Notes from the Boneyard: The art of touring without touring

Well I went and pulled a classic McKowski move. Had a good yarn with the driver in my Uber ride to the airport. Turns out he’s from Liverpool, my old home.

He was complaining about how little an Uber fair actually makes after they take their fee. Don’t worry, says McKowski, I’ll tip well… which I did. £10 to be exact. But it wouldn’t go through. I felt an urge of guilt as I got on so well with the guy. So I kept re-entering the tip. It finally went through. They all did. I tipped £50.

For some reason I’m not even annoyed about it. I’m almost glad it happened. Maybe it’s the two large glasses of wine I had before leaving London. Or maybe it’s the sun. Whatever it is, I’m in a good mood. Happy to tip £50 bucks to anyone who crosses my path. A mere gesture. I’m a friend to all, man and beast alike. Rehearsals went swimmingly well in London, and I now feel prepared for the Spanish shows that lie ahead.

I was even relaxed enough this afternoon to visit Chiswick garden, where the Beatles had a famous photo shoot in 1966. I perched upon a bench where once they sat and soaked in the vibe, pensively.

One week later…

Fun fact: Everybody in Spain used to be a TV presenter. No joke. It seems to be everyone’s first jobs here. Including the queen of Spain herself.

Our manager for the this tour is a mutual friend of us all… When it came time to get someone to manage the unmanageable for the Spanish endeavour, he was the obvious choice. The only choice, really. He makes a lot of sense out of a whole lot of nonsense. Perfect man for the job at hand. Having known him for a while, it came as a surprise to learn that he was once quite a famous TV host.

He mentioned it in passing like it was no big deal. And I guess it isn’t in Spain. Almost everyone we met on the tour was either a TV host or used to be a TV host. They must hand out the job here like it’s candy.

The tour itself went by in the blink of an eye. By the time we learned the songs properly, it was all over, and we found ourselves on the beach for two days straight, drinking and eating like kings, making plans to hit the next city, before realising and asking ourselves, what the hell are we even doing here? Are these gigs, or is this a holiday?

The shows ended days ago, but somehow we were still on tour. We’d somehow moved into an apartment on the same beach town that the tour manager lived. In fact he lived just three doors away, and was still working in many ways, organising our meals, driving us around town, introducing us to more ex-TV hosts.

What was happening here? The line between life and work was becoming blurry.

And then the talk was turning to heading to the next Spanish town, and then to Italy for a few days. Then Denmark after that. But there was no talk of gigs. Just a band going from town-to-town, to drink cocktails and eat the local cuisine. A tourless tour. Who’s in charge here? I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and horror struck as I realised I had somehow morphed into a tourist.

It was time to get off this train and go home… Maybe.