a great big motherf...... country - about 3,000 miles to the next bit of seaside, if you stand in New York and face west, and there's this huge steamer thingy that starts at the Gulf of Mexico and blows all this hot, hot air up the middle, and then it starts to see Canada, goes "f*#* that",turns around and wants to go east, toward civilisation and therefore New York, Philadelphia, Washington DC, etc., etc., and, since it's got so far to go before getting to the seaside to get cooled off, it just keeps getting hotter and hotter daily, until it becomes one giant, explosive mass of unstable energy that simply has to vent its wrath on anyone who happens to be in its snarling, ugly path. Think of a drunk Scottish hooligan kept for a few days in an ever-warming sauna, only the alcohol is also continually topped up, too, and you might get the picture.

Now, however, we can rest our weary bus for a month or so, before resuming our rambling habits again in September. It's really been a super tour, and we have played to a lot of happy people, who have gone and told other people (who might not have been so happy, but will be when they come to the next one), and the reactions around the nation have been....well, stunning. It really is amazing to think that, after all these years, you never get jaded or tired of watching the slow, inexorable spread of wonder and pleasure on the faces of the hitherto sceptical and infidel. There's always the guy (yes, it's always a male - or two) who stands front and centre - usually a BIG guy - who wants to stare you down, and who will spend the first few tunes with his arms folded, and his jaw set in a defiant "come on then, see if you can impress ME" stance. Like the midget said, just before the nut in the bollocks, the bigger they come..........................

Fortunately, these are a tiny minority these days, but even they end up covered from head to toe in happy-happy-joy-joy, as Ren would say to Stimpy. Perhaps Shakespeare put it best when he wrote that....."Music hath charms, they say, to soothe the savage breast....." Well, certainly some music, and boy, do we see some savage breasts in our travels. Why just the other day - well, perhaps another time.............

What will we do with ourselves, you ask - well we won't be ringing each other up daily to see if we can all go to dinner together, and we will probably learn again how to do something for, and by ourselves, without having six or seven other opinions on just how it might have been done better, quicker, easier, different - I mean simple stuff, like......dressing, tying laces, feeding your face, ordering dinner, buying a paper, or going to the loo. Seriously, though (and we try not to be), it's a Looooove thing with us - I mean, we rib each other mercilessly and never resist an opportunity to mess with each other's shit, but it's never, ever with malice or disrespect. One merely finds it easier to deal with this itinerant busker's life if one can, sort of, adjust the circumstances for one's fellow-travellers a bit, lest boredom, fatigue, or disinterest set in, and then stagnation would surely follow. Only last night, after setting off on our usual overnight ride, we who were in the front lounge noticed an absence......an absence of a certain 'presence', and that absent presence, we realised, was none other than Onnie. On looking up the corridor, I noticed that his bunk was curtained tightly, meaning he was in bed, nighty-night, tucked up, and not joining the nightly post-mortem drinky-poos. "Ah," said Eliot, "it's only a matter of time before the sweaty foot pokes out from the curtain....." at which point, the drapes parted and McIntyre - fully clothed - swung himself out of his bunk, and straight across into the loo in one ballet-like jetee, much to the surprise of one and all. All at once, like a swarm of ants going into cohesive and coordinated endeavour without ANY visible signal or sound, his bunk was filled with: a case of Heineken, two pairs of shoes, a waste basket, and whatever sundry other things that came instantly to hand in a five-second burst. Now, even the army would admit that it's a certain kind of empathy that causes such spontaneous military action, and I use this little tale merely to illustrate the warmth, love, and understanding we have for each other. Needless to say, Onnie might not have felt the full glow of that 'love' as he parted his curtains in his bleary-eyed attempt to regain the sanctuary of his cosy bunk. In fact, as shoes, waste basket and other items came hurtling down the bus, I fear he may have missed the point entirely, now that I come to think of it. Ah, well, such is life in the Queen's own regular Average White Band. I think you'll agree, however, that we do indeed deserve a break, before gibbering lunacy sets in, and we start losing men one by one, like shipwrecked sailors on a shrinking desert island, whose food and time have all run out. As the song says, -See you in September.

A.G.

