Tuesday, May 8^th/Wednesday, May 9^th. . .

Eyes tired, legs tired, feet wet. Strange images come drifting into my consciousness like the strange squiggles on one’s eyeballs, lingering in frame and then drifting out again . . . cacophony of fiddles and tenor banjos and voices . . . strange and twisty Finnish and Belgian melodies . . . many cans and bottles, bottoms tipped skyward . . . hundreds of clapping Shetlanders . . . sensational musicians in every direction and from all corners of the Earth . . . Ed in a black dress, festooned with Tiger-lilies . . . shaggy ponies with stubby legs . . . watching six dawns in a row on the back end of the evening . . . Scottish breakfasts . . . Ed in a lilac bridesmaid dress and bloomers . . . could this be real? Have we been dreaming?

No, not a dream in any literal sense of the word, but certainly a music lover’s dream and a musician’s dream – the Shetland Folk Festival, you know? It would be a fool’s errand for me to attempt a day by day breakdown of our time, but let’s attempt a synopsis . . .

The whole festival begins at the ferry terminal in Aberdeen. We were greeted by a number of the organizers and staff of the festival, who had gone so far as to find pictures of each of us so as to know our names when we arrived. This level of care and attention to detail was with us throughout the entire festival; rarely to never before have we been treated with such a degree of warmth and welcome. After loading onto the ferry and stashing our stuff in our cabin (a 4 bedder, with Graham and Shannon in their own (I assume) palatial double cabin), we walked up to the main deck to see what was what. Jamming had already begun throughout the ferry bar and lounge, mostly of a Scottish nature. There were some familiar faces, and a lot of new faces to be seen and some excellent music floating through the air. We ran into Andrew – promoter at the Blue Lamp in Aberdeen and a Shetlander by birth, and shot the shit with him in preparation for our weekend. He portended the same scene that others had before him – 6 days of non stop music, boozing, and general madness. No one could say that we weren’t warned, no?

We took to jamming on the ferry, mostly in an old-timey fashion, much to the pleasure of those within earshot. It’s a particular mental exercise well-known to all veterans of fiddler’s conventions – to tone out 360 degrees of alternate melodies and focus in exclusively on the one that’s happening 2 feet from your head. Di-synchronous listening, they call it (or something . . . I heard a BBC Radio 4 article on it), wherein you focus on one sound but keep your ears open for the possibility of a predator attacking from behind or above. At one point, a fairly enthusiastic and well-besotted fellow came bursting into the lounge where we were playing, rolling around on the floor, upending chairs and tables. We later learned that his name was Stefan (“Hurricane Stefan” to his friends), and he plays bass with Rory Ellis. Try as hard as we might, we find it nearly impossible to be the misbehaving-est band at most fests; though, if you listen closely, we may be the shit-talking-est, mostly about one another.

We played music and caroused well into the evening, chatting with some of the other musicians and getting ourselves into festival mode, eventually retiring to our cabin for a few hours of sleep. Imagine, if you will, the heat and atmosphere of a 5x12x10 room after four full grown, strapping, well fed, and somewhat inebriated gents practice deep inhalation and exhalation in it for 4 or 5 hours. Kind of a musk-sauna, if you will. Around 6am, Ed began his sonata of snoring (as described in the May 3^rd blog entry), and I awoke to pace the deck. We docked about 7pm.

Upon landing, we were greeted by even more of the festival staff and taken to the festival club, and from there, we dispersed to a variety of host houses. One of the cool aspects of this festival is the host housing.  Rather than put the musicians up in a single hotel or some such thing, we are basically integrated into the community for a week. Perhaps this seems like a mushy or hyperbolic statement, but it really works to make us feel at home to be staying in a home, rather than a random anonymous room. Thanks to David and Jennifer, Colin and Ruth, and Zoe and Neil (and Crystal and Abby) for allowing us to invade your space (the truth of the matter is, given that we were rolling in around 5-10am and rolling out around 3pm each day, we didn’t interact as much as we would have under more normal circumstances).

After settling in, we went back to the festival club – the central point for all arrivals and departures, and took part in a slam-bang production wherein every band at the festival performed a single song. This is no small feat, given that there were 50+ bands at the festival, both local and visiting. One thing that struck us in this moment, and that would continue to prove true, is the utter calmness of the staff, soundmen, and volunteers throughout even the most time-sensitive occasions. It’s often the case at festivals that the behind the scenes crew can get a bit . . . worked up over every small deadline and backstage call, but the folks here have clearly worked with a rabble of musicians before, and know that we have a particular kind of punctuality. Rather than fight against it, they worked with it, and everything went smoothly and no one had a freak-out. In other words, this was not their first rodeo.

Let’s pause and just talk about the bands. So many bands. Certainly, many of them fell into the Scottish/Irish persuasion; but, of course, within that distinction there are many variants – pipe duets, fiddle bands, killer tenor banjo players (including a fellow with an X-Ray stretched over his head – the coolest skin I’d ever seen), accordionists, and singers. There were also some modern, “neo-trad” bands who marry rock, jazz and funk with Irish, Scottish, Cape Bretonese, and other traditions (ManRan, Sprag Sessions, Treacherous Orchestra). There were Scandanavians with twisty melodies (Baltic Crossing, Kan), and a killer Belgian jazz trio called KV Express that featured the astounding Sophie Chavez on diatonic button accordion and a bassist named Cedric who played a 6-string fretless bass the size of a coffee table. Let’s see . . . there was a group called Kasai Masai that featured musicians from Kenya and the Democratic Republic of Congo who played what they called “Sunshine Music,” and there were a few other bluegrass-y troupes, specifically the totally virtuosic J.P. Cormier & the Elliot Brothers, and The Alison Brown Acoustic Quartet with John Doyle and Casey Driessen (enough said). Phew! And that’s just a little glossing over.

And then there were the Shetland groups. The Shetland style of playing features really peppy fiddle melodies, similar to other brands of Celtic music, but backed by rhythm guitar straight out of the Eddie Lang playbook. It makes for a highly enjoyable sound – complex but completely approachable. Much like the stories of old time Appalachia (and the truth of a lot of modern Appalachia), nearly everyone plays some music. Many of the localities provide free instruction to kids, and music is highly valued throughout the community. This also makes for some of the best audiences in the world – highly knowledgeable about music in general, and very receptive to those of us who like a little parody and pageantry (parogeantry?) with our performance. And speaking of the shows . . .

Unlike what many of you dear readers probably envision when you hear/read the word “festival,” this is an entirely different scene. The whole of the festival was based out of Lerwick, the largest town in the Shetlands (roughly 12,000 of the Shetlands’ 22,000 residents live in this town), however, the concerts take place in small to large village halls throughout the islands. See, while people DO travel to the Shetlands for the festival, the majority of the shows are put on for the benefit of the residents of the islands (when you live in the middle of the North Sea, you sometimes have to import entertainment, no?). A 3-5 band lineup is picked up from the Festival Club and driven hither and yon, sometimes taking additional ferries to get to their destinations. Nearly every show was sold out, and the crowds were intensely appreciative, which gave us a great amount of motivation to provide our highest level of entertainment.

And I like to think we provided just that. We played a show every day, sharing the bills with many of the bands I mentioned. Without going into great detail about each performance, I’ll say we kept it somewhat close to the vest for most nights, only venturing into the slightly left of center material (Peaches, Perugia, Old Trash Can), and supplying a good deal of old time, ragtime, and bluegrass-y business. It was all received well, I think; many of the staff and audience members were especially taken with Peaches, and by our 3^rd concert, we were getting requests and folks were singing along. We are not, as you may know, the kind of band who excels in writing sing-alongs or in having folks make requests beyond “play Oh Brother Where Art Thou!”, so this was heartening and unusual for us.

I say most nights, because we did find ourselves itching to get a little strange, so on Sunday, our final day of performances, we did stretch out and treat the audiences to a little bit of the Beefy Cheese Boogie and Don’t Worry About The Poor. As usual, we were worried about nothing, they went over like gangbusters and made us wish we’d been feeding more of that side of ourselves into every performance. You can read a good review of on of our shows at the largest venue, the Clickimin Sports Centre, HERE.

Sunday was also the day of the “Festival Foy.” “Foy” means, I believe, “fun” in Shetland-ese (more on this in a bit). This is an amazing event that happens in three venues and involves EVERY visiting band playing a 15 minute set in each venue. You set up, play a set, then take down, get driven to a different venue, and do it again, and again! It was an amazing dance to witness and be a part of, and it gives people a chance to see every band, in case they couldn’t make any other show. Brilliant and also absurd. We love the 15 minute power set, however. It’s kind of an art to itself. Personally, we decided to have no repeats, which worked out pretty well for us, however, other bands crafted the perfect synopsis of their full set and ran with it for all three shows. Either way, it was a super fun experience on our end.

Now, after every night of gigs, all the musicians would end up back at the Festival Club, generally between 10 and 2 am, depending on where on the Shetlands that night’s gig took place. The Festival Club then turned into basically a condensed version of a fiddler’s convention (though it was mostly celtic jams). Every staircase and empty room contained a jam or two, and there was a busy busy bar and bottles being passed every direction. It was great to get to pick with many of the players we were watching perform. As old time players, we generated a fair amount of interest. One stark difference is the length for which we play a song. Generally, a Scottish or Irish jam consists of sets of 3 or 4 tunes, each played 2 or 3 times through. This definitely keeps the flow going, but for those of us who don’t know the tune, it can be kind of vexing – as soon as you begin to grasp the structure and notes of one tune, they’re off to the next, often in a different key and time signature (especially challenging for us 5-string banjo-ers). By contrast, as many of you know, an old-time tune goes until you can see through time, giving all participants plenty of time to learn, forget, and relearn the tune.

The long story short of it is that the schedule for the Shetland Festival participants runs as follows:

• 4pm – assemble and load up to get to a venue early for sound check, etc
• 8pm – 12am – gig featuring 40 minute sets form 5 different bands
• 1:30am – arrive at festival club, begin general carousal
• 5am – Festival Club closes, at which point you can either
  • A) head to the Harbor Cafe for a greasy full Scottish breakfast, or
  • B) head to an after party for more carousing before then arriving at A)
• Anywhere between 7am to never – go to sleep
• 3:30pm – stumble into Festival Club for coffee, and repeat.

This is a schedule that guarantees an increasing level of manic behavior and general hilarity. As the days went on, you could see a kind of feral quality creeping into all the musician’s eyes as we transformed from normal humans into sleepless party zombies. Lurching from bar to jam to venue to bar, feasting on all content that lay in our pathways. All of our Galax pals should be very familiar with this schedule. Personally, I haven’t seen so many dawns in quite some time. And, of course, interspersed with the music is all of the talking. Perhaps one of the things I love most about being a musician, and specifically a touring musician, is the fast friendships that can be achieved amongst you and your fellow road-weary comrades. Maybe it’s the shared experiences, maybe it’s some genetic component, maybe it’s booze. Whatever, we made some friends at this fest who are the kind of folks that we may not see for another 18 months, but with whom the rapport will remain fresh when next we meet.

