EASTER/ WESTER

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!

AG

ANOTHER YEAR

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

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

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.

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.