White Page Bulletin

1999-07-01T10:23:00.000-07:00

It's amazing the things one discovers out here on Life's great highway. Had we not, for instance, stopped at this particular hotel in Indianapolis and had I not had time to kill (or at least maim horribly), I would not now know how to survive a hotel fire - in five different languages. I mean, who publishes these things?.........are these professional hacks who have fallen on hard times, or former pulitzer prizewinners who enjoy knocking out the odd macabre pamphlet and then travel round the country checking to see how many hotels have their gripping little piece of lifesaving literature waiting for the next potential "victim" to check in, and, having nothing else to read, pick up before retiring to bed, only to be then plagued with nightmares involving wet towels, alarm bells, forgetting how many exits, being unable to get the words (and I quote here) "Fire, Fire" out of their soundless mouths.......... The mind boggles.

Looking back on the first quarter of the summer tour, we seem to be blessed with good fortune, great gigs - one, in particular, at the Hampton Jazz Festival last Saturday was a bit of a triumph all round and we were able to meet a lot of the audience next day and bask in their acclaim and general bonhomie - and a fairly seamless transition from Catfish, on drums, who is moving to Los Angeles with his wife and young family, to young Adam Deitch from Boston's Berklee music school, who is stirring up audiences already with his fiery groove, and his appealing personality. This has never been an easy gig for any but the best of drummers, but Adam stepped into the first one without any rehearsal and had almost all of it down solid. To say he was nervous on that first gig would be an understatement. He flopped down on the dressing room couch for about four minutes of congratulatory babble from the rest of us, then got up to grab a soda from the ice bucket, leaving behind him - and we have a photo to prove it - a complete "shadow" of himself in sweat! He still sweats, all right, but no longer from the nervous energy of that very first night - it's a kinder, gentler sweat, generated by funk, not fear. Otherwise, things seem to be fairly quiet out here in the Midwest and that's just fine by us. Nobody needs the thrill-a-minute stuff while touring, save for the actual performances themselves, as it's always hazardous enough travelling around with lots of night driving and the nutcase factor that seems to pervade so many road users the minute they assume control (I use the term loosely) of an automobile.

I think the word "point" would be more apt than "drive" in describing the haphazard and downright negligent use of vehicular transport that we see daily - you know, the left arm hanging out the window, the other arm straight in front with the wrist dangling over the top of the steering wheel, barely making any kind of contact whatsoever with that particular organ of captaincy - one good bump, and they're all over the place, usually right in front of our coach which is basically a four-ton projectile hurtling along behind them (they don't know - the mirror's just for checking the 'do') with a stopping range of about half a mile. Kind of like an ocean liner trying to heave-to for an errant rowing boat. Anyway, we keep our fingers crossed for Divine protection through the rest of our travels. Think of it as a kind of quid pro quo spiritual insurance policy ("Almighty Insurance Inc"?) where the premium is a whole lotta' good vibes and musical input, and in return we get a maximum-coverage heavenly policy to speed us safe on our way. It all helps ease the mind when you crawl into your bunk of a night.

We are now set to undertake the most arduous section of the tour, and possibly the most rewarding, too, with first Milwaukee's Summerfest, then New Orleans' Essence Festival, and thirdly Memphis's Fourth of July celebrations coming up one after another. We will also cover two thousand miles in the completion of those events, and all in the next four days! Yikes.......maybe I should have stuck in at school and become an accountant. Nah, it'd never work, would it.......I mean, who in the world needs a singing accountant, regaling his clients with chanted variations of their tax return, or an arithmetical aria for an expense account topped off with, for an encore, a soulful spreadsheet........ Let's not go there.

Sorry, I digress. That's what the endless flatlands of Indiana will do to you - where there is nothing, the mind must fill in the blanks, and so mine tends to wander to the horizons of the ridiculous - and there is plenty of fodder for that, let me assure you. Just last night the hotel concierge was telling me about a decommisioned army base which had been turned into a large new golf course. He went on to say that it was "real interesting place, where you get to play around all kinds of things........" At that point my mind went a-wandering to this vision of attempting to thread a skilful nine iron onto the green, avoiding the tank-trap which has snagged so many of today's competitors, and I could just hear Peter Allis' voice saying, "Oh, dear he won't be happy with that one; the last chap who went into that bunker came up with six months' rations of tinned food and a glowing sandwedge......"

Lastly, a bulletin: Fred's doing quite well after his thermal brush with disaster, and has been taken off the critical list and is now in stable condition. You see, in the quest of a solution for the eternal dilemma of keeping stage clothes in presentable condition, Fred (our resident Einstein) decided that a portable steamer would be the answer, and so had a friend of ours in DC take him to a nearby mall. As a result the events unfolded thus: Fred buys steamer, Fred LOVES steamer, and talks about steamer daily..........Fred wonders, just as he's about to go onstage, if, in the interest of speed and elegance, Fred could use steamer while pants are on. As I say, his knee is doing fine, now.