It’s worth, at this point, singling out two folks with whom we had an especially great time – Tim and Una. Tim is one of these aforementioned road pals we first met in 2008 at the Famous Spielgeltent in the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. He is possibly one of the best soundmen we’ve ever gotten to work with, and also a hilarious, erudite, and almost superhumanly positive person. He is also a talented fiddler and multi-instrumentalist with some great bands. We ran into him while boarding the ferry, and it was a great pleasure to reconnect and socialize with him. Tim had, as his assistant, a woman named Una from Belfast who proved to be equally fascinating in different ways. An astrophysicist, an acoustic music engineer, a squeeze boxer and harpist, and a grade-A shit-talker to boot. Combined, Tim and Una were a fabulous mobile sound team and a great duo with whom to kick it.

What else . . . I feel like I have to expel all of this from my brain before it disappears forever like a recent dream. If you’re curious, this is my current position in life.

Ah, I feel I must amend previous statements that I’ve made concerning the full Scottish/English/Irish breakfast. If you need a refresher, it’s:

• Eggs
• Bacon
• Sausage
• Baked Beans
• Tattie Scone/Potato Cake
• sometimes sauteed mushrooms
• sometimes a baked tomato
• black pudding/haggis
• and, in the case of the Shetland Islands, the newest edition to our meat obsession
  • Saucermeat!

This is a breakfast designed for the hard working laborer, not the slothful musician. But see, I’ve been thinking about it all wrong. For us laypeople, the full breakfast isn’t designed to be eaten upon waking in the morning, it’s designed to be eaten before going to bed in the morning. Two days in a row I stumbled with companions to the Harbor Cafe for breakfast and ate a week’s worth of salt, protein, grease and beans, then promptly walked to the lodging and passed out, more from exhaustion than any alcohol fueled blackout. And, each afternoon, I awoke refreshed, nay, powerful, all thanks to a meal that no sane person should ever consider eating. The scene on Tuesday morning, following the Final Fling on Monday night, was especially lively. The place was queued out the door with revelers, loudly cheering and hooting each time someone else’s number was called to pick up their breakfast (two exhausted and somewhat terrified women were cooking for this horde of famished and bleary Visigoths, and to them we extend the heartiest thanks imaginable). We were picking tunes in line and acting up in every way imaginable. I was number 83. When 84 was called before me, I began loudly lamenting the lack of proper counting and was shouted down with a hearty “in your face, 83! That’s the luck of the draw!” Which had us all cracking up. Maybe you had to be there . . .

Shetland Phrases that we learned:

• Greth – “A piss,” i.e. getting drunk.
• Muckle – big; as in, “I had a muckle greth last night! Oh my head!”
• Peerie – small
• Ett a yun – eat up!
• Tooms – thumbs

And now we are traveling home: a somewhat harrowing ferry ride through a Force 8 gale, a flight from Aberdeen to Heathrow, and now we are somewhere over the Atlantic. It’s amazing how 6 days can seem like 100 years. Sometimes quality time whizzes past, but in this case, we were able to soak up every moment in its fullest, and we can only hope that we get the opportunity to return again.

Oh, wait, how could I forget. ED AND GRAHAM RODE PONIES!! Followers of our FaceSpace page may know that we were seeing ponies. In fact, there were two ponies (named Disney and Rover, we came to find out) that we walked past daily. Anyway, on one of his morning walks home, Ed was able to befriend and hop onto Rover, the brown one. He later regaled us with this tale, and was, of course, not believed in the slightest. However, Graham then reenacted the moment and got photographic evidence to back his claim! Never let it be said that we are not wild adventurers, folks. We have the Viking blood, coursing through our besotted and greasy veins. Is that the second time I said “besotted?” Well, there’s probably a reason for that.

Other moments/thoughts of note:

• Ed swapped clothing with Lisa, one of the festival organizers, somewhat late in the night on Saturday. This led to him wearing a full out bridesmaid gown on stage during the Final Fling
• During that same Final Fling, we were lucky enough to have the closing slot, which we used to get super weird. We also sang Peaches (which many staff told me was the “Song of the Festival”) and had many folks singing along. Additionally, we were able to get J.P. Cormier to rip up some mandolin with us, Bill Elliot to do the same on guitar, and, a special treat, Mike Elliot playing honkytonk piano for a number of tunes. We were also joined by our new Belgian pal Michelle on ancillary percussion duties, and Gary from ManRan on accordion.
• Hey, did you know that the Shetlands are fucking georgeous? Sure, it may be an acquired taste – wind-burnt hills and rocky cliffs, snow showers in May, foreboding seas, etc, but we definitely acquired that taste for it.
• Big thanks and love go out to all of the festival staff: Davie, Mhari, Lisa, Shirley, Eddie, Stephen, Kristie, and the myriad of names I can’t conjure in my current travel-addled mindstate.

That’s probably enough. If anything else springs into my consciousness, I’ll be sure to include it. For now, I’ll just reiterate how much fun we had and how flattered we felt to be chosen for this opportunity, and to be received in the manner that we were.

Next time . . . we’ll ride a puffin!

Ahoy!

PF Here, aboard a Shetland Bound Ferry. It’s 6:45AM, and I’m feeling somewhat rested and definitely restful after a few hours of rolling slumber. I was awoken bright and early in our comfortable, four man cabin, by the awe-inspiring snores of Ed Brogan.

Have we talked about this man’s nocturnal emissions before? There’s nothing like it. To hear it out of context, one might think to oneself, “walrus fight?” or, “underwater accordion?” Every inhalation is like a mighty bellows, and every exhalation brings a slightly new variant on an old theme. A regular old Charlie Parker with his snores, our Edward. Sometimes he trumpets triumphantly, other times it’s more of a chorus of whistles and whines. I put the man’s sleep noises up against any that you’ve ever heard. This is not to say that Ed is inconsiderate, folks, as nothing could be further from the truth. The man would, literally, sleep outside on the porch rather than fear waking you. Seriously, I’m using the term “literally” in a completely literal sense. However, last night was a evening full of . . . liquid sleep aids, and so no amount of prodding or pushing or threatening could get him to roll over or budge from his entrenched snoring position. And so here I am . . .

Not much in the way of music news to report on over the last three days, but there is certainly some excitement to report.

First, an addendum that I can’t believe I overlooked. On Friday night at Douglas’s house, we had a couple of young ladies sitting right in the front, thoroughly enjoying themselves. For the 2nd encore, I asked who the crowd would rather hear play the banjo, Ben or me. Most of the crowd was dumbfounded by the question, but these two emphatically shouted “Ben!” They later told me that he was their favorite, and in addition to being a fab banjoist and artist, he also “looks like a Russian athlete.” Yup . . . they said that. Ben. Russian athlete.

Moving on . . .

Sunday’s gig with Dr. Mango and the Chickpeas was, as expected, a great deal of fun. A small but appreciative crowd was at the Universal, and we felt that our raucousness was matched well by Dr. Mango’s lovely tunes. By the end of our set, we had a floor full of wild dancers, also, which always spells a good night. See Paul Kerr’s review of the show, just below, for the full scoop.

Monday through Wednesday we just kicked it in Edinburgh, lazing through the days, walking about, hitting museums and pubs, and catching up with all our old friends in the evening. I’ve gone on at length about how much we appreciate our road friends, so I’ll not bore you with that, except to say that they are all, each and every one of them, the very best!

The most exciting thing to happen over the last few days is as follows. Ben, Jake, and I (PF) were walking home late night from hanging out with our pals the Johnstons (leaders of the Scottish trad-rock group Rock Salt and Nails, see former blog entries for more on them). We’d been “sampling” Paul’s whiskey’s and talking music til late in the evening/early in the morning. Nearly home, we spied across the Leith Walk a near drunken altercation – a small stocky guy was being restrained by another fellow, his girlfriend shouting at him to not fight.

A quick aside to say that it’s not uncommon at 3am to see wobbly looking guys walking past you on the street in Edinburgh, and that many of them have the look of wanting to make punchy punchy.

Anyways, we walked on, commenting on the differences between one man’s goofy drunk and another’s violent drunk. Jake and I went into our lodging and Ben headed for his. While on his walk, and speaking on the cell phone to his lovely wife, Esmerelda Campbell-Volcano, Ben walked right past these same folks, and found himself on the receiving end of an errant drunken fist to the face. Our Benny! The Russian Athlete! He made a swift and wise tactical retreat and made it home to nurse his bloodied face. Accosted in the street!

I issue this as a promise . . . whoever this late night drunken Benny assailant is, he better watch out. If ever any Hot Seat or member of the Hot Seat retinue spots him, he’s in for a serious talking-to!

We’re now docking in the Shetlands. We’ve already seen some old Spiegeltent friends aboard, and had a fun but not too crazy jam last night. I’m sure I’ll be checking in again, probably from Heathrow airport in 5 or 6 days . . .

The Hot Seats. Glasgow. 29th May.

from http://paulkerr.wordpress.com/

May 2, 2012 by Paul Kerr

Sadly the desire to see The Hot Seats led us to leave Woody and his band at half time in order to hoof it on up to The Universal and due to crossing the Glasgow dateline we caught most of their set. Another band who drink from the old time music well The Hot Seats are a (mostly) bearded raggle taggle crew who swap instruments with gay abandon and to great effect. Anyone who’s heard their latest live album would know what to expect but in truth the humour and sheer vibrancy of their set has to be seen live. The first song we caught, Trouble in Mind was a steamroller of banjo, fiddle and guitar flailing away, a great start. In full flight the five-piece band serve up an unplugged wall of sound that can make the hair on the back of the neck stand up. No Plans from their next album was an outstanding example of this, forget the cinematic Soggy Bottom Boys, this is the real deal. Playing tunes by the likes of Gid Tanner’s Skilletlickers and Earl Scruggs there was plenty of bluegrass action and even a turn by Shannon Dunne, an American “flatfooter” who whetted the audience’s appetite for a dance. The sly entendre of Peaches allowed the band to wallow somewhat in a vaudevillian humour fully realised on Soft John Blues, a fabulously louche country slouch that pays tribute to that old viagra.

Earlier on Woody Pines had commented on the somewhat cramped confines of his gig lamenting the lack of dancing space. At The Universal there was no such problem and by the closing and rousing Another Day, Another Dollar you couldn’t see the band for the dancers.

If this had been a battle of the bands then I’d declare it a draw and the only loser was the reviewer who haplessly missed out on the second set from Woody Pines. It’s safe to say however that both bands are smoking hot and if you get the chance to see one or both then do so.

And so it comes to this . . .

I have been shamed. SHAMED, I tells ya! Jane Anne, our gracious Edinburgh venue co-host, and main blogger for the House Concerts at Douglas Robertson’s House, called me out by name! Specifically, she said, “your blog is like this: (INSERT THE SOUND OF WIND BLOWING ACROSS A BARREN DESERT).”

It’s true, I have been derelict in my duties, and for that, I apologize. All I can say is, baby (babies), please don’t go! We still love you and need you all to share in our non-adventures and eating mishaps. If I don’t share them here, and you don’t read and enjoy, perhaps they never happened at all? If a band plays a gig and doesn’t blog inanities thereafter, did they ever really gig at all? Wow . . what a koan. In that same vein, Eddie is curious if you order a pizza, and it doesn’t have a HOT DOG STUFFED CRUST, was there ever a pizza at all?

