Dizraeli

All right, all write, alright?

I’m looking out through Brixton scaffolding, with a weeklong tour at my back, and a stomachful of coffee just about holding me upright. Whoof. It was a birth and a trip, a labour and a holiday, a sweat and a giggle all rolled into one. We started with a gig at Cargo, the London club with the mighty reputation and shit sound (Bad Science once sounded terrible there too)- it was a shaky one for all of us, struggling with being unable to hear each other’s playing, and translating the newly nailed pieces to a live performance (a rehearsal room is not a gig), but we still managed to have a good time of it, and I think the crowd did too; we had some lovely feedback. Thank you to all the friends, fans and family that represented for that one- it was a treat to have you all in the audience. The next day took us back to Lewes, to Zu Studios, the magic squatspace where the album was recorded. You have literally never seen a spot look more cosy- gas fires, glowing lights, giant bees- the gig was a mead-fuelled glow to match it, ending with a reprise of the song we’d started with, but this time with the whole room singing the chorus.

After a jam session and a game of linoleum bowls (with a UK hiphop soundtrack), we stayed the night there, crashed on massive mattresses upstairs with a big wooden Yeah hanging on the wall over us, just as Mr Simmonds and I had done every night of the recording. A geezer called Clive, bedded in the same room, kept us up with stories of the monster that lives in the piano, until we laughed ourselves to sleep at the completion of the circle.

A few days off, after that, before we regrouped to journey to the West Country for the thickest leg of the tour. The Bell! Bath! A tiny pub with all the heads of the area crammed into it, and some out from Bristol too. The ‘stage’ is really an extension of the drinking area, tables cleared to make space for the band. Lee Westwood amazed with his guitaring, and then we bled into Maria, the first song of the newly arranged set. I never tire of that song, even though I’ve been performing it as a spoken word piece for years. The new music (J Levistky- composed) has breathed even more soul into it, and even a busy pub hushed to hear it. Thank you Bath for your welcome, and thank you Joe and Ruth for putting up almost all of us in your house: we stayed up late, stoned and talking, making characters out of blu tack and pissing about, finished by a fine fry up the next morning.

Next up, to Bristol. Ah, Bristol. We spent the day in an Easton basement, polishing arrangements, and travelled to Stokes Croft for the show. People from all stages of my life showed up to support, and it became such a reunion of old friends and faces that no one noticed my guitar was out of tune (especially me). I’m hoping the reviewer from the Venue didn’t notice, either. Bristol is a loud, rowdy hoot, whatever the write-up is, and we all loved it. Bomb Sainsbury’s.

After Bristol, to Cornwall. Fuck me, what rain- coming down on our cars in God-sized bucketloads, all the way to Eden. The Eden Project- a vast quarry filled with a holy marriage of science, art and nature. We played to a few hundred folk at the venue there, with the volume irritatingly low (next time, we’re bringing our own soundman), and then catapulted into the quarry, exploring the site by night with our hostess, the brilliant Beth guiding us, showing us insane contraptions, a round room housing a huge granite seed (we sang, the acoustics were spot on), and a giant bee. The zenith was the ice skating rink- there were no skates available at 1am, but there was a wheelchair: me and Mr Simmonds took it over, scooting at high pitch across the ice, pulling doughnuts all over the shop. Soon, it had escalated into all-out chaos, with all the Small Gods skidding and spinning around in some way, yelling for drunken joy and not able to stop until a friendly security bloke came to shoo us away. Every single person that works in the Eden Project is a superfriendly legend. Thanks to all of you for a warm welcome, and also for the farmhouse we took over, beatboxing and blowing bottletones until we were all laughed out, and it was time to sleep. The next day, we woke slowly and wandered around the Biodomes, gaping at how impressive it all is. If you’ve never been to the Eden Project, go now, it’s a massive wickedness. A rare positive vision of the future.

The giant bee looked rained-on and bedraggled, and we set off for the last gig – Glastonbury - with our heads buzzing. Paul ran out of petrol on the way, but we got there eventually. Glastonbury was empty and wet: the occasional teenager loped down the highstreet, looking unlikely to come to a Small Gods gig, and everyone else hid. We waited for the good folk of Glast to emerge, and eventually some did, so we played our songs for them, accompanied by a hum and a buzz, perhaps a giant bee in the monitor. We were tired from the night before, but we played well, driven by the special fuel that comes from an imminent ending, throwing our last drops of juice out into the music and then collapsing when the set was done. People liked it, they said, and they were inspired. Glastonbury scoops all the prizes in the Far Out awards: after the gig I met a woman that wrote songs in the language of the mermaids, and a bloke that thought we’d met in a past life. Perhaps, perhaps. I was ready to drop though, and not ready to play word games. Most of the Small Gods were hungering for their own beds, so we said a goodbye- let’s do this again soon – and it was just Mr Simmonds and me remaining; just how it started. We were zonked, and slept like babies at Yasmin and Ben’s place before a drive home, through the leaves of late autumn back to London.

If you can, find an excuse to go on tour, whether or not you play music. It’s a slice of lives and colour that you don’t get any other way.

Thank you to the Small Gods for all the hard work and passion you put into playing the songs, and for the lovely company over the course of the week. February? Let’s do it.

Peace,

Dizraeli.