Trouble is, this same friend wants to take ME golfing, next time.

Maybe that army base.........................................?

A.G.

THE MOON IN JUNE

1999-06-03T10:09:00.000-07:00

Now that the dust has settled from the British tour, the Philly and New Haven dates immediately prior, and of course the Tokyo turnout, it is time to assess the results and review the audiences one by one, and maybe give you all term grades for a) enthusiasm, b) attendance, and c) generosity at the merchandise table.

Well, taking the last first, it would seem that the New World wins hands down with their unmatched speed at putting hands in pockets and fetching out wads of green folding stuff in return for all the offered souvenirs - CDs, posters, T-shirts, caps, ball gowns, odd socks, and used underwear (signed, or soiled by the band, of course). Japanese souvenir-seekers were a close second, and we came back from there with a bare minimum of supplies to take to no. three...........England, where the paucity of charitable spirit in the merchandise department is in no danger of being challenged around the globe. Yes, folks, once again "South Britain" redefines the term stingy, the further South, the stingier with the almighty pound.

However, that was more than offset in the first category, when the strength of the reaction to the gigs, the new additions to the set (and to the band) were wholeheartedly endorsed by all whom we met, and who wrote to the website with their various critiques and compliments. Thanks, folks............it makes it all worthwhile to know that you're digging what we're doing, and that, just sometimes, we seem to get it right for you. Phew!!! Philly and New Haven were revelatory nights, too, with packed houses for the two-band show with Tower of Power, and the sweat, especially at Toads in New Haven, was collecting in pools all over the place. Shouldn't be surprised if there's a sudden outbreak of malarial mosquitoes with all that standing water about, and, hey Toads...... how about cleaning that place someday, or is there an official mandate that decrees all clubs be stinky, dirty, and imbued with the subtle fragrance of a decade of stale beer and human lather? (actually, Jazz Cafe can heed that too)

As for attendance, well the Western civilisations are going to pass the year with no problems - you were all in your seats (or on the floor) in the UK and the USA, but our Oriental students may have to repeat the year on that score, though we did find that we were there during "Golden Week" (a national holiday) so I suppose that, and the fact that we hadn't been there for four or so years, had some definite impact on the overall numbers. Still, the enthusiasm was there, and once Catfish and Matt, our tour manager, had visited a couple of other clubs to spread the word, everything picked up for the end of the week and we were rockin' by then. All things considered, it's been a very enjoyable and fulfilling month out there on the high seas, even if not all plain sailing - but what do you expect doing this as a way of life?..............Grief, mate, I'll tell you - and if you don't get much, then you're dead lucky. So far we seem to have had our share of the good side of that particular caprice, and long may it continue.

Now we begin the HOT work of the year, beginning Saturday in Dallas, at the Tom Joyner Festival down there at the Starplex amphitheatre - I spoke to radio just this morning, and they warned us that it would be 95 degrees (F) for us this weekend. I may be reduced to a blob of pink foam by the end of that one, so do be kind and sweep me up, put me in the fridge to cool off, and then reshape into a bass player for continuing hours of use and abuse through the rest of the summer. A summer which, incidentally, takes us to the Essence Magazine Festival in New Orleans, The Hampton Jazz Festival in coastal Virginia, the Milwaukee Summerfest in - yes, you've guessed it, and several other riverfests, waterfests, including a Memphis Soul "Stew" on the fourth of July, and otherfests of various size and sort to keep us continually enlightened and amazed at the never-ending permutations of human leisure activity under the summer sun. Hot Fun In The Summertime, was how Sly and The Family Stone put it, and hot fun is what we intend to have on this next cruise. Shorts have been cleaned, sandals dusted off, parasols repaired and at the ready, and air-cooled underwear brought out of cold (excuse the pun) storage to better ease the heat resistance. No doubt hotel pools will now be open, and a fine array of swimming and diving skills will be on display from the AWB Aquatic Team (we specialise in synchronised sinking) and we will try our best not to frighten the children and intimidate the parents with our ribald cries and blood-curdling waterfowl imitations while playing our own particular brand of Marco Polo, or Marco Pierre White (the well known English Chef) as we prefer to ridicule it.

All in all a cornucopia of Cancerian carnival connections coming up, and we are looking forward mightily to seeing you all again out there with limbs bared (Phowar), and other parts scantily enough clad (..ladies) to reduce us to quivering wrecks for the next six weeks. See you round the back of the bike sheds, then.