And so . . .

Saturday, April 28, 2012

I’m sitting in the dressing room of Brookfield Village Hall, languishing after a savory meal from our favoritest take-out in all the world, the Bombay Deli of Paisley. The sun is shining (I know, what are the odds?), and I’m overlooking a pristine bowling green. We need more of these in the You Ess of Aigh . . . bowling clubs. Not bowling alleys, mind you, but a lush, closely mowed lawn on which one can toss a few balls. We can all wear white outfits and cultivate our mustaches, also. Sounds like heaven.

We arrived in Scotland two days ago, after an uneventful 13 hours of travel. We enjoyed a few hours of time-killing in the fabulous shopping and people watching mecca of Heathrow Terminal 5 (worth it), and walked around in the rain upon arrival in Edinburgh. We are once again being hosted both by the fabulous Sue and Bill (“Banjo Bill” on my UK cell phone), and by our good friend Leonie. I cannot say enough, as usual, about the generosity of folks who would put up a group of haggard and road/air-weary musicians. It is a pool from which we dip our ladle of despair on a relatively frequent basis, and we can only hope we will never see its bottom.

Heh, “bottom.”

Anyways . . .

Last night (April 27) we played at Douglas Robertson’s excellent venue/house/studio to an overfull house. It was our first full band gig in nearly six weeks, and there were certainly some momentary rough moments, we plowed through them with our usually bulldozer-like approach to stringband music. It can be summed up as follows: make a mistake once, and it’s a mistake; make that mistake multiple times in a row, it becomes a genre decision. We are, if nothing else, pioneers in the genre of slop-time music.

The crowd was super appreciative, and it felt very good to see so many familiar faces in the crowd. There remains no show as fun as the intimate ones like those at Douglas’s amazing space. Highlights of the show include many of Ed’s unintentionally hilarious between-song quips. More and more, we are working to get the whole band making banter (guess who still bears the lion’s share of the work . . . the same one who’s tap tap tapping away right now, while the others lay about and whistle sweet tunes of sloth and skullduggery. But who’s complaining?). There’s no joy like compelling Ben Belcher or Graham DeZarn to break their vows of on-stage silence and let fly a riotously funny burst of words. They’re usually like the stoics of old – stony-faced and unsmiling – but every now and again, you can get Ben to crack one of those famous smiles, or Graham to open his oft closed mouth, and those moments, folks, make it all worthwhile! What was I talking about?

The show ended, as so many of these shows do, with a double encore – so flattering. After all the folks left and the living room was reassembled, we lounged about, “tasting” a variety of whiskeys that Douglas pulled out of some deep dark place in his house. It was great to have the majority of our accumulated friends all in one place, conversing loudly and imbibing freely. We heard about Douglas and JaneAnne’s trip to Mali and their stay with Toumani Diabaté, which sounded pretty excellent. It was right around then (somewhere in between making fun of our Facebook presence and chiding Jake for flirting with her Spanish friend and tenant (he’s a passionate man, folks, who can blame him?)) that JaneAnne equated this blog to a barren wasteland. And it hurt, it hurt deep.

Tonight’s show at Brookfield Village Hall was a great success. It always takes us a second to get used to the more subdued crowds that we sometimes encounter over here (or in the states, for that matter). A pitfall of attempting new banter every night is hat sometimes it crashes and burns in the most spectacular of ways, an exciting but unfortunate hazard of the trade, indeed. Better than the alternative though, no? Don’t know about you folks, but there’s nothing I like less than when it’s obvious that a bandleader/front man is spewing out well-worn aphorisms and repeated content. It makes the whole presentation feel completely insincere. So, the next time you see us and some piece of awkwardness comes out of one of our mouths, know that it is done with the most noble of intentions.

Last night, however, we had an ace in the hole – Graham’s sweetie, Shannon Dunne – flatfooter extraordinaire – has joined us for the duration of our trip abroad. While it was clear that the audience was enjoying themselves, when she got up and danced for us, there was a marked change in the feel of the room, and the hoots and stomps increased exponentially. I never would have guessed that we’d be the type of band who could attempt to employ a flatfooter as part of our stage act, but it works out pretty well; just not during songs about cheeseburgers or gritty Atlanta dive clubs.  Don’t worry, we’re a long way from suspenders and sepia-tone.  The show ended out nicely and we got to spend some quality time with Loudon, our main Scotland liaison, and then we drove back to Edinburgh . . .

Oh, how could I forget? I’m driving!! On the wrong, er, other side of the road! That’s right folks, we are without a driver on this tour. No stories of Gerald “Wrong Turn” Roche (out on the road with Pokey LaFarge), or David “Better Out Than In” Rollo (not sure where he is). So we are left to provide our own transport. Not so much of a problem, as we’re not doing much traveling. Only we DO have these two gigs in and around Glasgow, and so to the rental van we go. It’s a beaut, a 2012 Mercedes Vito. Ooh la la! We are fancy, aren’t we? With a Sat-Nav and everything. I’m the designated driver, and everything’s been going pretty well; I only ended up on the right hand side of the street once yesterday. My biggest problem is that I feel a great amount of pressure to provide hilarious and insulting banter while we listen to BBC 2 at incredibly high volumes. Unfortunately, I’m proving unable to muster the proper level of vitriol at either the other drivers or at the other denizens of the van, and also, I can’t bear the inanities of BBC 2. Oh Gerry, I’ve failed you. Perhaps we should start the “Gerry Roche School for Aspiring Gritty Road Managers,” so as to propagate the confusing combination of extreme negativity and competence, to say nothing of the odors (sorry Brits, odours).

And now we are gearing up for the 3^rd gig of our short mainland visit – The Universal in Glasgow with Dr. Mango and the Chickpeas (another “And Band,” a term coined by our pals in Dick Buttkiss and the Tight Ends). It’s going to be a hoot, and I’m sure I’ll be back with more stories of non-action and adventure for you, soon enough.

Addendum: What kind of things do you folks want me to talk about? I have had a number of people compliment the blog recently, and I’d like to keep doing so. But usually I only blog when we tour, and, as you know, we’re touring less and less these days. Are there other related subjects you feel would be appropriately inappropriate for this blog? Let me know!

PF, Over and Out and Off to Oink!

Hello Doomed Earthlings!

The picture above should provide you with a combination of warmth and also dread, the two emotions best suited to the upcoming year. Yes, if the doomsdayers and naysayers are right, our time consuming and subsuming is coming to a close this year. Because a calendar ends . . . ohhhhhhhhhkay. If you’d like to see more from our Hot Seats Family Holiday Portrait Session, check ‘em here! Notice how Jake’s expression never changes!

In recognition of this very likely event, we’ve gone back into the studio to record some of our final thoughts, squeaks and squalls. We invited our good pal, Lars Prillaman, to come in and help us in our goal to double up on America’s two most popular instruments – the banjo and the fiddle. Think I’m lying? Check it out here!

It’s not all double fiddle/double banjo, though, we’ve got a grip of new songs recorded, and are planning at least one, if not two albums to be released in the fall.

We had a fabulous set of gigs at the end of the year, especially our New Years Eve show with the Seldom Scene. Were you there? Did you enjoy it? It seems like we’re building a nice relationship with the Birchmere, so expect to see us back! There’s some pictures of New Years Eve here, and some of our great show at Ashland Coffee & Tea here.

OK, enjoy these pics and vids, and we’ll be back with more more more!

Love,
PF Hot Seats et al.

Hello internet users and abusers!

It’s been a while, I know. I figured that after the inundation of messages and blogs from our not so distant UK tour, you might like a break. Give the old yuk yuk muscles a chance to heal. Or something. Also, quite honestly, we haven’t been up to that much. Yes, like the mighty phoenix, the Hot Seats awaken, flame out for a while, then recede into the ashes, awaiting our next opportunity to spread twang and slang to the masses. And those opportunities are fast approaching! Can’t you hear it on the wind? Smell it in the trees? My advice, watch for the birds and squirrels, somehow the animals are always the first to know (likely because, as you know, Ed’s favorite food generally contains at least one of every animal).

If you want to know about upcoming gigs and don’t wanna hear about miscellany and randomness, just skip to the bottom now, please. However, if you view your brain like a vintage shop, full of mental oddities and doodads, please continue.

But what, you might ask, have you Hot Seats been doing? Do you retreat to the Ice Palace in the North Pole? Do you burrow underground? Do you work simply disintegrate into other dimensions? Do you work menial jobs in order to pass the time between gigs, your one chance to lick that shiny brass ring?

Well, one of those is true.

Most of us have been simply enjoying some down time here in Central VA. Playing little gigs, working little jobs. You know, just surviving. Obviously we had a great time in the UK, sold out of our old timey “Knife and Fork” album, and spread music far and wide!

Edward has been doing a lot of work with the Lincoln movie here in Richmond. He was just walking past the set and Senor Spielbergo saw him and said, “Hey, you look unkempt and malnourished! Wanna be famous? Do you like hard tack and salt pork?” And our Eddie said, “Yessir!”

Graham has been “slaving away” up at Monticello (sorry, bad joke?), the home of Virginia’s number one ultra-prudish holistic libertarian, Thomas Jefferson. Every time I see him, he’s just dirty and carrying root vegetables, munching on a potato like an apple, and carefully looking over his shoulder for lawmen searching for errant fieldhands.

Jake has gotten himself an office job and spends a lot of time looking at his watch, lurking around the secretary’s desk and charming the pants off all the civilians. There’s really no way that people who are used to normal office demeanor can handle the 150 watt beam of our very own Jake’s personality. He’ll probably be CEO within a week.

I (PF) have been doing a number of little things. Primarily taking kids out on rivers, bending them to my worldview. In a side project note, I’ve teamed up with Alison Self, a local Richmond folkie, and started a little duet called Starch & Iron. These are verbs, not nouns, people. It’s from Say Darlin’ Say! Check out the music if you want to hear a Hot Seat do actual pretty music.

And, finally, our Benny Baby missed the plane home, and has been living near Gartly (site of the fabulous Tin Hut Sessions) with his little wifey, Annie Campbell-Belcher. Ben’s been doing, oh, ALL kinds of stuff. You know, like . . . things, and . . . stuff. I’m not really sure what he’s been doing, truthfully. Not much of a communicator, that boy. A few things I know: he worked on a drawing for the Carolina Chocolate Drops; he and Aaron Lewis just played a gig in Edinburgh at Douglas Robertson’s excellent house; he’s still just as KEEEEYEWT as a button! If you want to know more, Annie has been keeping a great blog HERE.

As many of you know, we “released” a Live album in September, right in time for our UK tour. Most US audiences haven’t had much of a chance to buy it, though it’s available HERE. We, of course, will have them out on the road.

OK, so now we’re all caught up, so let’s talk about December and January!

As you guys all know, we’re really cutting back on full band gigs, just due to the nature of our activities and locations. There will still be gigs, hopefully fun festivals in the summer, but just not as much during the week. Alas, so it goes. For the time being, seeing the Hot Seats on a Tuesday in Milwaukee is a no go. That being said, we have some fun fun gigs a comin’!

