written by Martin Bullard
To
the far end of the Earth and back
(written April 2005)
It took a
full 24 hours to travel from the UK to Petropavlovsk-Kamchatskiy in Russia.
Another day, another destination - that's how it is for Smokie. There is no
chance for the body to adjust to this time zone, which is twelve hours ahead of
BST and lies beyond Australian latitudes, with The Bering Sea and the U.S.A. to
the east, The Pacific Ocean to the south and The Sea of Okhotsk to the west. But
we are only staying for three days before we are due to cross another nine time
zones to return to St Petersburg.
The first impression is that P-K resembles Vladivostok. The cars are mostly
Japanese and almost none are clean. At this time of year the snow is piled up in
black heaps along the side of the road, making walking very difficult. Loud
disco music plays from speakers which are mounted on lamp posts at the roadside.
En route to P-K we shared the business compartment of Flight SU 825 with an
extreme sports team who were due to heli-ski down the side of the Avacha volcano,
which is considered to be one of the most active volcanoes on the Kamchatka
Peninsula, it's last eruption being in 1991. That was, co-incidentally, the year
of Smokie's first Russian tour. Fortunately for us the mountain has kept its
temper this time. A proposed trip to the Khodutka hot springs, in this land of
"fire and ice", is the chosen activity for our day off in P-K.
Frequent references were made to the onset of a predicted cyclone, which was due
to hit P-K on Monday or Tuesday, threatening our chances of flying to St
Petersburg. As the wind gathered in intensity on Monday afternoon it seemed that
the forecasters may have got it right. I began to wonder whether we would make
it in time to rehearse with the orchestra, who are scheduled to accompany us for
part of the set on 14th April.
The strong winds caused the cancellation of all activities and the band and crew
were responsible for occupying ourselves in place of sightseeing. This meant
that meal times became a main event, an oasis in an otherwise empty day. It is
at times like this that we rely greatly on our sense of humour, as it becomes
apparent that some of us have already adopted "institutional"
behaviour. Any local walks result in us slipping on icy pavements and risk being
soaked by passing vehicles as they plunge into deep potholes filled with water.
Even the shortest walk requires mountain goat surefootedness. Will we make it to
St Petersburg? We're in the hands of nature.
Luck was on our side and Flight 7B 530 departed on time, arriving in Krasnoyarsk
just five hours and twenty minutes later. We had crossed five time zones and had
another four to go before arriving in St Petersburg. It's remarkable that we had
been in the air for over ten hours, yet we were still in the same country. Mike
attempted a chivalrous act in offering to help an old lady out of her seat as
she prepared to disembark. She wouldn't accept any help and hit out at him in
annoyance before striding down the aisle unaided. Her husband apologised to
Mike, but there was no harm done.
It is noticeable how popular chewing gum is in Russia. A well as being sold in
bars, kiosks and hotel reception areas it is also available in restaurants,
where it has been served to us at the end of every meal, presented inside the
folder which usually holds the bill. At least we should be able to show a
consistently clean set of pearlies when we open our mouths to sing.
It is now fourteen years since we first set foot in St Petersburg in April 1991.
Perhaps it's a testament to global warming that the temperature is much higher
now than it was then. I remember seeing winter sunbathers, known locally as
"walruses", who sunbathed in near freezing temperatures along the
outer walls of the prison. Women in fur coats and boots would arrive and open
their coats to reveal just their underwear. Although the air temperature was
very low, and ice was floating down the River Neva, there was sufficient heat in
the sun if the position was right. Now there is no need to dress for cold
weather.
Whilst
attempting to cross a busy road, which is not easy in this crowded city, I felt
a rush of warm air down the back of my neck. I looked round to see a rather
large horse (with rider, of course) was waiting to do the same thing. It seemed
less concerned about the noisy traffic than I was and looked very at ease, if a
little out of place, as it merged amongst the frantic drivers who steered
one-handed while speaking on their mobiles.
Some
of the cars still remind me of the Russia we knew years ago. When I see an old
car parked along the roadside, bearing the identifying letters RUS for Russia,
it's more than a little tempting to add a "T" to the end of it.
Steve, myself and the crew were taken to a rehearsal room in the city, where we
heard the orchestra rehearsing for the St Petersburg gig. The first violinist,
together with the conductor, Ilya Teplyakov, have created some first class
arrangements which will greatly enhance the overall sound. "What can I
do?", in particular, sounds magnificent and should please the romantics and
nostalgics in the audience.
Our hosts kindly take us to an exclusive club in the evenings known as
"Golden Dolls". It doesn't take much imagination to work out what form
of entertainment occurs there, but the beer's good, the steaks are succulent and
football fans need never miss a game - that's as long as they can take their
eyes off the floor show. Anyone for a spot of pole-dancing?
To say that Smokie won the hearts of our St Petersburg audience in Octoberski
last night is an understatement. There were scenes which were reminiscent of the
Kremlin gig in January 1997, when ours was described as a "revolution in
popular music". It seemed that the appearance of the 19-piece orchestra
came as a surprise to the audience and, as the curtain opened to reveal
conductor and players, there was a huge round of applause. Terry explained that
we had "brought along a few friends", which was received with enormous
enthusiasm. It seemed that we could do no wrong. For the duration of the show St
Petersburg felt like Smokie's adoptive city. The applause got stronger as the
show progressed and the end of the show seemed to come far too early for band
and audience alike. Ilya Teplyakov had achieved a lifetime ambition of
accompanying his favourite band and the orchestra members were unanimous in
their praise and thanks for being given this opportunity to make an evening of
music with ourselves. Never before has "What can I do?" sounded so
dramatic and relevant. The song was re-defined last night for an audience who
have already attached great significance to the words and the feeling behind
them. It was truly a night of adulation and ecstacy and one of Smokie's finest
moments.
