I had a seizure one night, when I was a teenager, on the front step of Store 24 on Thayer Street in Providence. I was talking to my friend Mark and drinking a Coke, watching cars drive by, and then I was looking up at Mark’s face in the glaring fluorescent light and Thayer Street was sideways. “What happened?” he asked me. I didn’t say anything, ’cause I didn’t know exactly and ’cause I was busy feeling the sticky fluid on my face and in my hair. I hoped that I’d cracked my head on the cement step and that the sticky fluid was nice, dramatic blood, but my Coke can was empty and Mark wasn’t looking at me as if I was covered in blood, so I figured I’d not only embarrassed myself by having a seizure in public but also poured an entire can of soda on my own face. Swell.

“Lazy Eye” thinks this is a pertinent moment. It then goes on to describe ways in which our brains spend time in other places and the embarrassing frustrations that can cause us. Another eye in another place, out of this world, can set off our balance and poke little holes in the beautiful masks we wear in public. We make these masks out of psychological glitter and glue, ’cause we think we can fool people, or maybe we got our feelings hurt one too many times, and a thoughtfully constructed persona starts to seem important. They’ll think I’m so cool! But friends, lovers and well-wishers whose hearts are not made of stone always seem to be around when our weirdnesses shine through the eye holes like so much bright light.

Love,
Kristin

Find this song and all my recent work, in multiple formats – including lossless, free for download on my CASH Music pages. Information on how you can support my work by becoming a subscriber is here.

A New York song, “Freesia” took elements from a walk back to our apartment in 1990 and a middle-of-the-night phone call with a friend this year. One image bright and hot and bendy; the other cold, haunting and rigid. Our New York was one of old movies, picturesque garbage strikes and trains. My friend’s 2010 New York is spooky and unkind. It didn’t matter that we were broke back then, New York lifted us up from underneath, but my friend is starving, pushed down by a city that doesn’t seem to care.

If you carry flowers down the street, you can’t smell the garbage; it’s just something you walk past. But wherewithal is hard to come by. It’s an elusive strength, like luck, and it doesn’t always bend down to kiss you on a cold night. After all, that’s what cold nights are for: cold. You can rise up to meet that spirit in your own way, by freezing your goddamn ass off. Then you’ll know what it’s like inside the next cold person you see. Maybe on a bright, bendy day when your luck has improved and you have a few spare flowers.

Love,
Kristin

Find this song and all my recent work, in multiple formats – including lossless, free for download on my CASH Music pages. Information on how you can support my work by becoming a subscriber is here.

New Orleans is a good city to cry in, I guess. It’s messed up and overflowing, like I am right now. I don’t like to cry in front of people – or at all – but walking my dog at sunset starts me thinking. Or feeling. Or whatever it is that makes tears flow. And I don’t really see anybody but Hubert, the neighbor with thirteen kids who always waves and tells me that he loves me and god blesses me. Nice things to say to a crying person.

I was amazed that there is still a moon, that snow falls, that birds are still pretty without Vic. ‘Cause they are. Sort of extra pretty, even. But I was right to be amazed. I know that the guy I see through a second story window, pouring cereal for dinner under fluorescent lights, thinks that’s what he’s doing, but I know better. This world is pretend.

People at the funeral told me I’d start talking to him and I have, but really, I never stopped talking to him. I can’t call him anymore, though, so my lips just start moving. Not to give him shit, which is what people said my lips would do. Just to clarify. To replay and articulate, to fix every misunderstanding and explain every confusing thing I ever did or said. I wish I’d spelled everything out on my goddamn forehead when I had the chance, ’cause clarity is everything. But then, so is music and we had plenty of that.

And we still do. Music is still bewitching, even in this pretend world without a Vic in it. And the moon in Athens was blue as it raced across the sky (can Vic move the moon now?), the snow in New England was breathtaking, miraculous, and there are perfect birds everywhere. Everything sparkles.

–

Over the past few months, there have been several wonderful events held in tribute to my late friend Vic Chesnutt. I haven’t been able to bring myself to attend any of them.

I was lucky enough to play a lot of shows with Vic over the years, though, and here are two songs from one of my favorites. That night we sat there, side by side trading songs for a couple of hours that felt like a couple of minutes. With no preparation, Vic decided to play piano. Just because there was one on-stage. What the hell? So, so beautiful.

