#tourdiary drums saintetienne sweden denmark scandinavia

[viewfromthedrumstool]

View From The Drum Stool #49

Saint Etienne European Tour, Part I

Albeit not fully recovered from the American tour, the drum stool beckons me back for another run with Saint Etienne. This time it’s Europe: we’ll start with some Scandi dates, head home for a week, and then do a second run south from Helsinki.

All too early on a frosty autumnal Monday morning we meet in east Oxfordshire, five persons and enough keyboards, guitars and musical equipment to open a shop. Our ride to the airport is with friendly South-African taxi driver ‘DimiPapaUk’ who, when he isn’t driving customers in his cab uses it to host ‘taxi raves’ which he broadcasts live on the Internet. (Catchphrases include “Love, peace and muthafuckin’ chicken-grease” and “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh SHIT!”). His YouTube channel is really worth a look…

There’s an extensive (and intrusive) renovation being undertaken at Luton airport which makes the process of passing through the facility painful and uncomfortable. Like a gallstone. We locate the rest of our party on a concourse littered with sleeping families and workmen heaving: it’s a scene from a news report put to a soundtrack of pneumatic drills and circular saws.

Beyond security the nomads and crowds loiter, the type of people that you don’t seem to find anywhere else and I wonder whether they’re actually travelling anywhere or whether Luton airport is simply the place these people come to quietly exist, freed from citizenship, like Tom Hanks in The Terminal.

Most of the flight (2 hrs) I spend sleeping or reading (Cider With Rosie) and eventually we touchdown in Copenhagen to be met by our man-on-the-ground Leuven.

He looks more like he belongs at sea than in the music industry, decked in thick woollen jumper with a magnificent scar on his cheek and at least two teeth missing. I sit up front with him in the rental van for his guided tour of the city as we make the short journey to the venue. He’s an enthusiastic host and a knowledgeable tour guide, if only he didn’t insist on poking me constantly with his calloused sea fingers every time he speaks.

“Hey man look at all the copper roofs!” A jab to the chest.

“37% of our citizens cycle to work!” He digs at my rib.

“Check out this church - it’s non-denominational!” He bruises my wind pipe.

I make a mental note to sit in the back next time.

One of the interesting and unusual things about Copenhagen is that they have the worlds second-oldest still-active amusement park slap bang in the middle of town. Tivoli opened in 1843 and because of the limitations in space most of the rides go up and down more than they go round and round. But there are still four rollercoasters, including a wooden one that’s so old an attendant has to ride in the front carriage and operate the brakes with a lever!

The venue, Pumpehuset, is also right in the centre of town and as we roll up outside a woman waits by the stage entrance, autograph book in hand ... I recognise her! It’s the same autograph-hunter as greeted the arrival of Man Without Country in town some years back! She must have quite a collection by now.

It’s been a long day but when show time comes around we’re all excited to play together again. Given the hysterical crowds we became accustomed to Stateside it was no surprise that the Danish audience demonstrated their enthusiasm somewhat more tastefully, though they were many in number and long may that remain.

We’re staying right across the road at the Hotel Ascot, a mere stumble away after the inevitable post-show back-on-tour merriment. It’s a civilised lodging, despite some confusion over stray knickers we’ve been finding under beds and on the stairs ... maybe there’s some Scandi-noir murder mystery situation in our midst and we should be paying more attention to these saucy clues...

Breakfast is vast and a welcome change from the tasteless beige of the American hotels (I almost always skipped). Fully fuelled - and with a boiled egg in the pocket for mid-morn - we board the van and venture first east, crossing the Øresund Bridge into Sweden and then turn north.

Above us sore enormous flocks of birds in giant V formation, sometimes hundreds in number, their aerodynamic choreography a site to savour and we crane our necks to get a sight of them out of the van window.

Suddenly everything starts to look distinctly... Swedish.

Our fellow road users are positively glowing, their skin a deep orange of questionable origin. And given the number of Burger King restaurants that litter the E6 road north to Gothenburg they’re also surprisingly slim.

In a service station we find a chocolate called a Plopp and another called a Kex. They’ve a way with words the Swedes, I’ll give them that.

Almost all of the vehicles on the road are Swedish-made Volvos too, their lights beaming out come day or night in accordance with Swedish law. The road is bordered much of the way by great slabs of rock covered in subtle shades of moss and I’m sure some rich autumnal hues linger beneath if only for a decent glimmer of sunlight. It’s beginning to dawn on me how unrelentingly dark it is up here. It’s only October but already the sun doesn’t get high into the sky and the type of light that breaks through the clouds is an impotent powerless one.

The backstage at ‘Stora Teatern’ in Gothenburg is welcoming - albeit forgivably IKEA - with the kind of rider I spent most of the US tour dreaming of. EU riders are famously good - there are fresh vegetables, plentiful fruit, cheese and cured meats, boiled eggs, weird and wonderful chocolates, snacks and interesting breads, freshly brewed coffee, and of course the obligatory houmous. (Early in my career a promoter told me if there’s ever no houmous on the rider something is very very wrong, advice I’ve carried with me since). After soundcheck we also find two iced buckets full of wine, Cava and organic beers and cider, which are tasty and preferable over a mass-produced (or even micro-brewed) American effort any day.

