Kevin Bronson on November 12th, 2008

0

[Catching up with Morgan Kibby’s tour diary … Previous chapters.]

Chapter 14: Dublin. Belfast. Glasgow. Manchester. How to sum these all up?

Dublin: Horrible Chinese food, but fantastic crowd. Belfast: I can’t remember. I’m sure it was fantastic! Glasgow: Oh, Graham, you were the most handsome rep to cross our paths, and on top of that you gave us a bottle of single-malt Scotch for selling the place out. I love And last but not least, Manchester: despite crappy lighting, a wilted salad from Marks and Spencer, and spending the rest of my per diems on useless chotchkes, this was a good day. The Domino State is really a superb group of guys, and it was a pleasure touring with them.

I have to add, though, that my snoring concern was well-founded. The loudest of them all, poor thing (or,”  poor me!), ended up in the bunk just on top of mine. I manhandled him, kicked him and cursed him, and I’m not sorry.”  But I still think you’re a great guy, Jim! Our last night with the Domino State was filled with screaming card games, two fingers of Scotch that turned into twelve, and heart-to-hearts in the back lounge. Good times.

Next up, sweet Paris. How I missed you! The boys headed to their ladies’ places for the night, and Lotje, Patrick and I headed for a glass of red wine and “Pulp Fiction.””  Our rider is full of good stuff like fruits, veggies, cheese, nuts, etc., but of course the requisite bottle of champagne/wine/hard liquor accompanies the healthy snacks.”  Because we’re not really the type of band to get wasted every night, we take the bottles back to the bus for the nights we do want to let loose.

I started noticing, though, that things had steadily been harder and harder to find on the bus. Whether it was a breakfast product or a nighttime libation, things were being spirited away by elves. First it was the jam.”  Then the biscuits. Then the Coke, the Redbull, the wine, the bread, and then the last straw: the champagne. Don’t effing touch my champagne, elves. I will break you. Well, after dinner we returned to the bus, and I decided to ask our bus driver, DJ Andy, as we call him (he has an endless collection of late ’80s early ’90s dance stuff, priceless), where my precious bottles had gone. Of course, he knew nothing. I was huffing and puffing when Patrick beckoned me to the lounge. Miraculously the cushions on the seats of our couches could be lifted!”  And what did we find? A bloody horde of liquor, jam, biscuits … Oh, Andy.”  We started rifling through his nest nut, and I took back my champagne and greedily ripped into a package of M&Ms. Just as we put the seats back down, Andy sheepishly opened the door to the lounge:

Andy: “Oh, you found your champagne!”  Vere vaz it?”

Lotje (with the most powerful pointed finger I’ve ever seen):”  “There.”

Needless to say, he promptly disappeared and we dug into our find. The next day, the seats had been bolted down, Andy turned off the water to the toilet and coldly greeted me as I passed him in the morning.

Moral of the story? Bus drivers are crazies. He is a great DJ though, I’ll hand him that.”  And Andy, if you’re reading this, I’m still missing my bottle of red wine, you cheeky little man!

Photo: Loic, Anthony, PM, Morgan, Lotje and Patrick, in Barcelona