Whilst pounding the pavements of St Petersburg I came across a new hazard which
hit me by surprise. If you ever find yourself wondering why the streets are so
damp, when it hasn't rained, you should beware of the street cleaning trucks.
Some announce their arrival with a continuous hooting of the horn, making them
sound like an impatient motorist. Just as I turned round to see what was the
commotion, that's when it hit me; two high-powered jets of water full in the
face. I made a mental note not to let it happen again, even though it did have
the effect of washing my trainers quite nicely. However, there was a second
truck which adopted a stealth approach and moved silently in for a fresh soaking.
Had I not had access to clean water, or time for a shower before breakfast, I
might have been grateful for the service, but on a slightly chilly morning it
was more than was required to keep me feeling fresh. I feel that this is
something you should know if you are new to St Petersburg.
Last
night there were more horse sightings. We spotted a group of hatless riders,
with drinks in hand, sauntering along the pavement in the half-light (no
reflective clothing of course). This seems a very novel way to enjoy a drink, as
well as an ingenious way to get home after a boozy night. Presumably the horse
knows its way home, even if the rider is past giving directions. I wonder what
happens if they get arrested for being drunk in charge of a horse! Does the
horse take half the blame for being in charge of a drunk?
Russia is full of surprises. After studying Irkutsk on the map and hearing the
news that the equipment "won't be quite what we are used to", I
thought that we might expect some real wild eastern fare. I imagined that
telephone contact would be difficult, that there would be little understanding
of English and that the audience would consist of country folk in casual attire.
How wrong I was, for The Baikal Business Centre Hotel is the finest one in which
we have stayed during this tour, there is widespread understanding of English
and the audience was smartly dressed and genteel. The P.A. technicians were
right about the equipment, though, and the loss of a keyboard en route through
Omsk didn't help matters, and meant that a replacement had to be found at short
notice, which was not an easy task. Amplifiers and lighting desk alike were
equipped with the huge bakelit rotary knobs which are typical of Russian gear.
We
took a night flight from St Petersburg to Irkutsk, which meant that sleep was
interrupted and brief. In spite of this there were still sufficient energy
reserves to deliver a good show and keep the audience happy at The Same Age
Theatre in Angarsk. Even though the band and crew were feeling the fatigue of
repeated travel through different time zones, there was still an enthusiastic
performance, no doubt fuelled in part by the audience's reaction.
In Irkutsk we received a similar welcome from a rowdier audience in a larger
venue. The overwhelming theme amongst most of the Russians to whom we spoke was
that they have waited a long time to see the band. On the day of the gig the
weather brought a harsh Siberian wind and snow, which meant that a trip to Lake
Baikal - the largest lake in the world - was not recommended. On this occasion I
may have to rely on post cards to convey pictures of the local scenery.
I
have noticed that everywhere we go there are many dogs running around in public
areas, apparently with no owners. As well as having the freedom of the parks
they seem pretty good at crossing busy roads. These animals could surely teach
the deer and sheep in the Highlands a lesson in road survival.
We are nearing the end of a tour which has seen us travel 19,500 miles, cross 36
time zones, spending 43 hours on 14 flights. And that's just the easy part.
After all, it can't be hard to sit on a plane, can it? Try telling this to our
body clocks, as they struggle to gain a sense of equilibrium. The true effects
of these biorhythmical "musical chairs" start to tell only when we
stand still. The trick is to keep moving, but we cannot stay on tour forever
otherwise we would run out of underwear. I know when I have been affected
because my words start to jumble together and I find simple statements hard to
absorb. It's like being present in spirit but not in body.
This Russian tour has been our best to date. We continue to build on our
reputation in this country, to establish the band as we are today, and not as we
were remembered in the 70's. Now we are known in Russia as President Putin's
favourite band, a legacy from our appearance at The Kremlin Palace last
December. There is a real sense of fun at the concerts. It seems that the
audience are accepting us for what we are while, at the same time, keeping
in mind that we achieved legendary status from our early recordings. I couldn't
ask for a greater reception anywhere in the world.
The
path of Rock and Roll rarely runs smoothly. It's a rocky road to success and we
have to roll with the changes. As we sit on our flight to Moscow we are made
aware that our onward flight to Kaliningrad has been cancelled, putting
tonight's show, the final one of the tour, in jeopardy. As we prepare for this
gig we discover that there may not be one.
The problem is that Kaliningrad Air have gone into liquidation, and this news
reached us shortly before we were due to board one of their aircraft. Fortune
smiled on us and Aeroflot took over the airline, and eventually carried us to
our destination about five hours later than we had originally been due to arrive.
Although this put us under time pressure we reached the venue on schedule and
waited for the audience. There's a curious feature of all of our shows in Russia,
which is that the audience don't arrive until fifteen minutes before the show,
even though the doors open much earlier. Within minutes, hundreds of people pour
through the doors and fill the hall in a way which would be very useful if they
were passengers boarding a jumbo jet. This sort of flow rate would certainly cut
down on flight delays.