Saturday, December 24th

Cafe Nola – Frederick MD

Two sets – 8pm and 10pm, $5

Josh, Ben, and Graham will be joined by Ben Townshend and Lars Prillaman of the Fox Hunt for a night of raucous unrehearsed entertainment! Come play the magi with us!

Monday, December 26th

Hoss’s Deli – Newport News

9pm, Free!

Come out for the FIRST Hot Seats show in months! We’ll be working out the kinks and lubing up the joints!

Thursday, December 29th

Shepherdstown Opera House – Shepherdstown, WV

$5, 7:30pm

A great time will be had on this night! We are playing with The Acoustic Burgoo, and it WILL be fun.

Friday, December 30th

Ashland Coffee & Tea– Ashland, VA

$10/$12, 8pm, all ages

Back at Ashland C&T for a little pre New Years warmup! Get your tickets early! They’re cheaper, and it may very well sell out!

Saturday, December 31^st

The Birchmere – Alexandria, VA

$39.50, 8pm Sharp!

Oh Emmm Gee! We’re playing the Birchmere on New Years Eve with the Seldom Scene and the Eastman String Band! We go second. I can’t imagine I need to sell this to you. Come have fun!

And then, in the year of 2012 . . .

Saturday, January 7^th

Franklin Park Arts Center – Purcellville, VA

8pm, $15/20 (get tickets at the website)

With The Acoustic Burgoo and Jake & The Burtones! It’s a LVHS (PF’s high school) Talent Show!

We’ll be back in the studio in very early January as well, so expect some new album news soon!

OK, there we go! A little refresher, and now we’re back on the same page.

So, make yer plans now, come see us play!

Love,

PF Hotseats Et Al.

August 29^th, 2011

A quick drive from our digs in Middlesbrough (a much less auspicious place that Salburn-By-The-Sea, as indicated by the lack of hyphens) brought us to Norwich, a town that is overrun with college-aged people and twenty somethings, judging from the amount of coffeehouses, vintage clothing shops, music stores, and tattoo parlors. Speaking as a former student of Geology (yes folks, your narrator is a science man from way back. The whole band thing is actually a part of my dissertation, the title of which is, “Tour Life Neuro-psychotics: The Effects of 24 Hour Exposure To Sleep Deprivation and Malnourishment Upon The Reflexes and Temperaments of Caucasoid Men.” I’m thinking of a follow up as well, “Tour Wife: Masochist or Mother Theresa?” More soft-science than to what I’m accustomed, but anyway . . .) I was taken with the super-prevalent flint stones that make up most of the churches and halls in Norwich. Made me curious as to the history of the place. Silly, I know, those stones are just lovely smooth, hardened tears of our lord, right?

Indeed, our venue was one of these places. And a fine venue it was! It’s always a thrill for us to look at the upcoming events at a venue where we’re playing and see names like Mark Mothersbaugh on the schedule. Not to mention our good pals Old Sledge, who are due over here soon. The soundman was top-notch, as was the lighting lady and all members of the staff. I feel like we hit a great groove that night in terms of pacing and in-between song banter.

It’s funny, the stereotype that one might have is that an English crowd would be more reserved than a Scottish crowd. This does not bear out, however. No value judgements here, as we are eternally grateful to any and all who would come see us play, but we have found thus far that our English crowds are equally as open to laughter, hooting, stomping, and general excitability as our most exuberant Scottish crowds. However, one thing that separates all of them from our average American crowd (not all, mind you) is their willingness to pay attention! What should I expect, though? We Americans are so inundated on all sides by stimulus and generally expect every situation to be tailor-made to suit our expectations, why should anyone be forced to listen to a band that they paid a cover to see? Ludicrous notions!

Anyway, we had fun in Norwich and hope to get back there.

August 30^th, 2011

We started our day in Newmarket, a little equestrian town where our hotel for the night previous was located. While out getting coffee, I had the usual exchange:

Shopkeep: Where are you headed today?

Me: Great Torrington, in Devon.

Shopkeep (appalled): Devon? Don’t you know how far that is?

Me: Yeah, about 5 hours

Shopkeep: That’s right, are you going to stop for the night in between?

Me: No, we’ll just drive straight. 5 hours of driving doesn’t even get us out of our home state, depending on the direction we go.

Shopkeep: Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet, dog. Streets is wild!

Me: You know it, dawg, gotta tip on out now that I’m ready.

Shopkeep: You more than ready, you GAME ROOSTER!

Hmm, that last interchange may have been from “The Wire,” but I think the rest is about right. Anyway, yes Britons, it’s true, we drive a lot, often on the same pathways we just covered. It’s kind of how it goes, you know?

Great Torrington is quite close to South Molton, where we’d played before. Devon is really gorgeous country, not too dissimilar from southwest Virginia. In fact, so much of this trip has reminded me of portions of Appalachia, it’s not surprising that so many Scots and Brits found their way to the hills of VA, KY, TN, and NC and helped to make this music that we love to play so well.

The show at the Plough Arts Center was a great success – over sold out, as a matter of note. We’ve adopted a few new songs while over here, and it has kept us fully engaged in the sets (not that we’re ever not, mind you). Not to toot our own horns too loudly, but I gotta say I’m pretty proud of how we’re sounding right now. It seems the trend amongst many younger bands of our ilk to be branching away from the traditional sound and on to something that straddles the line between indie rock and old time music. Perhaps it’s because we started left of field that we are content to remain more in the pocket (ok, I realize not entirely, but for the most part . . .). Our mission statement, at the moment, is to have music from the 1940′s matched with lyrical content from the present era, and I think we’re doing it fairly well, and I only say so because I’ve had a number of well-informed (and very kind) folks come up and say much the same to me both here and in the States.

A final navel gazing moment, if you would: One thing we are always a bit squirmy about is the frequent use of words like “zany” or “madcap” when used to describe us. It always feels to connote some sort of forced humor. Maybe it’s because, again, we are only too aware of whence we came (any veterans of the Cary Street Cafe days of fake blood, salad dressing drinking competitions, dropped pants, and haiku nights can attest to this). In comparison to some of those times, we’re regular stoics. Also, there was a time when we felt we needed the shock value to overcome some of our musical deficiencies, but these days we’re plenty comfortable with the music we’re playing, and any levity isn’t some kind of gimmick, but merely our natural character emerging: we’re silly sometimes, we find morbid things funny, we’re childish, we like to play music. That’s it. No artifice.

August 31^st, 2011:

We rolled into Camden Town around 4pm after a leisurely morning around Great Torrington. I personally went on a nice run around Old Torrington, a series of trails that takes one around some ruins and also, so I hear, the site of an old leper colony. Camden is clearly a very hip place, full of folks in what I suppose are fashionable clothes (Jesus, I sound like my dad), tons of vintage shops, record shops, buskers, pubs, etc etc. We met up with some old friends who live in London, including Sam the Kiwi, an old roommate of mine from college days and, Emma, a childhood friend of both Graham’s and me, and sister of Lars Prillaman, of the Young Napoleons (and currently The Fox Hunt) with whom we’ve played before, and will do so again.

The Green Note is a great little (stress “little”) vegetarian tapas restaurant and venue. We had a fabulous and healthy dinner of salads with tons of little tasty treats in them: haloumi, Peppadews (that’s a patented pepper, folks), artichokes, falafel, feta, roasted vegs, and more. After 4.5 weeks of delicious but often rich and fried food, this was a well received meal indeed. Nothing too heavy directly before playing for me, please. Makes me sluggish. As Graham puts it, “If I’m too full, I no longer care.” We’re all just instinctual beings, right?

The place was packed out with folks, including the mother and brother of our favorite Edinburgh-ian, Leonie LeMaistre. What a treat to get to meet more of her family! Only made us wanna come back to Edinburgh sooner! In all, this gig reminded us a bit of our average gig in the states, as it was more like a bar environment, with some talking going on (though, a lot of listening, too). Maybe because it was a big city show, we felt a little loose on stage, and were goofing around a great deal, even cussing on stage! Heaven forfend!

We left out of London after the show for, what else, a Travelodge! I wish we could have spent more time in the city. Kind of hard to deal with 7 people and a van of gear in such a large city, alas. Don’t worry London, presuming the Gulf Stream doesn’t cut off within the year, freezing the UK under a mile of glacier (not an impossibility folks, the global conveyer belt has been known to shut down from time to time, especially if a large cap of fresh water were to melt from the northern icecaps due to global climate changes. Still, that’s just more scientific lies, pay it no mind. Shall we go for a drive?), we’ll be back!

September 1^st, 2011

OK, after 5 full weeks over here, we finally make it back to the Banham Barrel! As referenced in every UK blog at some point, the Barrel is a fabulous pub way out in the middle of Norfolk, surrounded by fields and farms. It specializes in ciders made by the owner, Jonty. Nowadays, Jonty’s son, Frank, actually runs the place, but Jonty is still very much around. The Barrel is, as far as we can remember, one of only two places we’ve played on every trip over here (the other being the Alamo Bar in Paisley), and we love it for many reasons: excellent hospitality at the hands of Jonty and his wife Wendy (last night it was tasty shepherd’s pie and local green beans!), award winning ciders, both sweet and dry, and dancers! Excellent, no-holds barred, exuberant dancing that starts on the first song and continues through the encore.

This night was a great deal of fun and we were able to reach the level of raucousness that can only be brought about by a floor full of sweaty gyrating Brits (or Yanks, or Malays, or . . . you get the idea). We caught with our pal Liam, of the Harvey Boys, drank a fair amount of cider, and talked with some lovely folks. We’re now back in the van, headed to the Didmarton Bluegrass Festival, our final two days. We shall see what kind of impressions we provide and are left with.

Whoof, gotta pause for a sec, just caught a MASSIVE whiff of animal manure right in my face from the van window . . . ok, that’s over.

While we wait for time to pass, let’s talk about David Rollo, our driver for the last week. He’s great! We’ve gotten used to his laid back attitude, though it took a few days. After enduring the wrath of Gerald “Wrong Turn” Roche for nearly a month, it’s a bit unnerving to have someone be patient with our dawdling and wanders. David is a musician and a funny guy. He tries to be mean on occasion, but he’s still working on selling “Get in the Fucking Van!” with the proper angry conviction. His Ford Transit is also a fair bit smoother than the Vauxhall box van we have used in the past. Again, we’re not used to not shaking.

It’s also a different glimpse into the world of Scottish people. When we arrived in London in 2008 for our first trip over here and met Gerry, we just assumed, “Well, this is how Scottish people are.” We quickly realized, “No, this is how Gerry is – quick, sharp and hilarious.” Like, here’s something we didn’t know before: Some people put chips (fries) into hamburger buns and eat them in sandwich form! Genius!  It’s called a “chip butty” apparently.

We’ve taken to calling him “Big Wave Dave,” as he likes to (kind of creepily) shout hello to other drivers and women walking down the street. Pretty funny, really. He also keeps talking about showing us his “Bobby” and needing to take a “Jobby.” Oh those crazy Scots and their funny words!