Seriously, come and meet and greet by the souvenir stall and we'll do our best to sign all your bits & pieces, and don't forget to clap on "two" and "four" while we're up there on stage (Nancy Reagan can ignore that of course). See you at the soda fountain..........mine's a KnockerBacker Glory, with a splash of Macallan!!

A.G.

APRIL IN TOKYO

1999-04-29T10:05:00.000-07:00

Goziamas, and Stomu Yamashta from the ancient Samurai village of Edo, now probably better known to you all as Tokyo, the venture capital of this thronging island nation just off the coast of Asia, where w.o.r.k. is the religion of the masses and p.l.a.y. is a dirty four - letter word, unless when used to describe what we are here to do by way of amusing the locals in their nocturnal hours of need. And what needs they have.

This may be the only place on Earth where you can see four well - dressed businessmen, who were earnestly and vociferously discussing some very important matter relating to the day's business, suddenly all rise from the table and proceed to perform what I can only describe as a "starburst" of synchronised falling backwards on their arses, due to copious amounts of alcohol having reached the parts of their beings which control all large motor activities, then pick themselves up in ragged fashion and proceed to continue the addled ritual of bowing and making all the proper motions of necessary Japanese protocol in ending an evening with each other, before bouncing their separate ways into the night. Fascinating culture, and all due to the quest to relieve the six - letter word, s.t.r.e.s.s, which seems to be their other accompaniing deity permanently attached to the first one we mentioned.

No matter, a liberal dose of funk n' soul seems to work wonders too, and we have been getting a warm and wonderful reception to our particular brand here at the new "Sweet Basil" club in the heart of Roppongi, which is the equivalent of London's West End, or New York's Times Square, or maybe Sydney's King's Cross even. Feel free to add your own local analogies to this short list of examples, and submit them to me personally, written on

crisp new banknotes - only one entry per note, please - but make as many entries as you feel necessary. All will be treated in the strictest confidence, reserved usually for the accused and his lawyer, or the sinner and his confessor - after all, we wouldn't want people to know that you're all so rich (or so bored and friendless) that you'd be spending your time and money on things such as this, now - would we?

Which brings me to the subject of our next adventure after this Oriental week of noodles, rice, and raw fish n' chips. Pretty soon we'll be on that long flight back to the land of the setting sun (I refer to the Americas) for a brief "hit" in Philadelphia, and New Haven, where we get a chance to trade war tales with our buddies Tower Of Power for two nights, before getting the next available intercontinental airbus for England, and some throbbing nights in

London (four), Manchester, and Birmingham (six there). I think the guys were a bit taken aback by the tightly - packed itinerary at first, but the thought of all those frequent-flyer miles going virtually round the globe had them all salivating into their cocktails..........or in Fred's case, his lemonade. (As you are no doubt aware, we do this strictly and purely for the love of music and the joy of travel..............and pigs can, in fact fly) However, since Heathrow doesn't as yet allow our porky little friends, unless as rashers of bacon in the terminal caff, we won't be flying any over with us.

So do come and visit us at the Jazz Cafe in London, or Ronnie Scotts in Birming-ham, or the Band-On-The-Wall in Manchester (where we even get a night off to play cards or read) and we guarantee to play some new and different things from last visit, and hopefully you'll furnish us in return with some new jokes or other tokens of appreciation in lieu of the filthy lucre which only the young and greedy, or the old and over-knighted accept for this vocational endeavour. Yes, we really DO do this for you - and to keep fit. Otherwise, we'd be pub - owners, or food critics, run a young ladies' finishing school, be film censors, or something absolutely riveting such as that, and obviously be thoroughly over - weight and underachieved.

Still, there's always that option if YOU don't show up.................................................

Sayonara from the East

(To be continued some time soon)

A.G.

UPDATE

1999-03-20T09:53:00.000-08:00

Spring is sprung at last, although we got an early sampler down in the bayou country last week which ill-prepared us for the return to winter on our arrival back up north. After a few days in deepest Louisiana, assisting the honest denizens of Baton Rouge to celebrate their 300th birthday (well, the city's tricentennial anyway - none of them looked that old frankly, though a steady, heady diet of file gumbo etoufee and jambalaya could possibly prolong life beyond our accepted northern norms) we were becoming suitably laid back, and humid with it.