The last night of any tour is always a special occasion, but this one carried
extra meaning. The band and crowd shared a common sense of relief that the
concert had gone ahead as planned. The after dinner speeches praised the band
for bringing our music to a country which was so appreciative and for just being
there, in spite of the travel complications. Once again, we made new friends in
a city where we had already achieved great popularity. Will we return to
Kaliningrad? Absolutely, as long as we are invited.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Still hooked on Alice, to the chagrin of many a rock chick
(written March 2003)
Whatever happened to sex, drugs and rock and roll, and why are Smokie looking so pleased with ourselves? I'll answer that question since I have been the keyboard player for the last 15 years. We have made a career out of cultivating the "boy next door" image, which was never lost on Alice who was depicted as having actually lived next door until the big limousine took her away, leaving Sally licking her lips in anticipation of the undivided attention she appeared to crave. It has always surprised me that the dirt was never dug on Sally who may well have been hiding a massive secret, such as a lesbian one-night-stand with Alice. Whatever the possible scenario, the three-chord trick penned by Messrs Chapman and Chinn still receives as much attention, if not more, in far flung parts of the world which is Smokie's playground.
I have to say that being a rock musician is far preferable to being a politician, particularly during Russian press conferences in which we are invariably put on the spot with the most sensitive of questions, particularly in these troubled times. These we parry with the disclaimer that we are not political and would be equally as unsuitable for the job of world leaders as George Bush would be for the position as Smokie's lead singer.
To what do we owe our lasting popularity? Perhaps it's our very ordinary nature and approachability. In Russia, during Brezhnev's Presidency, the playing of most pop music was banned, with very few exceptions. Smokie were given special status by virtue of the fact that our music doesn't offend or dictate but merely charts the turbulent waters of an old and enduring subject, which is "love". In Mongolia our music was heard as a result of German visitors who had already grown accustomed to hearing Smokie songs on the radio and had travelled with copies of the albums. For years the Mongolians tried to sing our songs, making hopeless attempts to copy a language they didn't understand, resulting in some hilarious twisted lyrics. However, the music on its own seemed stirring enough to have the desired effect, as was the case in Beijing, where the Chinese had never heard our songs and were unaware of the existence of anyone named Alice. For them alone we sang a folk song in their own language called "Nan Li Wan" which brought smiles to their faces and tears to their eyes. We had made a real connection.
But longevity is no good at all unless it's matched by stamina, and Smokie's ability to endure is supremely evident in its almost robot-like tour schedule which would strain the energy reserves of musicians half our age. Ours is surely the tour which never ends, except for brief spells during which a new album is prepared. It's not vanity which causes us to display pictures of ourselves at home but the simple need to remind our families how we look lest they forget us.
But, isn't this lifestyle unhealthy and dangerous? Possibly, but in some surprising ways which are not instantly associated with music. Like, for example, being in Armagh in Northern Ireland just hours before a major bomb blast, like travelling in Aeroflot for whom seat belts are still optional and mostly useless since they appear to have been set for Russian shotputters forty years ago and are impossible to adjust to fit the slim girth of a weight conscious artist. On a recent flight inside Russia it was noticed that the flight crew were finding the simple screwdriver an indispensable tool in the struggle to bring down the Tupolev safely. The cockpit instruments which failed to work were dismissed with a shrug of the shoulders and casual acceptance, but at least we landed. They do say that a good pilot is one with an equal number of landings as take-offs unless, of course, he happens to be up in the air when statistics are taken. But landings are, I suppose, only a matter of definition. Strictly speaking the aircraft is ready for disembarkation when it has come to rest, even if that were to occur on a frozen river on Siberian wasteland. On Aeroflot the passengers exercise their implied rights to stand when they feel they have had enough of sitting, and this may occur even when the plane is speeding down the runway. One of our technicians was seen weaving in and out of rows of seats with a bottle of Vodka during take-off. The reaction of the stewardess stunned us all to silence when, instead of requesting that he sit down, she asked him if he required any drinking glasses.
Touring is more "Alice in Wonderland" than "Living next door to Alice" since it is peppered with surreal experiences which, even when sober, do not stand up to scrutiny. There are many obstacles which prevent the show from being as good as it might be. To the professional musician an obstacle is a minor aggravation which makes the gig slightly less enjoyable but still perfectly playable, just as golfers meet circumstances which may hamper their total enjoyment like, for example, driving rain at St Andrews or low flying Tornados during their tee shot. Poor PA systems, earth hums or insufficient lighting may all be spanners in our great opus. But insects in Albury, Wodonga - now, that's something we never anticipated. You have to imagine how hard it is to sing when every time you inhale there is a multicoloured insect the size of a small bird with heavy stinging artillery trying to enter the gaping hole which is your mouth. Add to this the hilarity of crickets being squashed underfoot, rendering the stage a banana skin nightmare, as well as jumping inside the bass drum on the off beat, only to be catapulted out again by the blast of beater against skin. Even The Muppet Show didn't have this type of material!
So what great Guardian Angel is watching over Smokie and keeping the show on the road? At times it seems we do indeed have friends in high places, not to mention some very low ones. Perhaps the top man is a Smokie fan. It wouldn't come as a great surprise after all we have seen during a lifetime of entertaining every race on Earth. Will we be spared the questioning on the Day of Judgement, only to be hosted into a small room with some band equipment and plenty of Vodka so we may give a heavenly rendition of "Alice"? Perhaps the omniscient one will overlook some of the Rock'n Roll indiscretions in favour of an evening of "unplugged". Truth is, there's not much to tell on the bad boy front, unless drinking and falling over have recently become a deadly sin without my knowing it. I'm afraid the "boys next door" might have been a bitter disappointment to Alice had she hung around since we tend to prefer a cosy night and a few beers in familiar company, a trait which has left many an Eastern Bloc prostitute standing and wondering from where her next dollar will come, if not from her promised source.
