FANGS FOR THE MAMMARIES

LEEDS
Norks a'lordy, another college town, this show in a beautiful library converted into The Library, with heroes from Manchester Oceansize headlining on a short tour after opening for Corgan. Apparently he never looked at them, his bodyguard is named Turbo and no one is allowed in the arena during soundcheck. Before our set some mysterious youngsters request obscure Skeletons CD-R tracks. Ate at Simpsons Pizza, British drunken female arrests rise 1100%. The drinking age is 18, and the pub we hit afterwards has GONE WILD. Terrible British music, and everytime you turn around, someone spikes your pint with RED DEVIL crunk potion. Afterwards the vibe is rescued from critical condition by a kindly Rasta-man who locks us in the bar and plays Abbey Road from head to tail.

HULL
Dissappointed to not find smoking buildings crumbling into hot piles while the three-legged dogs sniffing through unusually large garbage heaps bark into a void populated by flobos, nomads, the abandoned, zipheads, and all the science fiction a man can take. We'd heard terrible tales in three prior villages, and all thee signes were there - there are two of these right on the side of the HIGHWAY TO HULL:



It was more like St. Louis, but Paul Jackson at The Adelphi fed us amazing Indian food. Late night brown crumbled tea talks with our gentle hosts. Gentrification is not a philosophical issue here.

In the morning, we are awoken by our manager Ted, who has readied the trusty tour chariot:


LONDON
Driving into town, the BBC alerts us that in 43 minutes, at 5:30 pm, or half five, as they would say, they will be exclusively allowing us to hear the fourth ever play of the new Eno produced Coldplay jam. It's a'ite. The NME is amazing, a total tabloid, like the average picture of say, Chris Martin from British superband Coldplay, will have a caption like "One of Chrissy's mates should tell him he's got a big boogy hanging from his nose!"

London is all spread out like LA. Upset the Rhythm is a party. The spot is packed with East Londoners as soon as the doors open and they don't move at all until it's all over. During the sprial section of RIPPER Matt slowly pulls some goopy hairs out of his mouth - disgusting. a lil Newsie yells out "you shit!" and the loyal jammers tell him to bugger off. the jams come easy. The show ends at 11 and it's instantly empty because the trains stop running at 12.


To date, two different people have told us our sound is "feral" and yet two others informed us that "yer good, but not too good"




COVENTRY
DA'MO Suzuki, wise olde wisard, traveller of many lands, goes for it buck right from the green light. He asks how Tony Conrad is doing back in the NYC. I tell him about Tony's new yellow zoot suit. We ponder in silence. It seems like we're in Pittsburgh.

Everywhere, the brightest fields of yellow rapeseed, one of the great hopes for veggie fuel sources (btw there are NO SUVs here, and none of the bathrooms have paper towels):



MANCHESTER
It seems like we're in Ohio. Cruisin the town on foot like 4 DJs for the Legends of Sauce Celebration Gala. 8 hours to kill till we hit it. Really good to kick it backstage with some Americanos finally - el Yacht and our fellow NU YORICANS Los Dirty Projectors. WIRE soundcheck for 6 hours and everyone gets F'ed as a result. Total heavy sound pocket vortexes on stage, but we Booglarize the mutha any-old-wayz. 30 seconds into our set, they hit the strobes real hard. Being a light dude must really be the jam. Some BUDDY asks for "Don't Worry" and we have 2 minutes to deliver a REMIX before the trap door opens. The Chap are fun automatique and then the PROYECTORES slay it despite the sound man hilariously adding delay to the VOX. "No effects, dudes".

I skip down through one of many hazardous and hazy pools of FESTIVAL style reason into the show below us, and find a way sweeter vibe - a death metal band killing it for a room of sweaty teens. 4 foot 15 year olds are making out all around me, dosed to the cheeks, the mosh pit a frothing cauldron of flesh, spitting the drunkest ones right into the loving arms of SECURITY. back upstairs everyone is way too into the Prawn Cocktail Crisps backstage. out front, WIRE dude is reading the lyrics off an iBook on a stool. cries of "BOLLOCKS!" cause everyone in the audience know da words. Still though, "The 15th" sounds good. Place is capacity slammed with bodies, absorbing the blast. back at the hotel, the bassist shakes my hand for a full 60 seconds.

At breakfast Dave and Matt decide to leave "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" off the WHITE ALBUM special edit edition we burn for the car - wtf my nerdS?!