And now a few bulleted notes entitled “The Adventures of Crybabies in the Land of Withholding.” Note: at the moment I write this, we’re filling up our tires with free air and window washers with free water at a service station, so . . . yes, hypocrites.

• 20p for ketchup. Really?
• It costs more if I sit down for coffee rather than take it away. Really?
• What do you mean you’re not “allowed” to give me a takeaway box? REALLY?
• £5 for an hour of internet. Seriously?
• £2 fee for using a credit card. Hmm, thanks!
• My friend isn’t allowed to sit down with me at your empty coffee shop because he hasn’t bought anything. What service!

On the massive other hand . . . free health care. I suppose I’d gladly pay 20p for ketchup packets if I could go to the doctor and pharmacist for free to, you know, stay alive and stuff. Still, the extra 50p to sit down at a coffeeshop . . . hmph!

And, on another massive other hand. Charles Darwin is on the £10 note. Charles Darwin. And, like 40% of Americans don’t believe in evolution. Charles Darwin. What the hell is wrong with us?  Is it in the water?  Is it because we let our pets sleep in bed with us?

September 4^th, 2011

It’s early, I’m very tired. We’re currently hurtling down the M4, on our way to Heathrow Airport. We’ve been at the Didmarton Bluegrass Festival for the last three days, and while we got back to our hotel at a reasonable 2:30am last night, it was one of those things wherein, as I was falling asleep, I had one of those panicky “What if I don’t fall asleep tonight?” thought flashes (not hot flashes, thought flashes), which then kept me from getting the 3 hours of sleep I was planning on. So here I am, Eddie on one side of me, David on the other (the Twin Sentinels of Stink, let’s call them. Nothing but gaseous emissions from one end or the other). So let’s recap the last two days.

We rolled into Didmarton after a leisurely afternoon spent at the hotel, enjoying a bit of mattress-time, shower-time, TV-time, internet-time, and just generally lavishing in the purple comfort of a Premier Inn for one last time before heading home. When we arrived, I was personally transported straight to any bluegrass fest in the USA. Campers, pickers, bonfires, banjos, even a confederate flag! Also, a really funny (to me) flag with the American stripes with a Union Jack in the place of the 50 stars. Not sure what exactly that means, but I like it!

We hung around backstage, listening to various bands, including The Flats and Sharps, a group of teens who ripped through a set of incredibly fast and clean bluegrass music worthy of Galax or any fiddlers’ convention. They’re real sweet guys, unsurprisingly, though I did have a commiserative moment with the mandolin player’s dad, who’s an old time fiddler and hasn’t been able to successfully communicate the joys of Old Time to his 220 BPM-loving bluegrasser son. Ah well, some things can only be appreciated with age, perhaps. Things like, you know, playing the same tune 30 times through until you can see through time.

And speaking of that, another great band we heard was called Hogeye, and featured the fiddling of Jock Tyldesley (more on him in a moment) and the guitar playing of Barry Southern, who I had shared a drunken jam at Richmond’s own Penny Lane Pub (ironically enough, since Barry is a Liverpudlian) some years ago. There’s that great moment where you stare at someone for long enough, trying to dredge this person out of the thick marshy mud of yer memory before they emerge and you are able, with confidence, to say, “Umm, don’t I know you?” Anyway, Hogeye was playing some great old time music, including a tune called “Bound to Have a Little Fun,” one of the first I ever learned, and have never heard anyone else play.

The band that took the cake for us, however, was the New Rope String Band, also featuring Jock. There’s really no use in me going into great description of this band, as words won’t do it justice, so I’ll put it like this. Often, reviewers like to use “vaudevillian” or “antics” to describe our on stage activities, but they’re kind of misnomers. We’re just kind of off the cuff and very silly guys. Now, THESE guys are chock full of vaudevillian antics. Great props, spot on timing, incredibly creative and well-executed gimmicks, and great musicianship on top of everything. If you live in the UK and haven’t seen these guys (and you like us), go see this band!! Jake and I were in the very front and were laughing basically nonstop for 45 minutes.

We played the final set on both Friday and Saturday nights. Flattering to be the headliner on each stage, given the amount of great music that had crossed them throughout both days. On Friday night, we got two encores. I walked to the mic for our second and said “We’ll pay a coupla bluegrass tunes,” and there was a resounding “NO!” from the audience, which was nice to hear. We had been a little concerned that some of our stylings might be a bit too left-of-center for this crowd, but they really dug everything we did (including the “Zappa Medley into Cheesy Beef Boogie” of last night’s encore). It is, of course, so gratifying to have other musicians and crowd members stopping us as we walk around to gush about our music. As I said in an earlier post, our heads are getting BIG!

Other highlights, for me, anyway:

• Hanging out and picking with our old pal Helen Keen, who once put us up and has been a booster of the band for a while. She’s a great banjo player, and, as it turns out, can belt out some great Guy Clark songs too!
• Playing a 1923 Lloyd Loar F5 (the “LaBarge”!! It’s not every day that one gets to handle the Stradivarius of mandolins, is it? Sure, I could pay off my mortgage with it, but, more importantly, I can play it! Not sure if it’s 33.3 times nicer than my dear mandolin, but it was damned nice, there’s no doubt. Thanks very much to my new pal Phil for the opportunity.
• Listening to all the Brits sing bluegrass in their best Southern accents! Love it! There was some seriously good picking afoot in the campground. Made me quite homesick for the community of freaks and hillbillies we have come to know and love at all the finest picking fests in the U.S.A!

And now we’re on our way home. Don’t wanna get hopes up TOO high, but it looks likely we’ll be back over here next spring, and maybe also next fall! Wait and see. We had yet another fabulous time over here, and want thank heartily all of our hosts, soundmen, and a special big thank you to Loudon Temple, Gerald Roche, and David Rollo for all of their hard work on our expense.

August 28th, 2011

Hello England! We’re the Hot Seats! Nice to meetcha!

Yes, that’s right folks, PF Hot Seats here, reporting from, where else, the van; a different van, in fact. We’re currently being piloted by our new driver/road manager, David, south from the Scottish Borders, on our way to the first in our final week of gigs, all of them in the large and bucolic suburb of Scotland . . . England. We’ve literally just crossed into the country and are on our way towards Hadrian’s Wall, erected because the Scottish folk were just too much for even a great conqueror to handle, so he just . . . built a wall. Does that work? Can I stop the postman from delivering me bills in the same way?

Yet another week of activities have passed by since my last missive, but, as often happens to me at this stage in blog entries, I am a bit tired of recounting the days and gigs one at a time (I wonder if you’re not tired of hearing about it, too. Nonetheless, let’s just account for our actions, eh? Wouldn’t want you to think that we’ve been slacking around or not making the best of every minute of every blessed day! And so, here we go . . . oof, we’ll take a momentary pause to allow the road to get a little less curvy. Ever driven over here? There’s a severe lack of straight lines in this country. Don’t they know that cars have to drive on these roads, and some of us are typing? Hello?

August 21st, 2011

We had a fun, if not very well attended, gig in Aberdeen at the Blue Lamp. While of course we always want to have a full house of audience members, it is always a nice reminder that we can muster the energy and enthusiasm to rock a small house too. Highlight from the night: after the show, a friendly Scot came up to me and imparted the following band comparisons:

Graham – “Cooter” from the Dukes of Hazzard (AKA, Ben Jones, an old friend of the band)
Ed – Donald Sutherland’s charcter from Kelly’s Heroes
Ben – “a shrunken down Jason Bourne”
Josh – “the guy from Harry and the Hendersons that was always trying to kill the Bigfoot.” (WHAT? )
Jake – “I just picture him like Little Miss Muffet, sitting on a tuffet.”

soooooooo . . . there’s that!  Accurate?  Yes indeedy!

Aberdeen is definitely an industrial town, but there is a really cool old building which is apparently being turned into a Council building. According to Andy, our host, it’s the 2nd largest granite building in the world. A lot of Scots have assured me about the various “world’s largest” this and “world’s oldest” that. Not sure if the amount of old and large things is most interesting, or the level of knowledge your average citizen has about their country, and the pride with which they impart said knowledge. It’s like every person takes a course in “How to Be a Tour Guide for Your Average Gawking American Stringband” in secondary school.

August 22nd, 2011

As has been our custom on every trip over here, we dedicated this night to the Alamo Bar. If you’ll recall, the Alamo Bar in Paisley is owned and run by Chaddy, who is fairly well obsessed with Texas and the American South. The pub is covered with cowboy art, flags from every southern state, American Indians on horseback, cowboy hats, belt buckles. You know . . . American Stuff! Chaddy himself had returned not long ago from his first ever trip to the States. Along with Lawrence (Gerry’s older brother) and three other guys (the “Alamo Five”), he had visited a Dude Ranch in Texas and also spent some time in San Antonio. As you might imagine, he was pretty excited about the whole thing.

It was a great evening, to be sure. We set up in a corner and proceeded to play it fast and loose, as drinks were handed to us at every convenient moment. The audience, as expected, was ready for a good time from the first moment. Hooting, shouting, dancing, and egging us on before, during, and after each song. Their leader in this was Elaine, Gerry’s wife, who is a lovely and superfun person. She compliments his acerbic character with an energetic and wry positivity. Always nice to recognize that the man is not just a vehicle for insults and condescension towards “the Colonials,” as he likes to call us, but also a family man.

You may imagine that we were had all reached a certain level of gregariousness by the end of the evening, and, after making a pit stop at the flat of some local musicians for a little post gig boozery, arrived safely back at our hotel, engaging in some very typical post-gig bickering and eventual teary renewing of vows (yes, it’s basically like being married folks, if you hadn’t gotten that yet) before retiring to our rooms for the kind of deep and angel-like sleep that we know you picture us engaging in.

August 23rd-24th, 2011

It was a slow morning, full of regret and remorse, head holding, gnashing of teeth, etc etc. Given that we had a few days off, we figured we’d spend it back in Edinburgh, hanging with our friends, old and new, enjoying another little stint in the wild and crazy world of the Fringe. Additionally, we were expecting the imminent arrival of Esmerelda Volcano, the little saucy (not my words, the description of a Border Scot last night) wife of our very own Heironymous Volcano (Ben Belcher to those who are less initiated into the multi-leveled world of Hot Seats nicknames and lore), who would be joining us for our last stint, serving as merch girl and Ben-wrangler.

It was a whirlwind two days. We had a great dinner with Douglas and JaneAnne back at his flat with Leonie and also a fellow named Nicholas Oddy, heretofore unmentioned in the blog. Nicholas and Douglas were classmates at art school in Edinburgh back when, and were responsible for any number of acts of mischief, including getting the Principle of the whole school removed through the publication of an underground comic strip featuring pigs and dogs. Nicholas is a hilarious and super-intelligent person who has a huge collection of ~100 year old bicycles and also the world’s largest collection of Hornby trains, for those of you interested in the world of auctions and EBay. We’re quite lucky that we’ve managed to meet a nice clutch of interesting people over here. I suppose we should be flattered, though, of course, everyone is interested in staring at a spectacle, just ask PT Barnum.