In the battle of good versus evil we may well find that we have fans in both the other world and the underworld. Performing to Hell's Angels is not a new experience for us but it is the realisation that they genuinely like us which demonstrates that some of life's players can swap parts freely and still remain credible. This is particularly poignant when you consider that "Alice" is the song which Smokie never wished to record because "we are a rock band, we don't do pop".
Now we do everything, provided it pays the mortgage.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Smokie put the Seoul back in Korea
(written April 2003)
53 hours is a long time in Rock and Roll, but that's how long we were in the country before we struck our first chord. But time passes quickly while in the hospitable company of our Korean hosts. Our enjoyment is their pleasure and they have laid on another wealth of experiences for this 2003 tour. It hardly seems a year since they first honoured us as citizens of the Gyeonggi Province, when we ran on to the pitch of the Suwon Stadium as football ambassadors to the United Kingdom. We arrived as new faces and left as old friends, a feeling which pervades throughout this current tour.
O.K., so we never mastered the etiquette of bowing, which has left a few of us with grumbling spines in need of manipulation, acupuncture and anything the medical world can throw at us. On arrival at traditional Korean restaurants it is inevitable that there are a few "senior moments" when it takes a little longer to get up from the floor, having dutifully sat cross-legged while wrestling with a multitude of dishes whose names don't always find an English translation too readily. But the smiling happy experiences go on for ever. And the fact is that the Koreans really like us, and our appeal is spreading further afield than just Seoul and Suwon. This tour has also included Daejeon, KwangJu and Busan.
On arrival there was no time to lose since YTN were keen to interview us and find out how we survive our gruelling tour schedule while also recording a new album every year.
Naturally we play down any compliments with typical Yorkshire humour, which helps to put even the most nervous first-time journalist at ease. Regardless of the fact that we were the first international band to sell over 1 million albums we still retain the down-to-earth appeal which has become our personality trademark. Approachability is our watchword. Without the legions of armed security officials, gofers and assistant hairdresser to the hairdresser's assistant we stand exposed to the public, which is just the way we like it.
Our hosts know how to show us a good time and even have all the right medicines to repair the damage after the event. GinSeng appears in all its various forms, i.e. sweet root, tea, syrup, refreshing drink, warm elixir, chocolates and any other version you can imagine, all of which I have absorbed constantly since being in this country. I realise it goes against the grain to admit to healthy standards when I could still be doing a bottle of Jack Daniels a day and throwing TVs out of the window. Those activities are still an option, of course, however the price to be paid far outweighs the pleasure nowadays.
It paid to save a little energy after the flight to Seoul since there was a full schedule of entertainment laid on. Within hours of touching down we were swept off our feet, but not as literally as the aerially acrobatic cast of the famed "De La Guarda" show (meaning Guardian Angel). This extravaganza found its way from the US to Korea, where it opened in July last year. Anyone who is familiar with the bungee ballet, from "Tombraider" will quickly catch on to the type of activity demonstrated in this fast-moving, frenetic and mesmerising display. To look upwards for over an hour is to try to coax the vertebrae in the neck to do things which are unfamiliar and uncomfortable. However, to witness the cavorting of half a dozen bungee-clad adrenaline junkies is to ignore such matters and try to look in several directions at once, not least of all because a certain amount of water comes the audience's way. They could have warned us to dress in rubber, or at least sell mackintoshes as merchandise! I cannot recommend this show highly enough, it was a dazzling experience which will appear amongst my top five favourite memories from this Korean tour.
But no tour of this nation is complete without a visit to Bakyang Sa, the largest temple in the land where the decorations were out for the celebration of Buddha's birthday. The monks were busy going about their business, unaware of the fact that a small bus had just deposited nine men from the music world, mostly in search of a group photograph, on their doorstep. Our drummer, Steve, in frightening Geordie vernacular managed to summon the attention of a lone monk, who was busy shifting brass ornaments, to where the band were standing in readiness for a photo with the breathtakingly beautiful backdrop of monastery in the foreground and mountain in the background. The holy man dutifully obliged before returning to his arduous duties. Who said touring is hard work? I think the monk's work is a lot harder.
A cursory glance over the mandatory trinket stall revealed an interesting bamboo implement which makes a pleasing "crack" when bashed against a solid object. Mike and I decided that we each needed one of these for our studios so we might capture the unusual clacking sound on a sampler and use it one day on a track which might just require an unusual clacking sound (somewhere on the next Smokie album?). Little did we know that what we had actually purchased were priest sticks, which are used to arouse the priest from mid-prayer slumbers with a stout crack to his bald skull, which seems a little on the harsh side, but maybe no harsher than waking at 4.00 a.m. every Friday to fly to Amsterdam before continuing our onward journey to somewhere in Europe. Whether we will actually be able to use the above technique for sampling is debatable since there is usually an absence of bald sleeping persons in studios, but there's always a first time for everything.
An overwhelming impression of Seoul, apart from the fact that it is free of SARS at the time of writing, is that it is teeming with cars and people at all times of day and night, apparently in absolute safety since there is no evidence of muggings or attacks of any description. Road rage hasn't found its way here, which is a great relief since most of the streets are without pavements and are shared by cars, pedestrians and street sellers alike, with the result that vehicles creep slowly along back streets, only announcing their presence with a resounding toot on the horn which coaxes pedestrians out of the way, but generally without incident. Motor cyclists appear to move around the streets rather as the queen moves on a chess board, but with more disastrous consequences which don't end too well for the hapless two-wheeler with its mountain of merchandise strapped to the rear.