The Saturday skies were clear and blue and we were all cursing our lack of foresight in having neglected to bring shorts with us - not that we'd have performed in them, although some of us have fairly kilt-worthy legs, you know; but then there's Fred..................... Anyway we had about 25,000 singin' dancin' fools in front of us by the banks of the Mississippi River, in full carnival mood. WAR played immediately before us, and got the whole place swaying to their groove which set the stage for us to go on and be as funky as we wanted to - and with Gap Band., and Kool and The Gang to follow, we had to be some kinda' funky to please this crowd.

It's occasions like this that make one glad to have some powerful items on the menu, and once again Schoolboy Crush, Pieces, I'm The One, and A Love Of Your Own proved to be everyone's favourites, dropped on the plate at exactly the right moments.

Thanks to Phil who pulled the sound together without the benefit of any warm-up or preamble from us - I sometimes think he just sticks a wet finger in the air and lets his instincts do the rest - the quality left nothing to be desired, either. Oh, and talking of instincts, he had to use all his native ones the next evening when he walked to the corner store for some cigarettes, and a local punk suggested that Phil should make a voluntary monetary contribution to his cause. Our boy, in true generous Brooklyn form, begged to differ, when the guy suddenly decided to up the ante by telling Phil that he was ready to enforce his demands with the knife he was carrying. Without missing a beat, Phil drew himself up to his full 5'4" and as casual as you like replied, "Oh, really...........a knife, eh?...... well, that's tough 'cos I gotta gun!!"

End of Mexican standoff, and proof positive that imaginary gun beats imaginary knife any day. As I said in the last bulletin, you can't make this s*** up.

Life imitates farce.

So we moved on into New Orleans for our annual visit to the famous House Of Blues, and another heaving, sold-out-an'-sweaty show there. They decided to can the opening act on the night, so we really got a chance to stretch, and play for a good couple of hours which afforded us the chance to air just about all the tunes we love to play - even some we had almost forgotten, it's been so long since we played them. Anyway, we needn't have worried with the crowd we had there. As we were going over "If I ever Lose This Heaven" (badly) at the afternoon rehearsal, we kind of ground to a halt feeling that all was just not right with the feel, or the tempo, or something, and said let's not do this one tonight, when the house's monitor engineer came onstage and said, "Man, y'all could do that mother****** any tempo you like, an' they gonna give it up to y'all. Now, come ON!!" Needless to say it was brilliant on the night, and the entire audience sang the 'mother' for us, too.

The only downside to the whole visit was having to go straight from there to the airport for a dawn flight back to New York, which we were literally poured on to, and which went via Memphis for a stop en route. I don't think anyone was even aware of takeoff, and the first thing I knew, we were parked on the tarmac in Memphis on what appeared to me to now be a completely empty plane. As I looked around, however, there were the seven other, barely-visible, snoring heads of our sleepy gang, and one cleaner furiously doing his thing before the new arrivals came aboard in all their disgustingly bubbly, bright-eyed, bushy tailed clamour to remind us of the fact that, no matter how much WE stick our heads in the sand, reality is an ugly business that can suck you into its turgid grasp the minute you're not vigilant............and it's all around!

Still, it could be much worse. Just imagine, all those businessmen that have to do that day in, day out, wrestling with each other to fill the overhead bins with their overstuffed garment bags, then vying for the last remaining ounce of elbow room to outdo each other for laptop computer endurance tests the minute the doors are closed, pausing only to breathe occasionally or eye the flight attendants (should they be under fifty - a sight seldom seen anymore in the USA) and of course to siphon the drinks trolley as soon as it's within three rows of wherever they might be. We simply carry our own.

Till next time,

Au Reservoir, Dogs.

UPDATE

1999-02-28T09:49:00.000-08:00

Fellow funkarians,

How is the winter of our discotheque?, as Shakespear never said. I feel that Spring is about to be sprung on us at any moment, and may have already for you, depending on which climate you live in. For those of you living at the foot of Kilimanjaro, you can ignore all of this completely, and for the rest of you, it's what someone who has little to say fills up an entire paragraph with in the absence of matters of real import and excitement.

Actually I did have some excitement last week, but I've forgotten what it was now that excited me. Oh, YES!! It was our little trip to Washington DC to take part in our friend Tom Joyner's morning radio show. This is one of those incredible American phenomena that could never happen anywhere else on earth, except maybe Mombasa or Maputu for a free food giveaway.

Imagine, if you will, arriving at a theatre at four forty five (Yes, 4.45) in the cold dark morning, to find people lined up around the block for this once-weekly live on-location radio show, which seems to be a loose mix of a gospel meeting, an interactive talk (and scream) show, and then add a guest Soul artist - last week us, this week James Brown, and so on - and you start to get a picture of what it's like to be a part of this extravaganza.