On the evening of the 24th we ended our night with a great get together with Leonie and Vanda and all of our pals, eatomg mediterranean food, drinking, and talking talking talking. We also swung by the pub where our pal Stephen was playing with his Band Old Dollar Bill (which is a duo – Stephen on guitar and mandolin, Ed on percussion). We had a lot of fun picking some great bluegrass tunes with them, mostly at pretty high speeds. I think there were some pics or vids taken of it, hopefully we’ll get some posted. There was a table of Spanish women there who were really into it. I wondered what they thought of our ragtag collection of Scots and Yanks, playing Appalachian music? Had they ever heard such a thing before? Had there ever been a sound like that? Do questions make me seem introspective?

August 25th, 2011

We had a great time in Glasgow at Laurie’s Pub. You may recall this pub from one of our very first days on our very first tour over here. Cy Laurie, the proprieter of this establishment, is a great balladeer and all around nice-guy who fed us soup and beer in exchange for tunes on a rainy day of busking. Needless to say, it was nice to finally get to play at his bar. The small room was jam packed with people, having a great time. We got to see our pals Graham and Howie from The (now defunct) Shed Inspectors, a bluegrass-y band from Lochwinnoch. By the end of the night, the room was jumping and hot enough to the point where, in the words of Esmerelda, water was condensing and dripping from the ceiling.” That’s right folks, The Hot Seats create our own weather patterns!

Speaking of weather, we understand that the East Coast is undergoing some hard times in our absence. We understand that it’s hard everyone. We know you’re bound to suffer some separation anxiety when we leave, but earthquakes? Hurricanes? Really? Now you’re just acting up. If you don’t cut it out, no special return home gifts for you! And we’ve been saving morsels from all of our favorite meals just for you! Now what are we gonna do with all these chips, doners, and black puddings?

Oh, back to the main point . . . our night in Glasgow was the 30th birthday of our very own Edward Brogan. He goes by many names: Beach Week, Two Dews, Two Dogs, Two Flush, Two Squish (his own name for himself), Short Pants, the Duke of Dooks, the Sultan of Stink, Nashville Eddie, Brooklyn Eddie, Doner Slayer, and the most recent nickname, Lilac. He is, as you know, an indispensable band member, a fabulous and unique guitarist, a natural songwriter, a born crooner, a gourmand, a glutton, a worker and a sloth, and, by FAR, the most bizarre member of this band. Here’s to you Edward, welcome to the sad days of your 30′s! Clowntime is over, let’s get serious!

The night ended with a little maudlin moment as we bid farewell to Gerry for this tour. He’s having a 4 day respite before heading back on the road with our good pal Pokey LaFarge. I could tell he was upset as there was a quaver in his voice as he told us, for the last time, to “Get The Fuck Out of the Van.” Gerry, we’ll see you sooner than you like (in the words of Gerald, “If it wasn’t for musicians, club owners, bookers, and other drivers on the road, I’d be just fine!”).

August 26th, 2011

We were picked up from our lodgings (Glasgow Airport Travelodge, of course. Always a Travelodge. Well, or a Premier Inn) by David Rollo, our man with the van for our last 10 days. We packed up the van and headed for Hawick (“Hoick”).

This is the second time we’ve played in Hawick. The Heart of Hawick is an excellent venue, built overtop of a river. It was a sold out show (again, yes, we KNOW, only 100-some seats, but still), and it was a pretty hearty success. After the show, we retired to the pub with Loudon and David for some light refreshments. There were some very heavy drinkers at this pub, and Jake, Graham, and I had to repel the advances of a quite impaired woman with some very unfortunate high heels (note to selves, ladies: when you’re going out on the town for a bit of boozing, keep it to flats, eh?) who, apparently, was in possession of a very jealous and punch-willing ex-boyfriend. Ah the excitement never ends with the Hot Seats, eh?

August 27th, 2011

Saturday was another day in the Borders, which meant we didn’t have to move from one lodging to another. Always a plus. The touring life can make a man feel like some kind of Bedouin or other Nomad, with the exceptions that we don’t have the liberty to carry sheep or camels with us, we have more ample access to water and hot dogs, and our clothing isn’t generally as clean.

We bummed around town all day before heading to the small village of Lanton and the Lanton Village Hall. Our host that night was a woman by the name of Anne Rae, an artist in many media. The hall itself is a typically wonderful little space with great, boomy acoustics. By showtime, the place was packed to the gills and was, in fact, spilling into the corridor.

We were treated to a support slot by Eryn, Anne’s 10 year old daughter, on the fiddle, supported by two fellas, both named Graeme (or Graham) on guitar and bass. She was fantastic, playing a variety of Scottish tunes, and even a couple of old time tunes and a great version of Orange Blossom Special. You can see some video of it right here.

August 28th, 2011

And here we are, sitting in yet another Travelodge, getting ready to head to Saltburn-By-The-Sea for what we hope will be another great gig.

Oop, and now I’m back, it’s the morning after our Saltburn gig, and I’m watching the Volcano family as they snooze (creepy? maybe, but also quite pleasing. They hang from their feet from the ceiling and wrap their vestigial wings around them like duvets, and coo like doves). It was a great gig last night. First of all, Saltburn-By-The-Sea is the site of the world’s oldest cliff-lift – a funicular railway. Pretty neat. It’s a lovely town with some impressive cliffs overlooking the ocean and a nice pier. We stood at the top of the cliffs and watched some surfers. Graham, our resident ten-hanger (well, ok, he did it once) looked on with a special amount of enthusiasm. He kept flashing the “hang loose” symbol, and calling all of us “bra.” Not sure, but I think old GFD has secret dreams of moving west, buying himself a camper van and an australian shepherd, and infiltrating a secret gang of surfer bank-robbers! You heard it here first, folks.

Saltburn Community Theatre (back that those “re’s!”) is an old Methodist Church that’s been converted into a hall for music and performance. High ceilings, lovely windows, and movie theater-style seats. The place was, once again, jam packed with enthusiastic folks who cheered after each song. Yes, our heads are officially too big, dear readers. We clearly need a dose of USA-brand apathy/drunks talking overtop of us in order to regain some sensible footing. Soon enough, I imagine. Yet another great show, and hopefully a sign for what our upcoming English shows will be.

We’re off to Norwich today, which stands for, as I was informed last night by a friendly older woman, “kNickers Off Ready When I Come Home.” What do you think, should I mention that on stage?

OK, this is your penultimate blog entry. Only one left, and it will be a report from Heathrow Airport. Hope yer well!

PF Hotseats, over n out.

August 21st, 2011

Oh, my head. Where are we? What have I been doing? What the hell’s been going on?

Sorry, we’ve been enjoying some time at the Edinburgh Fringe over the last days, and those days have quite possibly done damage to our short term memory. More on the specifics of this later. All I’ll say for now is that you know I’m possibly the least partying member of the band, and I feel a bit stretched, like delicious saltwater taffy. Mmm, deliciously dehydrated and somewhat whiskey-sweat-smelling saltwater taffy! So, just imagine how Ben, Graham, Ed, and Jake are feeling!

I’m currently riding in the front seat of the van, a position that is usually inhabited by Lilac Eddie Brogan, but does occasionally fall to one of the rest of us. It’s the best view of passing landscape, possibly the most comfortable seat in the van as well. As an added bonus, you get a running commentary from Gerald on, as I’ve said before, the state of other drivers mental and physical well-being, a wide array of Scottish history and culture, music trivia, and just what bothers him most about . . . well, you. Besides providing an ear and occasional rejoinder, it is the shotgun passenger’s solemn duty to roll acceptable cigarettes for the driver and be empathetic to the near-daily foibles of the Sat-Nav, that generally gets us pretty close to the mark, but frequently falls just short of the mark by a roundabout or two.

We’re currently jamming to Steely Dan – a favorite of many in this band. Not just for the totally phallic band name, rocking guitar and drum solos (Steve Gadd on the song “Aja,” comes to mind), but also for the frequently perv-y lyrics and lounge crooner swagger of Donald Fagen. Maybe we just wish we were part of the 1970′s LA coke and teenage girl scene, too. Probably that. Anyway, those who disparage the Dan . . . you need to listen more closely.

I know that there were days between my last blog and this moment, so let’s see if I can do a little recollecting. Let’s get into the wayback machine, shall we?
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August 12, 2011

We had a fun gig in Neilston at the Neilston Bowling Club. One thing that’s very lacking in the USA (or, at least the USA that WE live in) is a preponderance of bowling clubs. I know you’re thinking to yourself, “What are you talking about, PF, every town has any number of bowling leagues! Why, your hometown of Richmond VA even has duckpin bowling leagues!” Well folks, you know we love to knock down pins and slug back pitchers of beer, but that’s not what I’m a’talkin’ about! I’m talking about lawn bowling clubs. I’m talking about a lovely little manicured patch of grass, I’m talking about tossing out the jack and then trying to get yer balls as close as possible. I’m talking about fitness! Well, a reasonable amount of fitness, anyway.

It was a fairly well attended show in the nice hall wherein the Neilston Bowling Club holds their socials and awards dinners (sorry, I’ll drop this thread in just a second. Just indulge me in my momentary obsession). We were able to whip some attendees into enough of an excitable state such that they were lifted from their seats and compelled into moving their feet and legs in a rhythmic fashion! At first we were a little concerned that perhaps that they were experience some kind of neurological phenomenon or had ants in their pants, but it turns out that this is called dancing, and sometimes people do it to music.

There was a women, now a Scot, who was originally from Texas at this gig, who questioned my Southern-ness. Not sure if it’s my Semitic appearance or total lack of an accent, but it’s not a foreign topic of conversation for me, although I (as all of us in this band) am a Virginian through and through. However, it’s not all location, right? And, a pal said to me this year at Mt. Airy, “Just because the cat has her kittens in the oven doesn’t make ‘em biscuits!” So, I guess I’m just a kitten in the oven, mewing and clawing at the door.

Anyway, back to the point, thanks to all who came out in Neilston, we had a blast!

August 13th:

We traveled way east to the tiny fishing village of Pittenweem in the East Neuk of Fife. That’s right, I said Neuk. This is the site of the Pittenweem Arts Festival, an annual event that turns the entire town into a giant art gallery. Many of the houses of the town become venues for art of all types. It’s interesting to walk from house to house, invading someone’s parlor (sitting room? drawing room? vestibule?) and checking out art that ranges from the craft-y kind of stuff that one might see at your average street fair to some pretty far out paintings and sculptures. Benny and I took a walk down to the harbor and checked out these amazing found object sculptures by a woman named Helen Denerly. Incredibly realistic alligators, seagulls, dogs, and other animals made mostly of bike chains, nuts, bolts, and other pieces of metal.

Our gig that night was Sold Out. Again, we realize that selling out a room of ~125 people isn’t so impressive in the grand scheme of arena shows, but it makes us feel good, you know? Many of you have undoubtedly seen us play in tiny bars to audiences that barely outnumber the band. We feel like we put it out there in all situations, but a room full of stomping, clapping and whooping folks definitely make it easier to muster enthusiasm, you know? So let us have our small victories, eh?