Mine: Hungry
Download audio file (Hungry.mp3)

Vic’s: I’m Through (which he was calling “Pepe Lopez” at that time)
Download audio file (I'm Through.mp3)

This was the last time I saw Vic - photo: Chris Owyoung

Welcome to a work in progress. As you can see, we’ve made some significant changes to the site, thanks to Jesse von Doom and Tine Hughes. Over the coming weeks and months, the new site will continue to evolve. Thanks for being here – and stay tuned.

Please note Kristin’s new CASH Music project: a series of acoustic demos for a new Throwing Muses record. More info here.

As most of you know, “Crooked” CDs are imminent. Strange Angels will begin receiving theirs well ahead of the June 11 release date. You may be wondering why we’ve pushed that release date so far into 2010 – well, this is why:

In the UK, we’ve opted to do something very different with the release of “Crooked.” We couldn’t bear to put out just another dead, plastic, CD; the UK needed and deserved something special. To that end, we’ve teamed up with The Friday Project and Harper Collins to release Kristin’s “Crooked” as an “album book.” Think of it as the most beautiful CD booklet you’ve ever seen – art photos, lyrics and essays – all wrapped up in a hard-cover, 60 pages, about the size of a standard paperback.

The “Crooked” book will contain access codes that will serve as your key to a media-rich online platform where you’ll find “Crooked” audio content in multiple formats, including lossless files, album outtakes and demos, a PDF preview of Kristin’s upcoming memoir, “Paradoxical Undressing” and pro audio stems for remixing. We’ll also continue to host fan remixes and the “Crooked” book-site will provide direct interaction with Kristin through comments and live chats: a living, portable, dynamic environment, as opposed to a “dead”, static CD. The publication date is June 11, 2010.

We’re extremely excited to bring this new idea to the UK – and fans in the US and other countries should watch this space for details on the book’s availability. We’re very much looking forward to bringing Kristin to new people, through these new outlets. We’ve done some pretty novel deals for the “Crooked” book and want to take this opportunity to gratefully acknowledge Atlantic Books and Penguin USA for their help in creating the “Paradoxical Undressing” preview.

Before we go, 50FootWave has just finished recording their latest Ep, “With Love From The Men’s Room,” with Mudrock in his Los Angeles studio. Kristin, Rob and Bernie tweeted through the recording. It’s exciting stuff–we can’t wait to share it with you.

More soon!

Love from,

All of us at KristinHersh.com

Past the second story Beagle, down the street to the Greyhound that inexplicably turned into two terriers a couple weeks ago, take a left at the German Shorthaired Pointer, then it’s a twenty minute walk to the blue merle Great Dane. From there, we can either march resolutely all the way to the twin Afghan hounds or backtrack to the ancient Bloodhound. I like the Bloodhound best ’cause he’s so hapless–doesn’t seem to have a sense of smell any longer, and he also looks pretty blind. A good-natured soul, though. I imagine not much bothers him anymore.

A light, cold rain begins to fall and Sam, my feral desert dog of indeterminate descent, looks at me suspiciously. She really dislikes rain and, I believe, blames the icy droplets that make her ears twitch on me. That’s what her expression says, anyway. I guess it is my fault that she’s outside in a place that is so very unlike the desert. Visiting our dog friends isn’t worth the trauma of a New Orleans water torture to Sam. Glowing Christmas lights and Spanish moss draped around the mansions lining St. Charles Ave. do nothing to cheer her up, but when we get home and I tell seven year old Bodhi that he and I have a beautiful Christmas walk to take together, his eyes widen and shine.

Like my friend Clark’s when he got a job a few days ago. His eyes were literally shining. This job was a surprise, early Christmas present for Clark. It means that he no longer has to ask for handouts, that he has a reason to get up every morning, that he can count on his bed at the Salvation Army to be waiting for him every night because he can pay for it. “You’re still gonna eat the muffins I bake though, right?” I asked and he promised he’d stop by for some. Though I imagine he can afford better fare than Mystery Muffins now.

“Christmas is coming?!” squeals Bodhi when I tell him about the twinkling lights running the length of St. Charles. “When?!”

“Soon,” I answer.

“What?!”

“Well…what didja think we got that Christmas tree for?”

“So that you could have a friend!” he says, straight faced.

A Christmas tree is a good friend, I guess. So’s Clark. And a dozen dogs whose names I don’t know. And Sam. Angry Sam. And a little seven year old boy who’s willing to brave raindrops for a Christmas walk, in whose eyes I can see reflected light, light and more light.

Love,

Kristin

I’m never quite sure I’m reaching everybody when I send out an email or Tweet or whatever. I thought I’d post this here, just to increase the odds that it’s seen by whomever, whenever, wherever.