And Seoul could not have been busier than it was this week since the Shilla Hotel, where Smokie have been staying, has also found space for George Dubya Senior and his entourage. Just imagine my disappointment when I discovered that the small army of policemen and security guards were not there for the band's benefit at all, but rather to keep distance between the former President and those who would like their opposition to the war in Iraq to be known. George's safety was perfectly intact while Smokie's whereabouts remained a closely guarded secret, cocooned as we were in luxurious settings overlooking the main shopping complexes which beckoned to all those with a penchant for designer labels.
While in Korea it would be a waste of a valuable opportunity if we didn't investigate some of the technological marvels which abound, if only so we may see examples of communication devices which will soon reach our shores. The G3 phones, of which we hear so much in the UK, are standard issue over here, which means that swapping of audio and video through the phone network is commonplace, as is "Navigator", which is their term for GPS, which pinpoints the user's location and maps out a route to a required destination through the broadband internet connection on the handset. Just as this technology has serious positive advantages for the sensible user, so it may also open up some very frivolous opportunities for the prankster who has tired of riding the Harley Davidson through Reception and into the lift and now seeks a more diverse form of gamesmanship. Whereas surround sound is just catching on in homes here in the UK it is commonly found in the streets in Seoul, where satellite speakers seem to be placed anywhere that space allows and thumping disco beats permeate every street corner, all with immaculate sound quality.
One item of intrigue for me has been the fire escape devices which are placed in every room in high rise hotels. These allow the trapped resident to secure themselves to a solid fixing point in the room and jump out of the window before abseiling down the side of the burning building. It sounds a little like a job for Mr Bond, but it would be of immense value to lesser mortals should the need arise. Tempting though it was to have a go, I'm sure that the sight of a tall, hairy westerner descending from the 14th floor, clad only in the hotel dressing gown, would cause more alarm than the fire bell itself. So I didn't.
When we finally hit the stage for the first time it was just as if we had never been away. The Koreans greeted us with customary smiles and impeccable manners and left us with no doubt that we have made our mark in their history books. While 53 hours may seem like a lot of free time, it was all of 25 years that the Koreans waited before we made our first visit. But somehow time stands still once the playing starts and the memories come flooding back. Wouldn't it be great if we could experience that same effect outside of the arena?
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Shamrock and roll in the land of black and white
(written May 2003)
Take a room, any room regardless of size and shape, and fill it with people of all age groups. Supply seats, of course, even if they are for standing on, and release information that the band will be onstage at nine o'clock when, in fact, the appearance is more likely to be around ten. Leave anxious crew to deal with persistent enquiries, requests etc and wait for the audience to mellow or revolt, depending on location. Attempt to find all five members of the band and place them in one area, keeping a close eye on them in case one disappears, or "rolls away" as we have it in marble speak. Check that there isn't a pint of Guinness on or around the mixing desk or other vital electrical equipment and that nobody is crushed against the monitors. We are now ready for a Smokie gig in Ireland.
The charm of this country is, of course, that time doesn't matter. This is just as well since it takes seven minutes to pour a pint of Guinness. Why seven? Why not six and a half, or even five? Don't ask, because you will receive a reply from the barman which takes longer to listen to than it does to receive your next gleaming pint. We work from a curious timepiece which has on its clockface the words "nineish", "tenish", "elevenish", etc. And who needs to know anyway? Being late is not an arrestable offense, any more than is wearing long hair and a permanent smile. Neither is belching out plumes of stage smoke into the lungs of appreciative fans, even if smoking cigarettes in public places is under close scrutiny at present.
The road signs over here are confusing. They all appear to have been erected by drunken students during rag week. One moment Dublin is 20 kilometres away and then, some distance on, it suddenly leaps to 22 kilometres. Add this confusion to the effects of the hangover from the previous night and it's easy to see how anyone may surrender their sense of normality whilst visiting Ireland. And it's not just the signs that throw us off track - the heavily potholed and undulating roads themselves do a good job of this, particularly in the west, where the EEC grant money doesn't seem to have quite stretched yet, although I'm sure it's on the agenda somewhere. It seems
that each source of confusion forgives and makes way for another. The more I analyse Ireland and the Irish the more I realise that their code is every bit as complex as the human genome, which has only just been sequenced after years of collaborative work by scientists around the globe.
Getting the best out of Ireland requires two things - a sense of humour and an agreement to suspend
reality until Dublin Airport. It's not only direction we lose when on this lovely island with its ever-changing climate, but also logic has an odd twist. A few years ago I was strolling through the rustic streets of Ballinasloe, following a Guinness-soaked
night of hilarity, when I met a gentlemen with a cow in tow. He asked me the time and I replied that it was 12.18. He then consulted his own watch before breaking the news that he thought it was only 12.16. After a pause, of the duration which is familiar to pipe smokers who draw in a lungful of tobacco before replying to a question, he said "I'll tell you what, let's call it 12.17". This seemed to provide a solution whereby we were both winners since I had supposedly gained an extra minute of my life and he had created an important moment of social interaction, something which is more valuable in Ireland
than events themselves. Whilst wondering what I would do with this unexpected revelation the cow, which up until this moment had remained passive, emptied its bowels on the road, the pavement and the shoes of a passer-by. The unfortunate recipient, who looked to be on his way to a business meeting, was compensated with the words "That's good luck to you". Where else would you find misfortune being perceived as being quite the opposite? Is there an explanation for this, I wonder? Maybe at some far flung academic institution there is a grant-aided study of how the Irish have skilfully curved the boundaries of the known universe. Make no mistake, though, they are smart and they are in tune with the hi-tech world, even if they would have you believe that time has stood still since the 1960s.
