On Tour (Part 2)
Tour Diary — Another Sky —America, 2019
02/03/19 New York, arriving
A quiet, steady rumble lulls me awake. Even while unconscious, I somehow know I’m in Brooklyn. The trains harbour a deeper, earthier sound, as if they’re whispering the secrets of the universe.
I race to the window to watch the train trail past, like a toy on stilts, from the other side of the East River. There’s no way this view could be mistaken for London. The buildings are packed tightly like matches in a box.
Other, distant windows permeate through the golden hour, scattering like faint pinpricks in a dusk sky. We’ve been sleeping all day. Jet lag is starting to set in.
The American accents don’t feel foreign, but as we speak to cashiers to get metro tickets and water, I notice that Americans don’t seem to understand our accents as well as we do theirs. My accent transforms into a shy periscope, peering out to see how it has evolved, but afraid to surface itself. I’ve seen so much American television that the entire world feels American by proxy. I feel a nice sort of invisible, as if I’m looking out the window of a taxi or a spaceship.
Our tour manager drags us into a store called ‘alife.’ At the entrance, there is a display of a t-shirt being eaten by fish at the bottom of the ocean. I wonder quietly to myself why you’d poke fun at the very thing you’re instigating.
04/03/19, New York, Central Park
We’ve arrived in Central Park! Wherever we tread, small gaping mouths open in the snow like gasping fish, ready to swallow our boots whole. We walk for hours before beginning to skim snow across the frozen ice. I sample it, and it’s the most incredible sound I’ve ever heard (this sample ends up as part of the drums on Capable Of Love).
Jack begins to throw larger and larger chunks of ice into the lakes, shattering the surface like glass.
05/03/19, Brooklyn
I wake up to rain pelting the window, falling through a fog that makes the city appear to float.
I only have one thing planned for today: a visit to the World Trade Center memorial. It’s quiet at ground zero, with water slipping into a comforting, eternal nothingness. The architects designed the monument in such a way that it is impossible to see the end of the waterfall. It’s known as ‘Reflecting Absence’.
Everyone else is going to see a comedy show, but I think I need some alone time and another early night. I walk fifteen minutes from our apartment to rough trade, where Amanda Palmer is performing. I miss her by the skin of my teeth.
As I disappointedly thumb my way through the vinyl, I think to myself, “We performed with Interpol on Jools Holland and shook the lead singer’s hand, hey look! There’s Fatoumata Diawara — I spoke with her as well, starstruck…”
I remember looking at vinyl in record stores as if the people on the covers didn’t exist. I constantly remind myself to remain realistic, telling myself that meeting these people and doing these things won’t mean much until we have security. But as a musician, mostly, you never feel that security. You have to savour the little victories when they happen, for as long as possible.
It’s Sunday and everything is still open. There’s a restaurant bursting at the seams called ‘Sunday In Brooklyn’. I turn away from the safety of a crowd and head into an off-license, or rather, a ‘liquor store’. I remember we need to buy a torch for the hob.
Upon returning to our apartment, instead of cooking, I lie deliriously in the dark, aimlessly clicking it on and off, waiting for the others to return with blankets of laughter.
09/03/19 New York, Elsewhere
Planes write in the sky here. That’s not an abstract thought, they write actual words, things to do with the navy, whispers of Donald Trump claiming he owns the ceiling of the world now, too.
We enter a bagel shop for brunch. The cashier tells me I have nice eyes, does a small laugh then covers her mouth, drawing fingers over her courage like curtains. I’ve never been told I have nice eyes before.
I swindle a salmon and cream cheese bagel for just the price of the cream cheese one. It’s the size of my face and I think this is the first time I’ve eaten capers. There is so much food here. The yoghurt tastes like ice cream but the world feels abundant. We end up in a shop called Economy Candy and I buy sour bottles, which are wax bottles filled with what I can only describe as acid. I’m into it.
At the venue, I catch a bit of our support act’s set and a lyric strikes me, “I’ve never worshipped anyone, but I kneel before you”. She is called Squirrel Flower. Her set is incredible.
As I tell the story of I Don’t Hate You, a man screams “fuck that guy” which makes me laugh. I dedicate Avalanche to Ryan Adams in support of Phoebe Bridgers. I like Americans a lot. They express their emotions more freely. I’ve always felt like I’m ‘too much’ in Britain.
A man has travelled from Birmingham, England, with his fiancée to celebrate his thirty-first birthday, which makes me very happy. I meet Ari, who I’ve been chatting with on Instagram and who lives an hour outside of New York, and Kev, the sweetest man who Naomi invited to a gig at the bar last night.
11/03/21, Mercury Lounge
I’ve decided to spend today by myself again. The metro is wide enough to shapeshift into some sort of underground city, a whole universe of its own. I gently nurse a hum of anxiety swimming up my throat.
Later, at the Mercury Lounge, I see our opening act, Jonathon Something, rehearse a song about two witches kissing during their soundcheck.