As the curtain went up (at 6am) and the entire cast, and Tom, and us went forward to the front of the stage, while twelve hundred people went out of their tiny minds, I said to Fred, "can you imagine this in Leeds?" He lost it completely, needless to say. AND we stayed at the Mayflower Hotel, where just two weeks previously the one and only Monica Lewinsky (I guess everyone has heard of her??) was esconced for her little chat with the US version of the Spanish Inquisition. Although no finger nails were pulled, nor thumbs screwed in the ceasless quest for someone's idea of the truth, it nevertheless needed Monica to appear in front of all those salivating old Southern Republican (read American version of an arch-Tory) congressmen, and it was the Mayflower that it happened in. No, I didn't get the room she stayed in - mine was FAR nicer.

Elsewhere, things were much as normal, and we've now confirmed our two week visit to England in May, following on the heels of our Japan trip. We should either have blistering jet-lag, or invincible stamina by the time we get there, as we will have done 12 shows in Japan, and then, having returned to New York to pick up some clean underwear and some fresh guitar and sax polish, we'll set off across the Atlantic for our UK pals and eighteen sets in fourteen days. Suckers for punishment, you might well say, and you would be one hundred percent right. Still, it's the only way to get to so many people in a short space of time, unless you all can persuade the Royal Albert hall, and the NEC to book us for 2 nights each.

We were in the studio last week, putting the finishing touches to the Japanese, and so the British version, of "Face To Face", with a live version of "Let's Go Round Again" which Phil, our intrepid engineer mixed and edited on to the existing American version, which I believe debuts on July 1st on the EMI/Capitol label. Obviously, since "Let's Go Round" was such a hit in the UK and Japan (and was again last year in Britain, by Louise) it makes much more sense to have it on those issues rather than in the States, where hardly anyone knows the tune - except, that is, those of you who go out of your way to explore some of our different foreign issues.

On Friday we will set off down South for a trio of dates, including the Bonne Fete 300 - Baton Rouge's celebration of its tricentennial - and our home-from-home in New Orleans, The House Of Blues. We open with a show at Sam's Town, outside Memphis, on Friday, with our old pals WAR. They looked great when I saw them at Phoenix last October, so we're really looking forward to that, as we've had some terrific shows together over the years. Working in tandem with people like them and our other good mates, Tower Of Power, is such a gas, as it takes all the pressure off any one of us to "do it all", but gives fans such a broad range of soul and R&B performance in one sitting. The only problem we've had, though, when all three of us played together was best illustrated at Phoenix last year. The giant marquee that graces the car park of the Celebrity Theatre had run out of 'W's, and so as we drove by at nine in the morning, after an all - night drive from Santa Fe, New Mexico, we were greeted with the sight of..

TONIGHT

TOWER OF POER

A B

You can't make this stuff up!

More news after the next lot................be cool, and stay funky.

Alan

Freddy V's LONDON DIARY

1999-02-02T09:46:00.000-08:00

Subject: London Diary

Date: Fri, 2 Feb 1999

From: Freddy V

Upon returning home this past week, and catching up with all my e-mail correspondence (including several offers to earn millions of dollars while never leaving my house, and invitations to check out some "Hot Chix"), I have noticed a number of requests (O.K., I think there were 2, but that's a number isn't it?) for me to write a bit about the musical portion of my recent holiday in the UK.

There's not much I can say about Hamish's gig that hasn't been said by Mark or Chris. In the 3 years I've been with AWB, I've heard Alan and Onnie tell me many times what a great soul singer Hamish was. I've also been reading Mark and Chris' reviews of Hamish's 606 gigs for the past year, so I had to see for myself if all of it was true. I was not disappointed. It was a great night of soul music. The man sounds better than I remember, and hearing a great band like Hamish's in an intimate club is always real pleasure. I almost didn't mind the feedback, the uncomfortable chairs and that, for some reason, they didn't serve Coke or Pepsi (what kind of bar doesn't serve cola?).

My second musical treat of my holiday was the chance to play with Jim Mullen, one of the U.K.'s best jazz guitarists. Jim was an original member of "Kokomo," another Scottish soul/R&B band that got its start in the 70's. Jim & I had met backstage a couple of years ago at my first AWB gig in London where we immediately began arguing about music. Jim is very passionate man (he is Scottish, after all), and is not afraid to express his opinions about music or anything else. I've been a fan of his funk/R&B playing with saxophonist Dick Morrissey for years, so I was looking forward to the chance to play with him in a little impromptu jam, along with London pianist Mike Gorman.