Irish breakfasts are legendary, not only because it is a massive meal but also because they have the hottest plates and the leakiest teapots in the world. A word of caution -never wear white at breakfast since there are a dozen ways of picking up stains during this multicoloured feast, just as there are later in the day when wet trays of Guinness are whizzing around within soaking distance.
Another feature of Ireland for the band is the regularity with which we reach the backstage area by means of the kitchens. During my forty or so tours of the country in the last fifteen years I must have seen just about every kitchen in every hotel where we have performed. What would the Health and Safety people say as we skid across the greasy floors on our way to work, narrowly avoiding injury? Probably nothing at all, after all we are in Ireland.
But Smokie's fondness for the Irish goes back a long way. We owe them a huge debt for the rebirth of "Alice" in its more recent four-letter form. Try to get the truth from them regarding the origins of this version and you will find that everyone in every village or town was responsible. No matter whether we are in Dublin, Belfast, Letterkenny or Donegal the response to this song is mighty. And it seems the more often it is heard the more it is fixed in the minds of the those who regularly see the band in action.
On a final note I have just observed, from a scientific publication, that it takes fifteen years, from seedlings to final product, to develop a new breed of potato. That's the equivalent of my entire Smokie career invested in the effort to bring to the table a superior, disease-free and tasty new version of the food product which has nourished the nation for so many years. I suppose a lot of that time has been spent waiting for potatoes to grow, whereas a large proportion of my fifteen years have been spent waiting for planes and other people. I was just thinking how patient are those people who develop the new spuds, then again I think I have also required buckets of patience over the years which serve me during periods when nothing appears to be happening. And never more is this patience required than in Ireland!
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Bringing home the bacon (probably)
(written May 2003)
If you like riddles, as I do, and you are familiar with some TV advertising campaigns you will soon realise which country Smokie find ourselves in today. It's flat enough to ride your bicycle without too much exertion, has an abundance of wind turbines, sports some of the longest bridges in the world, hosts the most summer outdoor music festivals of any Scandinavian or European country and prides itself on excellent beer, one variety of which is implied in the title. Thanks to adverts which appeared on television in the UK some years ago I shall always imagine the word Danissshhh sizzling away from under a slice of bacon in the frying pan. And the ale which they brew is the finest in the world (probably).
I like Denmark, it makes me feel at home. There I find familiar food, drink and humour. If they could just build an even bigger bridge to connect with the UK I could drive there instead of flying and losing my luggage in Amsterdam every weekend of the summer.
The Danes are hardy folk who don't baulk at a bit of wind and rain. Festivals proceed with or without hospitable weather and the same cheery smiles grace the audience regardless of conditions. The inflatables get sillier every year, a fact which must challenge the imaginations of manufacturers of inflatable objects, which serve little purpose other than to be waived around during concerts and then presumably deflated and stored until the following year. They are the Christmas trees of the summer season and they just get bigger and crazier with the passing of time. They could perhaps come in handy as emergency footwear to prevent stem rot while standing in flooded fields which look like they were used by mud wrestling cows before the humans arrived. Plastic drinking vessels fly through the air with amazing regularity, sometimes full of liquid which might be beer or might perhaps be something else, it's hard to tell in the half light of Scandinavian summer evenings.
I have a particular fondness for Denmark because it has adopted Smokie in very many ways. The band have recorded four albums there, played on the same billing as Whitney Houston and Tina Turner, appeared several times on prime time television and generally become part of the summer scenery. We even managed, last year, to give strong vocal support to England in its World Cup game against Denmark from the intimacy of a Danish pub which was packed with local fans who showed great sportsmanship by congratulating those of us from old Blighty on the final result. Interestingly enough this was an unusual opportunity to hear the harmony vocalists in Smokie sing a straight tune, which happened to be our national anthem. Had Denmark won I expect a lot of beer would have been consumed, instead of which Denmark lost the game (3-0) and an "extreme" amount of beer made it past the faces of disappointed but respectful supporters. In common with the Irish the Danes plan the party before the result is announced and make quite sure that none of that compensatory beer is left on the shelf.
Denmark seems to have retained a unique position amongst its European and Scandinavian neighbours by weathering world recession with fortitude and very little evidence. In most other territories in which Smokie travel we can see the results of economic slowdown and sympathise with the inhabitants of those countries who are finding the going a little tough. But somehow Denmark has remained cocooned in its own successful formula so far. And being inside Denmark has a feeling which invokes thoughts of the orchestra on board the Titanic which continued to play in the ballroom while the ship went down. Denmark is pure escapism with conviviality. In the event that the planet explodes without warning I feel that here would be one of the best choices of location for a stellar goodbye (probably).
Another thing I like and respect the Danes for is that they still have their own currency and identity, as do the British at the moment. We haven't quite been taken over by Europe yet, although the danger signs are there for all to see, but we still have time to reflect on what makes us British as opposed to merely European. Identity is of vital importance to the band. We are recognised for who we are and what we do. These are the vital ingredients which define us. My observation is that, with the passing of time, we are gaining in popularity because we have remained more or less the same in an ever changing world. Because parents can now take their children to see the band which inspired them as youngsters, rather than just trying to describe the experience, there is a bridge between the generations which is formed by music. In our own way we are bridge builders, although only in the metaphorical sense.