The lyrics to Chillers are being screamed by Americans from Spotify. After the show, they ask me what Forget Yourself is about. I tell them “getting lost at a festival,” which is only half true. Robin from picking up rocks, the first blog to mention us and call me a pining choir boy, has arrived. Kev helps us yet again flag down a cab with all our gear. It’s an emotional goodbye.
7/03/19 Austin, Texas, SXSW, Maggie Mae’s
As we touch down, a tyre bursts loudly. “Thank God it didn’t burst midair,” I say, not thinking clearly. We’re trapped in the plane for an hour because it can’t be towed with us inside, everyone’s groans rumbling together in one giant, metal stomach. As we finally exit the plane, the humidity hits me like an avalanche. I want to walk barefoot on the runway grass.
If New York felt like a movie, Austin really feels like a movie. It’s so humid here, but stormy. I’ve never felt a climate quite like it. Trees hit by lightning lie like carcasses next to once sparkling signposts, now bowled over.
We grab some BBQ at Iron Works before heading to the SXSW headquarters, where things begin to feel more real. SXSW (South by Southwest) is a well-known annual film, art, and music festival. It’s every band’s dream to play at this festival. Huw Stephens, the BBC’s introducing presenter, has invited us.
There are twin turtles on the rocks in the stream next to the mountains of Lime scooters. According to Christy, they were helicoptered in and dropped all over the city as a trial, much to the distress of the residents. People are zooming past us without a care in the world.
Later that evening, we lime to our gig at Maggie Mae’s rooftop bar. It’s surreal to see a SWAT team on the roof directly opposite us. I’m suddenly acutely aware of the presence of firearms here.
8/03/19 Austin, Texas, SXSW, British Music Embassy
Illiterate Light is without a doubt my favourite band I’ve seen at SXSW. It’s 4pm and I’m standing in a sea of similarly recalcitrant people. “Everybody’s saying this is the only way of living but I hate this fucking system and I wish it would go away” hits me square in my chest.
We’re performing at the British music embassy tonight at 1am. The sky is a startling, deep grey. There’s a strange feeling in the hot air, one I decide must be a storm stirring itself awake. I’m given a cowboy hat to wear as a joke, which is torn off my head as fast as it was put on, in case it’s offensive. I didn’t make the decision to wear it…and I didn’t make the decision not to. I imagine myself as a conveyor belt of other people’s ideas.
The band playing before us, Big Joanie, are pretty cool. Sam Fender performed too — he and his band look elated with their performance as they exit the venue. Our ‘dressing room’ is actually just…outside. We’ve barricaded in-between a narrow slit between the black-bricked venue and construction fences. Everyone’s gear is lined up like a construction site.
Apparently, Sam has tonsillitis. As I congratulate him on his performance, he humbly bows his head in thanks.
10/03/10, Austin, Texas, SXSW, Fader Fort
We roll up in a Chevrolet SUV, the only uber available (of course it is). Fader Fort feels like an inchoate of some future paradise; white yurts litter backstage, full of Crayola boxes of musicians fanning out their plumage of amazing garments. We are assigned our own white tent, with a variety of hemp oil neatly arranged like an advertisement.
As we saunter around, we discover CBD cocktails, hidden bars and lots of intimidatingly cool artists. Someone takes a picture of my outfit for the first time (it doesn’t get put in the magazine. Max’s outfit does, however).
Behind us, our logo slowly morphs throughout the set, so subtly you can’t see the change until it’s happened. Stage fright still sits on my shoulder, no matter how many times we perform. I’m shaking like a leaf.
Later, we watch the other acts. Cherry Glazerr is a standout act. A rapper comes on stage with a politician mask to gunshots, and it’s the best fucking thing I’ve seen all week. His name slips out into the crowd like gold, for me to never find it again. (I ask Max while writing this. Apparently, it was IDK)
11/03/10, Austin, Texas, SXSW
It’s our last day here. In the morning, a woman uber driver tells me all about Texas and how I would have loved living here ten years ago when it was more about art. Apparently, it’s slowly morphing into ‘the tech city’.
I meet up with Sofia, (who hosts a great podcast, Before The Chorus) and we notice Adrianne Lenker has put a message out on instagram that her girlfriend, Indigo Sparke is playing, so we show up at the gig. There’s something quite magical about Indigo. She has a natural presence on stage without even trying.
Adrianne seems really surprised we’ve come to say hi, and that her music has touched us. It’s that humbleness that I love; a complete oblivion or disbelief at the impact she’s had on people. We talk about how weird instagram is for a while.
Meeting Indigo and Adrianne feels like the perfect way to end SXSW.
14/03/10, L.A
We land. I scroll through twitter. We’ve been picked by NPR’s All Songs Considered as one of the best things they heard at SXSW, which is a very big deal to me. We watch a video of Americans reacting to British music. A guy says that we sound emo, much to my delight. Another headline claims Britain is going to run out of water in 25 years.