August 13th:

Just to keep things interesting, on this day we traveled from Pittenweem to Irvine. ALL THE WAY from the east coast to the west coast of Scotland. It literally took us . . . two and a half hours. Phew! We felt a bit like Lewis and Clark, with Gerry acting as our very own Sacajawea. Heading west! The wild frontier! Yeeha!

We’ve been to Irvine a number of times before, another lovely seaside town. And the Harbor Arts Centre is a cool room, kind of an “in the round” type of theater. It’s hard to know where to look when you have audience on three sides of you, but, as usual, we did our best to connect with every person in the room. One highlight was watching a fan we’d seen before waltz in wearing a Special Ed & The Shortbus shirt. Ah memories. You guys remember when we were just a group of malcontents, singing songs about male prostitutes and telling bathroom jokes on stage? How far we’ve come! Nonetheless, it’s flattering whenever anyone who’s seen us before returns for a second round of plunkety plunk!

It was a nearly full show, and we had a good time. We’ve been working on some new material, and debuted a song there. We don’t, as a rule, practice anymore, so having 5 weeks to be around one another provides us with some good opportunities to work out new ideas (or rehash someone else’s old idea, anyway). So fear not, if you see us again, there will be new songs!

August 14th-18th:

After spending the night at the Glasgow Airport Travelodge (yes, we frequent Premier Inns these days, but we’re not immune to the charm of a Travelodge – the £19 room for example, or the . . . well, the £19 room, mostly), we headed to Edinburgh for 4 days at the Fringe. Gerry dropped us off at our pal Leonie’s house. Leonie is a friend we made on our last night in Edinburgh last year, after having a fairly drag out argument with the house manager at the venue, we ended up stashing our instruments at her flat, in exchange for which we made her and her flatmates dinner and had a great night of silly hat wearing and carousing. It’s great to know cool people, no?

After arrival, we helped set up a yurt in Leonie’s backyard garden that would house certain band members for the days at the Fringe. Jake and I then headed over to the house of our other hosts of the festival – Sue and Banjo Bill, friends of Paul Johnston, our music pal we met on last visit (see the 2009 blog for a reminder, if you need such things). After settling we hit the streets to busk.

Busking in Edinburgh during the Fringe is a fairly unique experience. There are, of course, the obligatory terrible guitarists with dogs on hemp leashes as there are in any city (how did they hop a train from Richmond to Scotland?), but there’s so much more! You’ve got your bizarre troops of Japanese men and women in skin tight lycra, you’ve got fire jugglers on 10 foot unicycles, you’ve got tap dance troops, string quartets, roaming packs of young Scottish b-boys and b-girls (well, kind of) doing their best breakdance moves, and mini theater performances. The Fringe is, after all, mainly a theater and comedy thing, which suits us fine. While we did see a few other “Americana-y” type people, I feel pretty confidently that we had a lock on the hillbilly, the twangy, and the tangy (showers were maybe not being taken very regularly), and it bore out in your average passerby’s reaction to us. Some people were staring in a way that was more in line with how one stares at an exotic baboon with a bright blue ass, rather than how one stares at a group of spastic strinbanders. Nonetheless, any attention is good attention to us (feel free to examine our psychological pasts, I think you’ll find them to be fairly boring), and we had 4 days of good street music experiences.

Rather than lay out each gig in order, I’ll give you a general description of the whole experience. Our shows this year were held at the amazing house/studio of Douglas Robertson, an Edinburgh photographer and muckraker (we would learn), the kind of guy who seems to know everyone worth knowing. His place is just on the backend of Arthur’s Seat – the giant spent volcano that sits in Edinburgh right next to Hollyrood Palace (well, I think the volcano was probably there first, truthfully). It’s a great location that seems to be kind of a little hidden gem of a neighborhood that’s quite close both to the Newtown and also the heart of the Festival.

The three shows at Douglas’s were all great – reminiscent of the house concerts we regularly play. Appreciative and interactive audiences all three nights, the highlight being Wednesday, when all of our pals came out and had a little dance and whoop-it-up section in the back of the room. After each show, we would set the room back into order and have a little post-mortem of the show with Douglas and his partner Jane-Anne, eating soup and chatting while he practiced his intensely aggressive generosity in re: whiskey. Like many of our fine hosts here, Douglas has many bottles tucked away, and it is our obligation over here to try as many different flavors of single-malt as is humanly possible (who can succinctly explain the difference between peat-y and smokey to me?). From that point, we would head out on the town (or not, depending on the band member).

It’s right here that I’m hoping to get an account from one of the partyboys in the band. As I keep saying, I’m not the late-night type, so was generally back at the flat at a very reasonable 3:30am, and missed the truly late night escapades. However, we’ll see if they get off their duffs in order to make a report. Place your bets now.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention what have become our two favorite food spots in Edinburgh (and for all you foodies out there, remember from whom this report is coming and also how limited is our time in this city). One is this little food cart that’s always set up on the Grassmarket, not far from where we like to busk. It’s basically a glorified hot dog cart run by these adorable little French girls (“aha”, I hear you saying, “herein lies the attraction.” But there’s more!). They make these super tasty crusty baguettes with two dogs plus melted cheese (that they grill), onions, mushrooms, and spicy mustard. Yum! They’ll also whip you up a savory crepe and passable filter coffee, and . . . they dance while they’re doing it! Heaven!

The other, which has gotten some mention here before, is Oink – a restaurant right in between the Grassmarket and the Royal Mile. You may have seen our pics of this place. Basically, they roast a hog, and make stuffed sandwiches with apples, haggis, and sage stuffing. If you get there early enough in the day, you can also get a little square of the crispy skin! Very different in taste from our American BBQ places, but similar in concept. Yum.

Other highlights – we got to kick it with our #1 superfan Stephen Clark, who has his own band now – Old Dollar Bill. There is not a less likely person to be playing bluegrass music, but it’s a real treat to see this Russell Brand-looking dude with massive hair, tight jeans, and eyeliner sit down with a guitar and belt out “Crying Holy to the Lord,” in his best Del McCoury high tenor. It was a late night of hijinks with Stephen, so I’m told (Graham, Ben, where’s my copy?).

On our last night at Douglas’s, we had a very funny post-show moment. Someone had gotten a hold of some restricted documents belonging to the speech writers for Alex Salmond, the First Minister of Scotland and leader of the Scottish Nationalist Party. It was a series of bulleted fragments and points that appeared to be part of a potential speech on Scotland becoming it’s own nation, and it was full, FULL, of the same garbage’y platitudes that one expects from any politician and his/her cadres of wonks: “We will be unique, we will be much the same, we will be better!” “We will be like China: ambitious and fearless, but we will also be like Japan: ambitious and fearless.” It spawned a great deal of hilarity amongst those of us hanging out and drinking. Hold on a sec, there’s some black suited men at my door. . . . No, just fooling. There was also this great pamphlet from the Department of Forestry (or the equivalent) all about getting more diversity in the worlds of camping and outdoors activities. Specifically there was a passage on a group called “the Hiking Dykes” who “engaged in taster sessions on bushcraft.” Seriously. It said that. Bushcraft. Taster session.

Oh, one more thing coming back to me . . . I was walking down the street and saw in a salon window an advertisement for a “Vajazzle.” Do you know what this is? Well, according to the Urban Dictionary, it’s “to give the female genitals a sparkly makeover with crystals so as to enhance their appearance.” Anyway, it’s not really the process or sight of one that interests me, really, it’s the name. Vajazzle? Seriously? Only here.

There are other memories, I’m sure, but . . . they’re lost right now. In short, the Fringe is a whirlwind that seems to make time stand still and also rush forward simultaneously. Thanks to all who came out to see us!

August 19th:

Gerry picked us up in the afternoon and we headed south to the town of Peebles and the Eastgate Theatre, where we’ve been twice before. The Eastgate is a great little theater, uh, excuse me, theatre, and we’ve always have a somewhat awkward show there due to the absolute quietness of the room. It could also be that we’re just awkward. Probably the latter, maybe. It was a good show, however, with some little scamps in the front who wouldn’t keep still. Their parents eventually removed them, much to our chagrin. We welcome all wriggly small children to our shows, we often feel just that same way. Just make sure to bring earguards. Double banjo isn’t safe for those under 6.

August 20th:

Yesterday we were at the Birnam Arts Institute, another return spot for us. Growing up on Peter Rabbit, Miss Tiggy Winkles as I did, I am always ridiculously giddy to go to the summer home of Beatrix Potter, as well as Birnam Woods, being that my mother would also read us Macbeth every night. Bloody, I know, but a necessary morality tale for children – warn you off of hubris and also of murder.
It was a fabulous night – the show was packed full and we stormed through two sets, including a couple of new songs that we’ve been working on. It was also the first appearance of Colin and Lorna, a couple who saw us multiple times on our last trip over. As I’ve said a million times before, it’s always great to see repeat offenders. It really makes us feel like what we do has some legs to it.
Many of you who’ve seen us recently may notice that it’s no longer just me doing all the talking. Yes, indeed, Ed Brogan, Ben Belcher, Graham DeZarn, and even Jakey have been stepping to the mic to quip and quibble. Ed in particular has had some real gems on stage, all part of his “not trying to be funny” campaign. And so, I’ll leave you with a few of Ed’s gems, both on and off stage.

• Overheard after our gig in Stirling and in regards to his family lineage and the potential for inbreeding: “Look at my eyes, man, far apart is the same way as close apart!”

• At last night’s gig, “There’s a lot of you, and not many of me.”

• Introducing “Feel Like Growing Old,” in Edinburgh: “Here’s a song all about loving someone so much that you want to kill yourself.”

And that’s really just the beginning. As memories flood back to me, I’ll be sure to try and get them onto the page. Only two weeks left!

Hope everyone’s doing well,

PF Hot Seats et al.

L&N Rag while Busking on Sauciehall Street, Glasgow from Niall Walker

August 11th, 2011: Stirling Scotland

Greetings from bedtime. Well, bedtime for me (PF), anyway; some of the band members are, as many of you know, 24 hour party people.  Now, while I’ve been known to engage in late night exploits, I generally am the first to bed, and therefore the most often messed with while asleep. Oh the goofery and general ass-grabbing that takes place when it’s just the five of us. Well, it’s probably best left to your imagination.

Just finished our gig at the Tolbooth in historic Stirling. I do believe I’ve written about this town before, as it is now our 3rd time here. Nonetheless, it bears repeating that the gig takes place in the historic tax collection spot, directly next to Robert the Bruce’s castle. It’s enlightening, as a person from the USA, to be surrounded by so much oldness. Why, today we saw the (self proclaimed) World’s Oldest Football.  Well, it didn’t proclaim it, but the presenters of the object did. I wonder if there’s any remnants of the World’s Oldest Football Hooligan as well. Perhaps a broken tooth or some illuminated text of a mullet. Something, anyway.