On the subject of building, I recall the time that those little bricks known as Lego first appeared in England. At the time there were very few variations which included a few different sizes, shapes and colours of brick, windows and wheels. Using our imagination it was possible to create structures which would make no sense at all in real life, such as a window within a wall mounted on a single wheel. This might have been early signs of lateral thinking but would have confused an architect.
Nowadays there are endless possibilities with Lego, including the software "racer" version which I am so often summoned to my son's bedroom to witness as he constructs an unlikely vehicle and then proceeds to either race it to victory or gleefully allow its destruction by missile-firing opponents, which is generally more fun. Since all manner of things are possible with Lego it comes as no surprise to discover that Smokie will be playing a concert at Legoland in Billund this year. I wonder if the stage will be entirely constructed of miniature coloured bricks! And will we stand by, prior to going onstage, in little Lego trucks guarded by security men with those permanent smiling plastic features? We will soon know (probably).
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So much space, so few people
(written June 2003)
I never cease to marvel at the scenery here. Although I have been countless times it still takes me by surprise, rather like the first rollercoaster ride of the summer season. If scenery had a price then this would be one of the richest countries in the world. So breathtaking is the scenery that it is remarkable that anyone would have any breath left after a day in this incredible place. Round every bend in the road is a view which would make postcard photographers out of all of us. The whole lifestyle of its inhabitants is shaped by its coastline and terrain. The winter creates perfect conditions for skiing, both slope and cross country, and the summer creates the perfect backdrop for a life on the water. There appear to be more boats than people here in Norway, especially in Oslo. And the summer temperatures can climb high for a country with such a northerly latitude. It's not surprising, then, that fair skins in winter turn to rich golden tans in summer. This makes Norway sound a little like a year-round playground, which it is for some, especially for Smokie.
The band's affinity with Norwegians dates back many years and has spawned several platinum album awards. The second most-asked question in Norway (after "Who is Alice?") is "Why do you think you are so popular in Norway?". My considered opinion on this matter is that the nature of our music lends itself easily to the lifestyle of Norwegians who frequently entertain themselves, both outdoors and indoors, by picking up a guitar and singing. Smokie music lends itself easily to this type of activity and, as a result, Norwegians have acquired large numbers of Smokie albums so they may fill their leisure time with home-spun entertainment which is inspired by the music which stirs and stimulates them. Hence the large and regular album sales and the continuing demand for Smokie to play live in various parts of Norway, which can make for some lengthy and interesting journeys.
Norway was the first country I visited outside of England. My first ever flight took me from Gatwick to Kristiansand on a Braathens propeller-driven plane which had "adventure" written all over it. The plane made sounds during the flight which I have never heard from an aircraft since and just about all of my tea ended up swilling around in the meal tray. Most school children would very likely have made their first trip overseas to France, where they could attempt, with limited success, to speak some words of French which, up until then had mostly been written and rarely spoken. But my own international visits were influenced by personnel whom my father had met and taught at International Banking Summer School. This created a network of contacts around the world, or "penfriends" with whom I later became more acquainted as a result of travel, a luxury which has now become a weekly habit for
me.
My earliest contact with Norwegians found me boating, fishing, skiing and generally larking about. None of the music which I enjoyed at the time had become popular in Norway. I remember, whilst dipping my toes in the warm water of a jellyfish-strewn fjord, a Led Zepellin track being played on the radio. This made my friend laugh. He described it as "funny music" and carried on gutting his fish. I realised that there was a gaping chasm between our two cultures. Matters soon took a turn for the worse when I requested a cup of coffee and was told that children don't drink coffee in Norway. At 13 years of age I was already consuming copious amounts of the stimulant which kept me going through long days of study at boarding school. So a beer was right out of the question! Equilibrium was established some 4 years later when I visited my friend again who had now been heavily influenced by progressive rock and for whom "Stairway to Heaven" was now an anthem which took first choice over Grieg's Piano Concerto.
In adult life I have mostly regulated my alcohol intake by trying to stick to simple rules, like the one which says "Never drink whisky from pint glasses". One such personal preference is to enjoy a drink or two after the sun goes down. This becomes completely irrelevant in the north of Norway during the summer, where the sun dips for a few seconds and then starts rising again to welcome the new day, which must cause confusion for anyone who is on night duty. So the question of when to start drinking and when to stop arises, even for those who have set no personal limits. It's easy to see how parties can last all night (or is it all day, it's hard to tell?) and why a few of the revellers, having peaked far too early, would be hard pushed to remember where they went and which band were playing at the time.
Aside from impressive scenery there is still a lifestyle which is built around enjoyment, relaxation and sociability. The merest hint of sunshine during the summer months brings out the seafarer in many who take to the water with a day's supplies of food and drink. There are many happy memories of such days when, for example, a powerful craft, such as the Scarab, which is notably the speedboat which featured in the opening theme to "Miami Vice", was laden with buckets of fresh prawns and enough beer to put out a fire in a tower block and driven at awesome speed around the Skagerrak, in the vicinity of Arendal, entirely for the band's pleasure and amusement.
Seafaring vessels do not always have to conform to regular notions of how boats should look. I have witnessed, for example, a floating VW Beetle. Anything which will stay afloat is good enough for the purpose of messing around on the water. Similarly, anything flat which may be strapped to the feet may act as skis in the winter. Having walked to the top of the ski jump at Holmenkollen and looked down I have the utmost respect for anyone who is willing to jump from such a great height. But I suppose we all have the ability to fall - It's how we land which really counts.