Freya Ridings is on a billboard. A ‘Church Of Scientology’ sign hangs in the sky, strategically placed in the same eye-line as the ‘Hollywood’ one.
We saunter leisurely around the area we’re staying in after a trip around Runyon Canyon (where Jack and Naomi genuinely nearly died attempting to climb a cliff). A woman with severe botox walks by, accompanied by two dogs. I look down at a tiny one. “A-a-ah”, she barks, with immense twang. “She can’t see. She’s blind”. She and her dogs block the pavement as she waits expectantly for me to step on the road and walk around the dog.
Later, at the flat, we get high. I can see my stomach itself laughing, a great wide grin forming in place of my belly button.
15/03/19
Mountains make the clouds look bigger, somehow. We’re at The Getty House which reminds me of Tomb Raider. Rows and rows of cabinets filled with trinkets cascade before me like a waterfall of history. I realise I am folding my arms the way some of the female figurines are, protecting our abdomens. They have pointed toes so they can’t stand upright. I think about how it’s become normal for me to feel like I’m on display. I check my feet still work.
On the route back to the apartment we’re staying in, we see Rick Ruben’s Miami house burned to the ground. I think to myself quietly about how global warming doesn’t know who’s bought a house in Miami. This really will affect everyone.
None of us really know what to do as one of our gigs here got cancelled. I eat more gummies. They’ve all melted together in the car dashboard which makes it impossible to gauge the dose.
We decide to go to target, which has become a daily, big event in itself. As I walk through the clinical aisles, my short-term memory begins tripping. I can’t remember what I need, why I’m here, or actually…even where I am?! I stop speaking halfway through sentences, skitter past people paranoidly, convinced everyone can tell I’m high. I tug at Jack’s shoulder, warning him urgently that we could get arrested.
He reminds me weed is legal here.
17/03/19, L.A, School Night
For lunch, I walk with Jack to Taco Bell to get food. We talk about how this place feels like a model village, and we never see people enter or leave their houses. We debate whether slabs on the concrete were smashed up by earthquakes or tree roots, “do they have earthquakes here?”.
We’re playing School Night tonight, apparently a legendary night. As I sing, ‘chillers in their villas in Hollywood’, it strikes me that I don’t think we’re going to win this crowd over. However, the crowd goes wild!
18/03/19 — L.A, Ted’s House
We’ve been invited to Ted’s house, the ex-music manager of Van Halen Jack met on the plane to L.A. We head there in an uber. On the way, we do American accents, then laugh about people doing English accents in a taxi in England. The entrance is steep. A sign, ‘health clinic’, welcomes us. I find this odd until I realise Ted collects signs.
There’s one in the toilet called ‘employee lounge’. Inside the toilet, there are signs claiming WiFi on the plane and payphones downstairs is available. Max asks, “why the signs?” Ted tells him one day a sign fell off, and then he started collecting them, which isn’t really an answer but probably explains why most things happen.
Ted apparently quit music after watching Spinal Tap. We’re shown a robot called Jibo, one eye in the centre of a screen, meant to be the world’s first family robot. It does a dance, tells Ted it’s dying and that it has a goodbye message for him; “say hello to all your future robots for me. But I cannot go on.” Nobody understands what is happening. We head to the pool.
I go quiet and read a little bit of my Sally Rooney book. My social anxiety makes me feel like an ornament, something weird Ted picked up after it fell off the front of a shop.
We head towards the Museum of The Holocaust and in it, read a letter written by a twenty-one-year-old resistance fighter. “I kiss you, I adore you, I’m content”. The L.A Times from the thirties don’t seem that different from the headlines today. The park outside is like a breath of fresh air. We head over to the tarr pits and watch oil bubble up beneath the surface.
19/03/19 — L.A, Venice Beach
The adverts on the radio in the uber are exactly like the parody adverts on GTA. We laugh in disbelief. We head to Venice beach and walk the strip skateboarding was apparently invented on. There’s an outside gym called Muscle Beach. We see a sign offering advice for $1, claiming we are the sperm of God.
We go along the pier and find all the flags in the world set up on the beach, next to crosses marking ‘civilians who have died in Iraq wars’. I find this really moving.
For our last night, our tour manager decides we’ll hit the arcade.
Najeeb, the guy who directed the ‘Chillers’ music video, comes for a drink and we end up having really intriguing chats. He tells me an interesting analogy, “you can’t meet the energy. You have to either escalate it or de-escalate it”. I like this. He tells me about “we direct music videos”, an attempt to unionise video directors.
21/03/19 — England, Heathrow Airport
We’ve landed back in the U.K. Of course, our beloved red ex-postal van ‘Vanny B’ is broken, and Christy, our sound engineer, skids around the car park with an ear-splitting shriek. On top of a 24-hour flight, we now have to wait for an engineer, who arrives two hours later and hits the wheel with a giant hammer (this works).
Once I get back to my house in London, delirious and jet-lagged, I turn to my friend. I want to say, “thank you for giving me a home” but instead, chicken out and say, “I can’t wait to hear your new song”.