I like Thanksgiving. It’s lovely that we have a holiday devoted to appreciating what’s good in our lives.

Like most of us, I spend a lot of time focusing on what needs changing. That seems more like a call to action, making a difference, etc. Today, I get to think hard about things that have gone right: the music that got made, the people I might not have met, but was lucky enough to come across in my travels.

Most important, there’s you. I wouldn’t be doing this work if it weren’t for you, caring and listening, doing your part. I’d probably be making music, but not for a worldwide community of thinking, feeling individuals.

I’m grateful for all my blessings, but it wouldn’t be a real Thanksgiving if I didn’t make sure you knew how thankful I am for you.

Hope to see you before next Thanksgiving.

Love,
Kristin

Watching little Bodhi catch lizards in our yard, I am amazed that they keep appearing. I thought I had a pretty good eye for reptiles; he beats the crap out of me. Squinting, I stand perfectly still and try to catch a glimpse of movement before Bo does, but all I see is leaves and flowers. It’s as if he wills the lizards into being. “How do you make them appear?” I ask him.

“I don’t,” he says. “Lizards just are.”

“When?”

“When they want  to be.” Suddenly, he reaches out and snatches one from thin air. There is nothing and then there is a lizard in Bodhi’s hand.

“Now that one, you made up,” I say, accusingly.

He admires his catch: a silvery-gray skink. “No,” he says dreamily. He’s himself.”

I watch the skink over his shoulder. It looks comfortable. “He likes you,” I say.

Bodhi smiles. “If I made him up, he wouldn’t be this nice. I’d forget to put something on him like rough skin or a light tummy. And he wouldn’t be so special.” He pets the skink with his finger. The skink’s eyes close like a cat’s. “I didn’t know that skinks had eyes this cool and shiny. If I made him up, I would forget to put shiny eyes on his face.”

The skink does, indeed, have cool, shiny eyes. “You could give him a horn or wings or something.”

Bo looks at me sympathetically. “That wouldn’t be cooler than this,” he says, holding up the lizard. “Geckos don’t even have horns or wings.”

“I guess they’re not supposed to, huh?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “They’re best like they evolved to be.”

I watch the skink explore Bo’s little palm. “So you didn’t make him up.”

Bodhi smiles a toothless, six year old smile. “I wouldn’t make him up,” he says. “It’s not my job.”

“What’s your job?”

“To see him.”

Day 15 – Brighton. Billy, Paul and I were separated in the Norwich club last night by the enthusiastic after-show crowd, so we catch up on the night’s activities while running errands in the morning. Well, Billy and I are running errands. We need to buy blank CD’s and band-aids (”plasters”)–the CD’s are for selling at shows, the plasters are for Thumby, my busted thumb which refuses to help me out and just goddamn heal already. Paul has been running around Norwich all morning, visiting castles and shit. We accuse him of being a tourist and he points out that we are, in fact, the tourists, as we know practically nothing about Norwich and he knows practically everything about it.

He’s right, as usual. He also has a story to tell about last night. Apparently, he was removed from the theater and dragged out to the bar outside by a scary woman who made him showcase his exotic midwestern accent for all her drunk friends. According to Paul, everything he said floored them. Everything Paul says floors us, too, so I wasn’t surprised, but this same scary woman figured prominently in my story of last night, too. She was the one I saw licking the face of the lighting girl, who seemed bothered by it (but not nearly bothered enough, in my opinion), then she called me a “bloody yank” and told me that she knows what us bloody yanks are all about. “What’re we about?” I asked her. She opened her mouth to answer and then fell into the man standing next to her. He caught her, then mouthed the word “sorry” at me. The lady looked pretty unconscious, or at least non-verbal. “So now I’ll never know what bloody yanks are about,” I tell Billy and Paul.

Then Billy yells, “That’s the lady who called me Superman!” Of course. I’m a bloody yank and he’s Superman. At least I didn’t get my face licked.

My cooler story is about getting my palms read. Literally, they were painted red by the palm reader who’s gonna send me my reading after she’s studied my handprints. It was totally wicked; I wanted to keep the red paint as tattoos, but it washed off in the shower.

When we get to Brighton, we’re impressed by its San Francisco-like misty hills and beachy air. Our friend Sarah Jane meets us at Wagamama, where we’re relaxing over hot bowls of soup when we get a call from the theater, informing us that a film crew has been waiting there for me for seven hours. “Seven?” is all I hear Billy say when he answers the phone.