Speaking of hooligans . . . hey, what the hell is going on, England? It’s interesting, again, as an American, to watch all of this unrest unfold. Clearly, a generation raised in poverty and lack of opportunity is bound to be seething with resentment and unchecked aggression. Add some racial disparity and a serious drinking culture on the top, spark it with a police killing, and yer bound to have some riots. However, due to the lack of handguns here, there’s been, like, 4 deaths over 4 days of riots. Crazy. I don’t know this for sure, but it would seem to me that, were the same thing to happen in our fair city of Richmond, VA, there’d be many a bullet-related injury/death on both sides to be accounted for. Not very funny, I know, but worth a mention, I suppose. Thus far, Scotland’s all quiet, so besides the nightly riot of our exuberant audiences, and the occasional Graham or Jake-crazy lady, we’re all good.

OK, so let’s see, I left you on a ferry, let’s see how well I can recall the last 6 days. . .

August 6th, 2011, part 2:

Our ferry landed on the Isle of Lewis without any trouble. On the ride over, there were whales spotted, apparently. I didn’t see ‘em, but that’s how it goes. We were picked up at the terminal by our promoter for the evening, Mike, a fine fellow with a blond kind of mohawk-y type thing and some sweet tattoos. I bit of a jarring image on an island one expects to be populated by tweed=wrapped sheep farmers and gritty salt-cured fishermen (and, I’m sure there are plenty of them as well). Our drive took us across more of the lovely rugged countryside that abounds in the north of Scotland (“Oh look, ANOTHER gorgeous vista of craggy outcrops and verdant hills. Yawn”). Of special note on this drive were the sheep that inhabit the hills. Apparently, the land is mostly public, and farmers are allowed a certain number of head of livestock per acre. Takes me back to my days of learning of the Tragedy of the Commons, though these sheep seemed to have plenty of tasty grass and whatnot on which to munch. And, although there are literally miles of prime greenery in all directions, many chose to eat the sweet shoots that grow directly adjacent to the roadway, making for a super exciting drive. According to Mike, since the tarmac gets nice and warm, one will often find the sheep lying in the middle of the road at night, which much make for eventful drives, especially for the mass of tourists that visit this lovely island.

We made it to the town of Stornoway and were dropped off at our B&B (The Hebridean Guest House, operated by our gracious hosts Linda and Kevin). One other thing worth noting here is that Gaelic is still very much spoken up in these parts, a fact that I find to be very compelling. Makes you feel good to know that the all dominating force of the English colonizing juggernaut couldn’t fully assimilate even the outer reaches of its own island. The Outer Hebrides are wild, I tells ya!

Stornoway is a beautiful little fishing town with a happening downtown and a castle to boot! We slummed around town for the afternoon. There was a street fair going on, and we natural consumers couldn’t help but sample the various wares available to us (paella! unpasteurized French cheese! Harris Tweed). Now, speaking of Harris Tweed, did you know that it’s the only fabric to be protected by an act of Parliament? I didn’t either until I was told not once, but twice in a single day. First by the man who sold me my brand new tweed cap (my old tweed cap, given to me by my grandmother, has seen better days. The lining is wrecked and it’s covered in old fake blood, remnants of many a Zombie Halloween past) and then by Alex, the very cool woman who runs An Lanntair, then venue where we performed that night. Anyway, in order to be Harris Tweed, you see, it has to come from sheep raised on of The Isles Harris or Lewis (actually a single island, but . . .), and it has to be hand-woven. And I’m sure there’s some other things too.

Before the gig, we were treated to a fabulous meal at the venue. The chef (Marchand? HArd to know for sure, he’s Polish and has a thick accent) prepared an amazing set of plates for us. Many of us had the scallops over sweet pea puree with triangles of black pudding covered in chorizo. Others had the pork chops with apples and maple gravy. Yum! We are, as you know by now, food obsessed!

Perhaps it was because of the superb meal, but whatever the reason, we had a great show that night. The crowd was into it from the get go – hooting and cheering in the middle of songs. Note to Scottish crowds: We really don’t mind if you make noise while we play! We appreciate your unflappable politeness, but also enjoy a little raucousness from time to time. Thanks again to Mike and Alex and everyone at the venue, we hope to be back!

After the gig we wandered the streets of Stornoway, ending up befriending some local boys at a pub. I say boys even though they were drinking age, because drinking age is 18 here, and what do you call an 18 year old? A boy. That’s what. We learned some local dialect and also learned not to leave a beer unattended, because if someone drops a penny in yer beer, you have to down it in one. Or, at least that’s what we were told. We won’t be cajoled into getting drunk any faster than we want to, however. The night ended (for some of us, I won’t say which two band members stayed out all night carousing with ladies, I’ll leave that to yer imagination) with some ill-advised but very tasty 2am burgers from a food truck. Truly, we are gourmands!

August 7th, 2011: Stornoway to Banchory

After a leisurely morning in Stornoway Mike picked us up and took us to the ferry, bound for Ullapool. Another easy ride (we’re told the wintertime ferries are not so smooth and nausea free), however, we had a big day of travel yet to go. Because of the particular brand of Free Church of Scotland that’s ascribed to on Lewis, almost nothing happens on Sundays. They used to chain the swingsets in the park so that kids couldn’t swing on Sundays(!). It’s relaxed a bit, but even still, only one ferry runs on Sundays, and not until 2:30pm. Now, when the ferry doesn’t leave you on the west coast of Scotland until 5:30pm, and you have to be on the east coast (almost) for 8pm, how’s your travel time looking? More like you need to time travel. It’s only ~120 miles from Ullapool to Banchory, the site of our next gig, but these aren’t wide, smooth, and straight American roads, folks, this is the Highlands, and if you don’t know what I mean, just try getting from Richmond to Staunton, VA sometime only driving the bluest of blue roads (not even the secondaries, more like tertiaries).

We were met by Gerald (more on Gerry in a paragraph) in Ullapool – where he spent the night in the van – hastened (briskly and brusquely) into the van, and off we went. Gerald managed to turn a 4 hour drive into a 3 hour drive (much to the consternation of the stomachs of those of us in the back of the van), and we rolled up to the spot around 8:45pm. Luckily, Susan, our promoter for the evening had found us an opening act in the form of Isaac Barnes: 12 year old blues-y electric guitar whiz. This kid has real chops, and is about as nice and humble a person as you could want to meet. Probably a bit disconcerting for this poor audience to go from someone as genuinely smiley and cute as he to us grizzled road dogs (ok, maybe I exaggerate a little, but hey). Nonetheless, twas a great time. We were all a bit moon-eyed from our day of travel and zero prep time, but we handled it with our usual graceless panache, and whipped through an hour and a half of raucousness. After the show, we were handed a massive box of food and shown to our accommodations, where we promptly shoved our faces full and passed out (ah the glamorous lifestyle we lead!).

Now, back to Gerry for a second. The thing I failed to mention is that it was his birthday on this day! So, let’s recap. The day before his birthday, Gerry drove from Uig to Inverness and spent the night in the van during an especially nasty rainstorm (even for Scotland). He then met us at the ferry, drove like a madman (a safe madman) to get us to another gig,helped us set up, helped us take down, and then escorted us to our (and his) lodgings. On his birthday. You know that I like to have fun with the verbal abuse we regularly receive from Gerry, but it is a moment like this that really, to me, signifies his professionalism and dedication. Besides, how else would YOU wanna be treated? So let’s hear it for Gerry Roche, a king among road managers and men worldwide!

August 8th-10th: Glasgow

It was an easy drive, relatively speaking, from Banchory to Glasgow. Gerry dropped us at our home for the next three days – Premier Inn Argyle Street. Many of you will remember our dispatches from the Braehead Travelodge. We’ve determined two things since then: (1) We like being in cities rather than suburban wastelands whenever humanly possible; (2) We like Premier Inn better than Travelodge, for one important reason: two beds rather than one. Though I look fondly upon my week with my TeeBee, all a’snuggle in our large Travelodge bed, flipping pointlessly through the limited BBC and ITV channels, walking across the endless parking lot to the ASDA for rotisserie chicken and bag salads, there’s something to be said for being in a room with two beds and within walking distance of . . . basically anything.

The 8th and the 9th were both sunny sunny days, and we capitalized on them by busking on the walking mall. Perhaps it’s our American-ness or our volume, but whatever the reason, we do quite well when busking. It’s also super fun for us, playing tune after tune, doing a little carnival-style barking, and smiling at the pretty ladies, and the old ladies too! And, frankly, there’s a real joy in showing up in a restaurant and paying for the meal with stacks and stacks of 50p coins. Someone caught us picking on the 8th, and you can see the video here.

The evening of the 9th we played in Kilbarchan at the Old Library, which is another gig we’ve played many times before. It’s great, not just here, but everywhere, to see familiar faces and get to catch up with folks that we recognize. It’s also flattering, by the way, whenever anyone knows our names or has kept up on our travels & blogs enough to know what it is we’ve been doing (sidenote: if you’re a Richmonder and you ask one of us, “Are you still playing every Wednesday at Cary Street Cafe?” This means you are NOT doing a good job of keeping up with us.). It was another typically good gig, with an audience that started out somewhat reserved and ended up wriggling in their seats and whooping. We also saw Bobby, our former host at Johnstone Middle School (January of 2009), which was a nice surprise.

The 10th was a much more typical Glasgow day (“liquid sunshine,” Gerry calls it), and was largely spent slacking about the hotel. Well, at least by Ben and myself. The other three braved the rain and walked to the Kelvingrove Museum to check out the art and artifacts. Eddie and Jakey also braved the all-you-can-eat lunch at the Brazilian Churrascaria next door to our hotel. Meat for Power! Meat for Virility! Meat for Success!

And this brings us to our Stirling gig. Again, so cool to play at the Tolbooth and get a chance to walk around Stirling and try and contemplate, “what if WE were in Braveheart?” Now, to be fair to Robert the Bruce, he was not a turncoat in the way the movie made him out to be. William Wallace was, however, something like 7′ tall (or so Gerry says) and pretty powerful. It’s really striking to aproach Stirling (or Edinburgh, for that matter) and see these massive castles carved into rocky cliff-faces and wonder what it was like 500-600 years ago to see such a thing and then expect to storm it. Given the general temperature and wetness index over here, I have to imagine that swamp foot and crotch rot  were constant issues for your average Scottish peasant/royal.

The Tolbooth gig was a good’un, although perhaps less well-attended than we might have wished for. However, as one audience member told me, it’s hard times everywhere right now. We are, of course, eternally grateful for anyone who deems us worthy of their time and money. There was one fellow right up front who was hooting and clapping like crazy, which made a big difference for us, indeed. We’re on the road again, headed to Neilston for the night, then over to Fife on Saturday for the Pittenweem Festival, and then back to the west coast to Irvine at the Harbour Arts Centre. Then, a day off in Edinburgh and three days of the Fringe! We hope to catch some shows while we’re there: Todd Barry, Flick Ferdinando (we saw her 2009 show “Horse” which was both hilarious and somewhat disturbing), maybe Harry Shearer (we’re trying to get Harry to come see us play as well. If you know him, see if you can’t convince him, eh?).

Yesterday was two weeks to the day, still three to go! Come see us play, won’t ye?

And finally, here’s a little fun. Can you match the band member’s face with his . . . pants area? Let’s just see, shall we:

A       1

B       2

C      3

D      4

E       5

Think you know us?  We’ll see!

PF Hot Seats et al.