Since there was no rehearsing, and none of us had ever played together before, we found some common ground in soul/jazz standards like "Put It Where You Want It" and "Cantaloupe Island" and R&B chestnuts like "If You Don't Know Me By Now" and "Boogie On Reggae Woman." Folks don't get to hear Jim play much other than straight-ahead jazz lately, so there were quite a few people to see the jjam. Jim is a very fiery player who means every note, and it was extremely inspiring to play with him. The evening's festivities were taken up a step when Jim invited his old Kokomo bandmate, keyboardist/vocalist, Tony O'Malley to sing a couple of tunes. I felt so comfortable it was as if I had been playing with these guys for years.

After the set, Jim and I had a chance to hang out and talk about music. Jim and Kokomo toured with AWB in the 70's, and we shared some road stories, as well as Jim's recollections of working with Robbie Macintosh, the late AWB drummer, with whom Jim had played in Brian Auger's band.

I had a great time playing with Jim, and the two of us talked about the possibility of getting together again and doing a real gig when AWB tours the U. K this spring. We'd get a chance to play some of the old Mullen/Morrissey arrangements, and that would certainly be a thrill for me.

Thanks to all the fans and friends who made that evening so enjoyable. I hope to see you all again the next time AWB comes over to the U.K.

UPDATE

1999-01-30T09:45:00.000-08:00

I suppose there may be some of you who are moved to wonder what, if anything, is going on with the intricate web that is the day to day life of the band, and, more specifically, why almost nothing has been heard from them since the end of the English (and a wee bit of Welsh Wales) tour last December. Well, you're probably right.

The answer is.....................nothing!!!

I am sitting here in my winter lair looking over a chilled New England landscape, counting squirrels, deer and other wild beasts who have to spend their miserable unquestioning lives scrambling for scraps of food and vying for nooks and crannies of shelter.......... sounds uncannily like musicians, actually. No, this is a time of rest from the road - a time to recharge the creative batteries in the hope that some glimmer of an original idea will somehow attach itself to a part of the brain which will allow for germination, fertilisation, and then maybe fruition - in short, write a song again!

I know Eliot has been hard at work developing some of his new ideas and he is revelling in playing with his new keyboard which we're all going to see (and touch, and fondle) next week at rehearsals, our first of the year. This will serve two useful purposes - one to see if we can remember how to play anything at all, and secondly, assuming the results of no.1 are positive, to try and shed some of the accumulated rust from a season of overindulgence in the bacchanalian delights of the holiday season just passed. You see, the Tom Joyner Radio show called a couple of weeks ago, and reminded us that it was that time again (you may recall we did their program last year at this time, from Florida, at a festival to celebrate the first historic black township in the USA) only this time we'll be at the Lincoln Theatre in Washington DC for their Valentine's show, on the morning of Friday Feb. 12th. That can only mean all the LOOOOOVE songs will be trotted out ( you have to say that with a Barry White voice to get the true meaning ) so let the page know what you think we should do, and we'll try to whittle it down to the five that we'll have time for.

Fabulous, Flying, Funky Freddy V returns from London in a day or two, where he has been for the last two weeks - putting himself about a bit at the local gigs, I hear, and hanging out with Hamish Stuart, some of the guys (and gals) from Kokomo, and himself doing a jazz thing with our old buddy Jim Mullen, the Scottish guitarist who won last year's UK jazz poll as top player. Of course, we've all known for years just how good Jim is, and for those of you who followed his fortunes with Dick Morrisey in the years with the Morrisey-Mullen Band, that news, if news it is, will come as no surprise. Let's hope somebody rolled tape of Fred's gig with him, as there's been precious little of inspirational value this season in the musical department. All these wannabe R&B merchants' CDs that almost, but not quite, get you going.........you know, you want to get on the floor - the groove sounds like it's going to develop into something more than a dry tickle - you turn round, gulp down another mouthful, grab the bird, and as you do the best sliiiide into the fray, it all just seems to stagnate into another turgid bit of so-called "Oldskool" with a few loops and samples that we made 20 years ago thrown in to fuel the track. It is sooooooo frustrating. So, it's been back to digging out the LPs again and getting down with our bad selves to the real thing.

Still, there are signs of life out there, and it seems the hibernation period is about to come to an end, if it hasn't already, and the phone seems to be affirming that awakening after a month of merciful silence. Oh, well, if people continue to want doses of unmitigated funk and soul music, and insist that the words average, white, and band should feature somewhere in their year's supply of same, then who are we to refuse to answer the call of the soul-starved multitudes..........who are probably running around out there right now like those squirrels and deer I was talking about earlier.