In Norway there is so much land and yet so few inhabitants. Distances can be deceptive because it is possible to see your destination a long time before arriving because, frustrating though it can be, the only available route takes you along miles of winding roads which must always go round the fjords, there being limited demand for ferry services in some places. Many times we have had to charter a light aircraft or helicopter to get round this problem.
One enduring feature of Norwegians is their penchant for ice cream. Even while snow still adorns the mountains the streets are filled with people of all ages, occupations and dress codes wandering along with an ice cream in hand. It came as no surprise, then, that the inflight catering on Braathens' domestic routes recently was strawberry cornetto. This makes a change from KLM's regular cheese sandwich which is wrapped so securely that you expend more energy trying to open it than you gain by eating it. Apart from ice cream, another dairy product takes all newcomers to Norway by surprise - that is goat's milk cheese, which is neither yellow nor cheesy in flavour. I happen to like it, but I've yet to find anyone from my own country who can cheerfully slice away at a block of sweet-tasting fudge-coloured cheese as part of breakfast.
The longest day of the year, June 21st, found me back in Kristiansand, where my whole Norwegian adventure begun 32 years ago. Wait a moment, did the sun just dip for a moment? Time for a beer, I reckon.
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Back on high ground
(written September 2003)
There are occasions when I am not on tour, in the studio, in transit or simply delayed and in limbo many miles from home. Although these periods are very rare they offer me an opportunity to restore waning energy and take on all the tasks which separate touring from domestic routine. It is by no means a rest, since I generally stay active from 7.00 in the morning until 9.00 at night, but it is a change which revives and restores me so I may attempt to capture a look of relaxation, good health and vitality, even when the body tells me I have overworked.
What better a place to do this than at home in Scotland? Although it is home for me it is also one of my favourite holiday destinations. I am fortunate to live in a place to where tourists have travelled far in order to witness the beauty of The Highlands. They are not the only ones, of course, because I do it every week. I have to say it is worth the effort and anyone who believes that to travel is better than to arrive may have got it wrong in this case. No matter how I reach my home, whether it may be by air, rail, road or water I still feel my heart jump as I approach the place which has become so much more than somewhere to live - it is where the heart is truly
happy.
"Why Scotland?". Many people ask this question. My answer is simply "Just take a look, and if you are not at least a little captivated I shall be surprised". I have been a regular visitor to Scotland, first as a choirboy at age 10, then as a keen (but not very good) golfer at 17, as a comedy writer and entertainer on The Edinburgh Fringe Festival at 20 and as a regular tourist after graduating from Exeter University in 1978.
Scotland inspires in a unique way. Its mountains, trees and rivers create a backdrop which remind us that in nature's terms we are very small. Sophisticated and evolved though we may be, we are mostly helpless when an occasional storm brings down power lines and leaves us without phones and the precious internet. It's at times like this that we do something which has mostly been lost from family life - we have proper unhurried conversations, rather than the staccato mutterings which are inevitably interrupted by high-tech bleeps and unnecessary calls and text messages. Although these occasions are very rare nowadays, when they do occur I feel that a small part of the life to which I was introduced over forty years ago has re-emerged to allow us to take stock of our cluttered existences.
And what better a way to clear the head than to take a walk? And there is plenty of choice in the Highlands, there being around two hundred and eighty monroes, or mountains over three thousand feet. Walking has always been my way of gaining musical and literary inspiration. I find that my pace quickens as I gather a new idea which may end up as an article, a poem or a piece of music. I soon lose track of how far I have walked and frequently wander far from home. But the feeling I derive from having taken vigorous exercise while collecting new ideas is without comparison. And the further I roam the further I wish to go in order to see what's round the corner. There are just too many potential walks and too little time to enjoy them all.
There are also the waterways. These truly slow the pace down to pre-industrial levels. And people are friendly on the water. They wave and smile and talk with enthusiasm. Compare this to behaviour on the roads, even in the Highlands, and you will easily understand why my preference is for travel by water.
With so much stimulation in one place I need a very good reason to leave it which, of course, I have in the form of eagerly awaiting Smokie audiences around the world. When I contrast the peace and serenity of the Highlands with the excitement of touring and the challenge of travel I find that I have two perfectly complementary and valuable lifestyles.
Scotland has a strong identity and is perceived as being a country with many unique and defining qualities. This is exemplified in its national dish (haggis), costume (kilt), drink (whisky) and instrument (bagpipes). Add to this the folklore surrounding haunted castles, witchcraft and a certain monster from Loch Ness and there is ample mystery and intrigue to make Scotland a very desirable holiday destination. And in a year in which the rivers have mostly dried up, the leaves have yellowed and fallen off the trees during and summer and the temperatures have been creeping into the lower thirties, there has been little talk of Scotland being cold, wet and windy. And yet Mel Gibson didn't seem to pick up much of a tan during the filming of "Braveheart". But he did encounter Scoland's secret weapon, the midgie. These little devils are the scourge of the nation's summer evenings and many a barbecue ends up adjourning indoors to escape the incessant biting of these tiny creatures.
I can really say that it was always in the back of my mind to make Scotland my home but it was not until I began touring overseas that such a move became possible, since it no longer matters where in the UK I base myself. And, although travelling to and from home presents a challenge, it is worth the extra hours of waiting and nights spent away from home in readiness for an early flight from a faraway airport.
If Nostradamus' prediction is correct that the sea level will eventually rise and cause the lowlands to be completely submerged there is a very good reason to be on high ground. We will surely never be flooded. Maybe eaten alive by midgies, plunged into darkness and lashed by the wind and rain, but what a great view!