Out Here on the Edge of the Desert # 31



Every day had its trails with two weeks worth of clothes for me and the girl, a guitar, CDs and books, and whatnot to haul around. I think I showed Brian my slip a little on this one. Next time I bet I put some thought into the tour menu, and hire a van for my pals.

OUT HERE ON THE EDGE OF THE DESERT
...from a letter to Steven Fromholz

Yo. This is Vince.

Began my first trip to England with a gig at the old home place, Anderson Fair, in Houston, Texas and I spoke the book at the Baylor College of Medicine in the Medical Center, and hown IH-45 toward Galveston at the University of Houston Honors Program. Joe Lindley (slide, guitar and ukes), Guy Schwartz (vocals and fretless) and I did trio music for a host of friends including Bruce Bryant, and Jim Barham, video producers of the longest standing in the Big Town.
With Warren Holleman of Baylor and Bill Monroe of University of Houston
From the Warwick the next day Sarah and I drove out and walked that interminably long airport walk. A kaleidoscope of a day later we woke from catnapping in the same aisle seat, but we were touching down on another continent in an ancient town where there are more places to drink alcohol than eat. We paid an $80.00 cab fair to get to our balcony on the second floor of the Sloane Square Hotel in London. The Indian cab driver drove on the wrong side of the road the whole way. I cleverly said nothing. I thought it was more than worth the money.

From there in the next day Buckingham Palace grounds, Winchester Cathedral, the British Parliament, the Eye, the Tower of London, the OX building, the mega-retail neighborhood around Harrods. On the way back to the hotel I drank tequila in the bar of what in dear old Tejas you would certainly call a full service department store. Can you imagine getting looped on the same floor with people trying on underwear at J.C. Penny's?

One of the several Polish brothers bartending (newly immigrated and not speaking any more English than he had to) said thickly under his breath, "One more'a those and he'll be crawlin' outta here." Bravo. Spoken like a true Texas brawlroom barback.

And we saw something across the Thames that looked like the London Bridge in Lake Havasu City, Arizona.
The first show was in the Wild West End at the 12 Bar Club. The stage smelled like piss. You know the drill. If we had just a nickel for every watering hole we walked out of with our hats, guitars, AND our wallets we'd be stinking rich cowboys. A parade of color and light, pizza, and nightlife all night. Visited the flat of a Londoner we had met on the internet. He sells paintings by last centuries' Americans, who studied in England, to this centuries Americans. He travels there often and we had met him first at a New York City gig I'd done. Great Americano art from jolly old England, go figure.
At the 12 Bar in London
For the rest of our stay we hung close to Ragamuffin Radio's Brian Glanville and Mike Plumbley. They are the today of our music in England. Patronage at its best, and most honest. Woody Guthrie and Leadbelly would have liked these guys. As a result I worked hard to make art, not showbiz, for a week of gigs in London and the South. On this plant it takes gypsies like these to makes gypsies like us.
With Andrew Perry, Brian Glanville and Mike Plumbley
One of the most excellent performance nights was on the Isle of Wight. My ticket to Ryde. Did the eveing with Christine LeDoux and Paul Armfield. By day we investigated Tennyson country. Lord Alfred was the rock star of the 1700's. I confided to "Mick" Plumbly, in a thatched-roofed church down the hill from where Tennyson had lived, that I had given Tennyson the black cape.

You'd love the island. Big chalk cliffs, half a dozen good-sized towns, miles of hedges on byways like Highway 1 on the coast of California. The site of one of Hendrix's last shows. The history and trappings of literature, art and music make it an experience like no other. I was easily
most impressed with this place.

Though I couldn't have had a better time doing songwriter-in-the-round with me mates at Roddington Forge -- a beautiful acapela, a great little guitar, vocal duet, a flute, a John Prine tune I was inspired to sing harmony to.

Saw the wild ponies of the New Forest, the broodingly cold wind and rain of the English Channel cast, and Stoneheange. Broad-backed and chestnut brown, the little horses ran free next to the highway we zoomed down. The big, famous stack of stones on top of a grassy hill looked like a San Francisco MaDonald's with the parking lots, and meters, and buses, cars and trucks of people. Went to a town on the south coast where the locals take boats across the sea to Calais in France rather than drive to London to shop.

In the Royal Military sea town of Portsmouth, I met Mike Little for the first time, the leading "spiritual advisor" for my CD with Bob Neuwirth, "Phoenix." He showed up at the RMA bar for the first time in 30 years, since he had been a sailor at the base across the lane. Playing for him was
what playing is all about. He's at home more than a quarter of a century later listening to my skinny songs. I'm at home a quarter of the way around the world playing them for him. So we both dug it. I looked out from the stage sometimes during the shows and said, "It's like a private conversation, isn't it?"
Hardly a downside, the cars are a little cramped for hauling even solo music the way I travel it, and some of the meals I found at the restaurants are apparently not my cup. We got to eat "at home" very few times, shucks. It's my least favorite part of standing on one leg for bucks. Every day had its trails with two weeks worth of clothes for me and the girl, a guitar, CDs and books, and whatnot to haul around. I think I showed Brian my slip a little on this one. Next time I bet I put some thought into the tour menu, and hire a van for my pals.

The best is yet to come. I just can't get over having the DAT Recorder, a studio you can hold in your hand. And the worst thing on the tape is me. Now that's my idea of recording. THAT'S supporting the art.
Outside The Greys in Bristol
My best sound on this swing was provided by Richard, at Fulston Manor Performing Arts Center, in Sittingborne, Kent; an excellent concert hall in the US equivalent of a high school. I've been clawing at this old guitar since 1970 in some of the most inhospitable locations, air conditioned and not. Alan Brookes runs one of the most pro presentations on this planet from this untypical place. The crowd is large, savvy to acoustic music, and appreciate. Criminals like us would appreciate this: when you work his concert you tune up in the Principal's office. If you got "live," he'll play it. If you work your ass off to make your music, and don't we do, you wanna play this show.

Six dates six thousand miles from home. More than six encores.

Flatliners till we are,
Vince

Copyright ©2005 Vince Bell