The venue itself is among the most grand and impressive I’ve had the pleasure of playing. Originally opened in 1859, the theatre has a large floor, dress circle, upper circle, grand circle and boxes. But the entire audience are seated and once settled into the first song it’s surreal to look up and see them sat there, so serene, several hundred pairs of eyes peering up expectantly and a peal of polite applause after each song. It reminds me of the opening scenes from Wes Anderson’s The Life Aquatic.

Gerard is suitably attired for such a grandiose venue in a dashing suit with ruffled Beethoven shirt. It’s particularly fitting for the glorious baroque intro to Whyteleafe and in the dim light of the stage his black sleeves become invisible and the sight of his cuffed hands dancing across the keyboard reminds me of Thing from the Addams Family.

Albeit clearly enthusiastic, the seated crowd are slow to stir and it’s wonderful moment when a solitary girl on the front row gives in to primal urge and stands to dance through the final few songs. Thankfully by the encore I’m the only one still seated and they’re rewarded with a spirited rendition of You’re In A Bad Way.

The hotel is a boutique Italian affair and they offer check-in with cheese in the form of a huge Parmesan block which patrons are encouraged to pick at while they wait. It’s fair to say they’re enthusiastic to have Saint Etienne come to stay, and they produce an LP from behind the reception desk for the band to sign. Not only do they also furnish all of our rooms with handmade chocolates, but generously decide not to charge our party of 12+ people for dinner - no meagre act considering Scandi prices…!

The following morning and we take to the road once more for the 5+ hour journey from Gothenburg across to Stockholm. The rain today is persistent and I have to keep wiping the window to remove the misty condensation that keeps forming.

Having barely been here before I had high hopes for a haul of memorable photos - perhaps Sarah by a fjord, a panoramic Scandi city scape or Bob and Pete in an epic Nordic vista. In reality there’s been so little in the way of mere colour since we arrived, and the journey is again notably devoid of any hue: even at 1pm there’s barely enough light in the van to read a book. I’m starting to crave a bright colour: perhaps a firey orange or a rich red.

(In desperation I try changing my specs to a different pair but it makes no difference.)

Todays gas station discovery is a CD called RASTERBILLERSHITS Vol.2. But as intrigued as I am to know what a Rastterbillershits sounds like, everything is expensive in Sweden of course and I wasn’t prepared to stake the £22 to find out.

Instead I plug into my iPad where there are albums of Eagles songs and a playlist of country music from our recent tour of the USA ... it’s difficult to comprehend that mere weeks ago we were in sunny California - the cultures couldn’t be further apart (other than the abundance of Burger Kings). I settle on Black Celebration by Depeche Mode instead.

After what feels more like 50 hours we finally disembark at ‘Sodra Teatern’, and enter a labyrinthine venue of meandering corridors, claustrophobic catacombs and anti-chambers too numerous to keep track of. Unable to find anything that constitutes a music venue I find myself instead stumbling into a kitchen deep in the heart of the operation. A sous chef busy shaving cucumbers is pleased to have a companion - he shouts some things in Swedish, poses for a photo and directs me down some stairs, through a passageway and I eventually emerge into the backstage.

The rider tonight includes some interesting additions including a repulsive-looking repulsive-tasting appropriately-named Swedish sweet called Salt Skum. Ever the experimental eater, Pete tries combining it with other rider-items (banana, carrot stick, cheese) in a bid to make to find a companion flavour that might make it more edible but to no avail.

After soundcheck we’re led up to a restaurant on the top floor where we’re served four courses of nouvelle vegetarian fare. It’s utterly delicious and a somewhat more successful attempt at flavour fusion that combines, at various times, coconut foams, raw mushrooms, nuts and spices, and a slice of hot pineapple, all served on clay plates.

I hadn’t seen anything of the crowd before we walked on stage and though I’d heard the show had sold well it was a pleasant surprise to walk on and find a room packed to the rafters, bursting with excitement, people up the stairs and on the balcony, necks craning just to get a glimpse of the action.

It’s another fine show and a great way to end the first short leg. The band are in fine form these days and we’ve come a long way (in every sense) since the tentative first promotional dates of the Home Counties campaign.

It’s been a whirlwind of a trip, enjoyable as always and I look forward to returning to Sweden and Denmark in the future. But the grey’d aesthetic was disappointing albeit atmospheric and I don’t hold out much hope for those few times that I did pull the trigger on my Pentax.

It’s still raining when we return to the airport the following morning. But when the plane takes off we rocket up through the clouds into a pastoral blue sky and a burst of pure golden sunlight comes streaming through the starboard porthole, bathing the cabin, flooding my retinas and laying to rest any woes, cravings and longings.

Alas, part two of the EU Tour will follow … here’s hoping for some more sunshine!

Until then,

M