“Seven what?” I whisper.

“Finish your soup,” he whispers back.

When we get to the theater, I realize that the film crew has actually been waiting for me for more like seven months. The director contacted me about doing an interview for her documentary forever ago, and yet the crew is still polite and gracious when I finally show up. When the interview’s over, they thank me profusely for the opportunity to sit and wait for me all day. I can’t even get them into the show, as it’s been sold out forever and the guest list is full. They thank me for trying and failing to get them in (!) Brits…gotta love ‘em.

Beautiful theater, perfectly attentive audience. My publisher is there, so I’m nervous, but I remember all the words, the amp doesn’t blow up and I don’t trip on anything. Whoo-hoo!

Day 16 – Driving back to Heathrow to drop off Paul for his flight home tomorrow. Bummer. We stop at Marks and Spencer for our last bag of groceries and as we’re walking out, Paul claims that the clerk told him that he loved him. “He did not,” I say.

But Paul is insistent. “You weren’t there! ‘Thank you very much, love you,’ he said.”

“That clerk doesn’t love you.”

Paul looks insulted. “Why not?”

We all agree that we will miss these things about the UK:

1. how “girls” rhymes with “dredels”

2. dressing room bowls of onions (what are they for??)

3. breathtaking ultra-green pastures

4. with panda cows in them

5. rhubarb yoghurt

Paul: “Now we’re all in agreement and happy from jokes!”

Day 17 – Portsmouth. The back seat looks very empty without Ethical Paul in it. Luckily, we have a day at the seaside to keep us entertained.

The beaches here are pebbled, it’s windy and chilly and the water is cold, but people stretch out in their bathing suits on lumpy towels, eating ice cream and sunbathing. These Brits are made of stronger stuff than us wussy yanks. “Maybe wussiness is what us bloody yanks are about,” I suggest.

“Maybe,” says Billy thoughtfully.

The last time I played this club, it was with my Mondo Band: billed as a Kristin Hersh solo show, but with the 50FootWave rhythm section and the McCarricks on strings. Tonight, I’m all alone and this stage seems…large.

I watch Chris Rees’s set, knowing it’s the last time I’m gonna see him for a while, then we exchange gifts and addresses and take pictures, like we’ve all just graduated. Musicians are goofy, lonely people. ‘Cause we get so close and then have to go so far away.

After the show, we drive back to Heathrow for two hours of sleep before our flight to Spain. We had to book an early flight in order to meet the other Muses for soundcheck at Primavera Sound. “This is gonna hurt,” warns Billy.

Days 18-21 – 4 days in Spain

We each drink half a cup of tea two hours after going to bed, can’t really manage much more than that, though I do manage to fall in love with an elderly couple on their way back to the states who take the bus called “Hotel Hoppa” with us. “Can I keep them?” I ask Billy.

“If you can take care of them, you can keep them,” he says.

Spain seems rudely sunny, like maybe it should tone it down a little until we’ve had a little sleep. Of course, we are whisked directly to soundcheck from the airport. Our set is very late, so our soundcheck is very early. I let my excitement about seeing the band again wake me up.

When we get to the stage, though, there is no band but me. I meet the very friendly crew of about fifteen, set up, swap out an amp for another, run through my sounds…still no bandmates. I soundcheck alone for a while, but it’s not very interesting without them. Then a woman with a walkie-talkie runs onto the stage and says, “There is a van coming with Muses on it.” Phew. Then she listens to the staticky Spanish coming through on her walkie-talkie and says, “No. A van with one Muse on it. The other Muse is missed.”

“Missed?” Billy and I repeat at the same time, looking at each other in fear. Long story short: after Bernie and I mess around for an hour or so, then play a few songs with the stage manager on drums (he didn’t do a bad Limbo), Dave shows up saying, “My phone is very quiet!”

After soundcheck, we spend some time with Bernie and Dave and then go to the hotel to shower and sleep before the show. It takes us a good half hour to learn to work the shower, which cuts into our sleep time a bit, but “slow pizza” and gazpacho wake us up in time to get to the dressing room and write set lists before we have to play.

The show itself is fucking enormous: 17,000 people or so, with cameras on huge robotic arms crawling around the arena, and yet, the audience listens. They seem to follow every note. Don’t know how they do that.

Primavera Sound is a musical rather than a trendy festival. I can’t tell you what a relief this is. There is always suck when it comes to a big-ass venture like a festival, but there isn’t always wonderful. In the four days that we’re here, we actually see some wonderful, of all things, and when the festival is over, the windswept grounds on the shoreline are so cool: empty and creepy, like a battlefield after a battle.