Now, where's my gun

Alan

Tour Done!!

1998-11-30T10:56:00.000-08:00

A word to our supporters: Thanks for coming to see us throughout the English tour, and giving us a fair hearing along the way. It wasn't the easiest of outings, and we had to perform in some less than perfect surroundings, but by and large the response was genuine and welcoming and several of the gigs were very satisfying - we definitely made some new friends (who might ultimately become real fans), and the already fans made their presence felt from beginning to end.

The final night in London was fantastic, and the band played their asses off at Sound Republic, aided by the fact that here was a gig designed and tailored for quality performance - a multi-media venue that embodied the best of both worlds, for the artist and the audience, and which I think is a revelation for a British venue in that no expense has been spared to enhance the abilities of the musicians and the opportunity for the crowd to experience that possibility in the most intimate atmosphere. F***ing grrreat!!!! (Said with Scottish accent, please)

All through, the guys played for each other, and were able to carry off the most difficult shows with integrity - now we really deserve a break from the road and some time off to recharge the inventive batteries that will lead to the next recording venture in the spring.

To the US fans (you swell in numbers each year........) we hope you've enjoyed the "Face To Face" CD which you've been able to preview prior to its EMI release in spring '99, and look out for our first Stateside March gigs in the southeast, hopefully belting out some new material headed for the next album.

To all of you.......you make us what we are!!

Happy Holidays, and keep the SOUL alive.

Alan

Rolling Along

1998-11-20T10:54:00.000-08:00

We're in Sheffield today........the City where "The Full Monty" was filmed, and, coincidentally, as we drove to the gig yesterday we passed a run-down old pub advertising strippers on Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Maybe it's me, but the only thought that entered my mind at the time was what the hell THEIR dressing room must be like, when I'm sure a million more abject things could be pondered. I say that because we'd just been discussing the dire lack of basic changing facilities in these British gigs - no matter how new or custom-designed the building may be, the dressing room is usually a nook (or cranny, if you must) doubling as a beer keg storage passage/fire exit - the thought of the alarm going off as one is midway in & out of one's thunderbags, and the ensuing charge of terrified and panicked punters still clutching pints is enough to chill the nerve of the most stalwart entertainer - or a small room with good intentions which has been overcrowded by a large, useless couch and homely coffee table, when every inch of space matters, and a simple coat rack would be a luxury.

You see what we're reduced to on the road - where are the grandiose ideals of glittering stagecraft and inspired performance, carrying besotted throngs of idolising fans away on seas of abandon (and drink, of course)?........no, merely the mundane and menial carping of cold and uncomfortable men in the misty midlands of Mercia. Ah, Death, where is thy sting? Right now, it's about...... No, let's not go there.

Needless to say, the show was fine, if a wee bit difficult on my part trying to sing through the cold, but the others pulled mightily as always and more than compensated for my weakness. Tonight, however, we have a merciful night off to rest our bones, watch telly, have a toddy or two - in short what- ever takes your fancy, apart from McIntyre and me who have to make a train journey back over the Peak District to Manchester to an hour-long interview at the radio station Jazz FM. Who knows, maybe one of us will get the job!

Then, tomorrow it's off up North to Newcastle Upon Tyne, or Geordyland to us, where you're almost in Scotland, but not quite, though the weather's just as wicked, the more so for being perched on the North Sea, that grey body of near freezing water that separates us from Europeans, and which could probably counterbalance global warming single-handed, if science could contrive to aim the wind across it in the right direction. Billy Connoly's famous take on the North Sea is one where mothers were traditionally heard on Scottish beaches cajoling their chivering children into its chilling waves on supposedly summer days (Hah!), while not so many miles offshore, tannoy speakers on oil drilling platforms were greeting new arrivals with announcements like, "This is the North Sea - DO NOT FALL OVERBOARD, YOU WILL NOT LAST TWO MINUTES IN THERE".........meanwhile, back on the beach, the maternal voice is still screeching, "Go on ya big jessie!....get in the water an' hae a swim....."

Well, I should go and find out how many came back from battle last night, so that we can plan our next skirmish. I was bundled into a waiting car last night instead of the usual meet & greet after the show, and feel much better for it. All our concerns are that we embark on a six-night run on Sunday, now that the second night was added in Liverpool, the final night being London, of course, just to make it all the more scary.

Yikes............

Cheers,

Alan