Reality, Fantasy And Frivolity

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

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

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

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

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.