“Time to fly home to the kids and dogs,” Billy announces, packing his suitcase. “The best part of every tour.”

Love,

Kristin

Day 8 – Edinburgh. I spent part of last summer here, performing Paradoxical Undressing at the Fringe Festival. MJ, the show’s stage manager, meets us at Cabaret Voltaire (fun fact: there are 8 stories of subterranean apartments below the club) so we can catch up over dinner in the Thai restaurant where a waitress once asked us, “How are you? Sweaty and crying?” I love that place. I ask people if they’re sweaty and crying all the time now.

Our favorite friendly Viking, Olaf Furniss, shows up right before set time and Billy blanches, as he rarely survives an evening with Olaf and his hip flask of mescal. We agree to meet for coffee in the morning rather than making a night of it; Billy exhales.

Day 9 – Travel day. After coffee with Olaf, we drag Ethical Paul to Thirsk so we can take pictures of James Herriot’s surgery and have a beer at his favorite bar. We’re Yorkshire-geeked, Paul is bemused, but drinks his beer politely. Then we drive to the B & B we’ve booked for the night, hoping it comes with a wacky old lady who could be our temporary grandma. It does. It also comes with a nuclear power plant.

We thought Butlins was weird! This is even more post-apocolyptic. We wonder if the combination of the tremendous heat in the B & B and radiation have given our new grandma tentacles, or something even cooler, like super powers. Then she tells us that she trips on mole hills, which could happen to someone with tentacles, but probably not someone with super powers.

Day 10 – York. Granny Nuke thinks we’re staying 2 nights and no one wants to hurt her feelings, so we don’t check out, we just spend the day wandering around York, calling the club every couple of hours to see if they’ll let us in. Eventually, someone feels sorry for us and unlocks the door. It smells like a mushroom farm in the dressing room, but the people are lovely.

We swap out the sweet-as-pie “Welsh hobo” opener, Chris Rees, for keening local, Chris Helme, fresh from a train tour (”are you a hobo?” I ask him). He’s great. Then I play way up high on a stage upon a stage. I actually bump my head on the rigging. Three encores; the audience is super swell.

We pack up, settle up, load out, then back to Granny Nuke’s.

Day 11 – I spend the morning catching rabbits. Well, trying to. British rabbits are faster than ours, I think. Saying goodbye to our temporary grandma is harder than we thought it’d be. We’re all a little worried about leaving her there in the shadow of the cooling towers.

We drive to Lancaster, a beautiful town. Everything there is made of stone except the trees. My old friends Patrick and Karl meet me at the pub across the street from the venue and tell me that they’re getting married. I’m thrilled; I actually well up (I swear I’m not a girl). Before I can congratulate them, a scalper interrupts to ask if I want to buy tickets to the Kristin Hersh show.

Day 12 – Burnley. Get to meet the amazing Fin, a young Toby Snax fan who is recovering from brain surgery. He is precious and bright and working so hard right now. Fin brings gifts: a sparkly pine cone, a homemade card, birthday candles. I well up again (maybe I am a girl). I sign his book and draw him a picture of Toby. I wish I had more to offer this brave little boy.

Tonight’s show is in a library as part of the Get It Loud in Libraries series. I was really looking forward to reading some books tonight (I can never bring enough books on tour) but the improvised dressing room is in the large print true crime section. Billy smuggles in a gardening book and I make do with that. Burnley Library is a beautiful venue with perfect sound – packed, yet casual. This series is a great idea.

Day 13 – Travel day. I ask my Twitter pals for a scenic drive to Norwich and they send us through the Peak district. Lordy, it’s nice. “This is pretty fuckin’ quaint,” says Billy and I have to agree.

We get to our hotel early enough to have Ethical Paul over for a couple of episodes of “Jeeves and Wooster.” Anglophilin’ out.

Day 14 – Norwich. All I knew about Norwich before today was the British TV series “I’m Alan Partridge,” a brilliant piece of squirmy pain.

The Norwich we drive to has nothing to do with squirmy pain, however. I’ve heard that I’m playing in a church that’s been converted to an arts center, so we pull up at a church that’s been converted to an arts center, but there’s no Kristin Hersh show scheduled. We notice another church a few doors down, one that appears to have been converted to an arts center, and wonder at the coincidence. “That’s gotta be the venue,” says Billy. It’s not.

