MUSINGS

(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

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

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

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

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.