“Try down the block,” they suggest. We keep walking until we find another church that’s been converted to an arts center, but they’ve never heard of me either. The fourth converted church we come to is where the show is.

As if Alan Partridge wasn’t cool enough. This town literally worships art. Wicked.

Love,
Kristin

Day One – I say goodbye to the kids at the beach. Bodhi, the youngest, draws a heart in the sand and writes “Mom” in it, then gives me a too hard hug. Ouch. I hate this part.

Day Two – We land at Heathrow and meet the other Muses at our airport hotel. We all agree to stay up in order to acclimate ourselves to this time zone, then go to our rooms and fall asleep.

Hunger rouses us a few hours later, so Billy and I drag the others out to Terminal 5 (where we used to live when BA lost our luggage and my guitar). Nice to see the old neighborhood again.

After dinner, we go to Bernie’s room for an unplugged practice. This turns out to be a peak experience, for some reason. We are all inordinately moved. Looking at each other and squinting, we try to figure out what’s happening. “The songs are here,” says Dave. Bernie and I agree.

Day Three – We drive to something called “Butlins, Minehead” (which becomes “Butthead” within 5 minutes of leaving the hotel). Billy and Bernie must learn to drive on the correct side of the road. “I can drive backwards,” says Bernie, “I mean sideways.”

The countryside is breathtaking, as it will be for the rest of the tour. A side trip to Stonehenge has us all very excited until we get there and learn that it costs £6 a head to get in, so we stare at it through a chain link fence and then take pictures of the rest rooms.

All Tomorrow’s Parties is the name of the festival we’re playing and boy does it look like a future party. Post-apocolyptic. It appears to be an abandoned amusement park that a bunch of rock people are squatting in.

We are put up in “chalets,” which I guess, in British English, means “room that comes with a duck” because mine does. An exceptional duck that eats cookies out of my hand.

We’re very nervous before we go on, as our unplugged rehearsal was the only one we had (also because we’re big dorks), but the set goes fairly smoothly. We all start different songs a couple times (dorks), but the audience is sweet as pie and happy as clams, and that’s all that counts, really.

We end the night in Howe Gelb’s room (he has no duck, so it’s not a chalet). Howe shares his whiskey and tells us stories about the ugliest suit he ever had.

Day 4 – I say goodbye to Dave and the duck, then hit the road solo style (I keep Bernie just for the hell of it). We try to use every town name we see on a sign as a swear, shouting them angrily, and most of the time it works (”Bagshot” is the best and most long-lived).

Christopher Rees joins the tour as opener (great to see and hear him again) and we all eat dinner in the dressing room, (which is actually an art studio) under a drawing of a naked old man splayed face down on the ground. None of us look up until we’ve finished eating.

Day 5 – Newcastle. Bernie flies away, leaving me seriously solo. Our hotel looks a little like a  jail and comes with a rat. A dead rat. I much preferred the live duck. Things are looking down.

However, we are in Newcastle, the town where our little toddler friend Sammy used to jump up on stage with the Muses and the Pixies whenever we came to town. She knew all the songs and was an excellent little dancer/singer/rocker-outer. When I missed my babies to the point of heartbreak, Sammy would crawl into my lap and let me baby her for a night.

Of course, she’s no longer a toddler and it takes me a minute to realize that the woman talking to me after the show is Sammy, but she lets me baby her anyway. We keep her close all night, give her juice, drive her home, talk to her Mum on the phone and only drive away when she promises to keep in touch forever.

The rat is still there when we get back to the hotel.

Day 6 – Glasgow, King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut, the venue where Throwing Muses once did an unannounced, all-request show at midnight, forgetting that none of us speak any Scottish. The show lapsed into lame improv-style bullshitting: “I think I heard Surf Cowboy?”

Beerjacket plays first (the lovely Peter Kelley) – and our friend Ethical Paul joins the tour. Paul is a true, dyed-in-the-wool, genuinely idiosyncratic yet morally sound weirdo. We are looking forward to this.

Day 7 – Aberdeen. Before soundcheck, we check in at our hotel which turns out to be a mansion in the middle of nowhere (yay!). Rabbits hop around the Teletubbies-style grounds. Paul reads up on the history of the place and tells us that it was built by a guy named “Soapy,” who made his fortune on soap.

Aberdeen teaches us what Jaffa Cakes and travelators are. After the show, Chris Rees crashes with Paul, because we feel that he needs to see the soap mansion. We then spend a peaceful morning by the River Dee before checking out. We hate to leave Soapy’s house.

Love,

Kristin