Beer, Devon

Beer, Devon is simply stunning.  The village is welcoming, the people are warm and friendly, and the beach meeting Lyme Bay sitting on the English Channel is gorgeous.  The coastal cliffs are part of England’s first natural World Heritage Site known as the Jurassic Coast because they contains rocks recording approximately 185 million years of the Earth’s history.  Now, THAT’S old!

As there is no harbor, all of the boats are winched with steel cables to the beach.  The beach itself is made of rocks not sand and is surrounded by picturesque cliffs.  Some refer to it as a “pebble beach” but they are the biggest darn pebbles I’ve ever seen.  Rocks, they are rocks people!…and they’re reallllly hard to walk on.  In fact, they are so hard to walk on that there are long rubber mats, recycled conveyor belts to be exact, across the beach just so you can wander along.  While the front of the beach near the water’s edge is lined with quaint colorful fishing boats, the back side is lined with a kaleidoscope of small shacks that I assume hold fishing gear and beach chairs. One of the shacks, Kenno’s Tea Hut, provides rescue should you find yourself trapped on the beach at tea time.

In my infinite wisdom, I decided I should get off of the rubber paths and walk across the rocks down to the water.  I just wanted to say that I’ve touched the English Channel.   In retrospect, I can now see the error of my ways.  Though it took me a good 15 minutes to walk 20 feet in the rocks on level ground, I was not deterred.  My hands were going to feel that water.  As I reached the slight descent, it didn’t occur to me that while walking on the level rocks was difficult and slow-going, walking down a slope to the beach’s edge would lead to sliding and rolling.   And so there I was, not so much in a free fall but a speeding skid with the only thing to stop my slide being the Lyme Bay.  If I could describe what I looked like, I would take you back to Kirkcaldy, Scotland and the story of the lassie falling off of her bar stool with arms flailing.  As I avalanched toward feeling more of the English Channel than I had bargained for, I windmilled my arms in the air shouting “Whoa…whoa…WHOOOAAAA!!!”  As some matter of luck would have it, I am a klutz.  And thus, I stopped sliding due to slipping and knocking myself to the ground.  I was only halfway down the slope  but decided that it would be better to climb back to the level part of the beach rather than plummet into the water.  So, while mine eyes have seen the English Channel, I opted out of touching it lest I be immersed in it.

Shortly thereafter, I climbed up the steps to the overlook and found Vince, Jim, and Craig.   Craig had wandered a cliff path for a few miles and reported that it led to another town.  He then looked at the other side of the beach and wondered aloud what lay on that beach path.  None of us were about to go walking another mile but we encouraged young Craig to go discovering.  He had on a bright orange shirt and so from where we stood though he became the size of an ant in our sight line, we could spot him running up the hill, disappearing around the bend at the top for a few minutes, and then descending back to where we stood.   Jim asked, “Well, what’s up there?”  We fully expected a report of a path to another town or some historical something or other perched on the cliff to protect the town from many seafaring enemies across the ages.  Craig reported that what is atop the other cliff is “the cutest little trailer park you’ve ever seen.”  Well, of course.  Somehow it seems fitting that we sent Craig on an exploratory errand and he returned with a trailer park.

Not long after Craig returned, Jim Sellick showed up on the scene.  Jim heard me several years back at the Kerrville Folk Festival in Texas.  He is from the UK and we have emailed back and forth a hand full of times over the past few years.  He sent me an email the week before I left to let me know he saw that I was coming to the UK and that he would see me at the show in Devon as it was a mere 15 miles or so from where he lives.   Yes, Mr. Disney, it’s a small world after all.  Just after Craig returned from the trailer park adventure, Jim S. found us at the overlook.  He knew that if we had arrived in Beer by that time that we would be down by the incredible beach.

Jim S. joined us for dinner and introduced me to the joys of Devon cider.  Good lad   Seriously good stuff!  Earlier in the day, I had been introduced to Devon fudge made from Devon cream and it too was ridiculously good.  I am certain that I will go back someday if nothing more than to partake in those two wonders again!  But, hopefully, rather than merely splurging on Devon cider, creams, and cheeses, I will be able to take up an offer put forth by Jim S. to help me play in more places in the region on future endeavors.

From dinner, we all went back to our respective rooms at the charming Dolphin Hotel and cleaned up for the show.  We performed in the banquet room of the hotel to a warm and receptive audience.   We had driven down to the area a few days before (remember the Stonehenge blog?) to do a BBC radio interview with Vic Morgan.  It seemed that combined with an extra promoter/local opening act helped bring people to the show.

In the morning, we piled back into the car to return to London and catch a flight from Heathrow Terminal 5 to Copenhagen, Denmark.  My first blog regarding this adventure mentioned Heathrow Terminal 3 being akin to a third world country.  Terminal 5 is the anti-thesis of Terminal 3.  It is modern and spacious with fancy pants restaurants and lots of natural light.  It is what Terminal 3, in the midst of construction, must aspire to be.  I can’t say enough good things about the fine folks that work with British Airlines.  They were friendly, helpful, and actually went out of their way to SAVE us money.  What a concept.  A bit of sushi in the airport for brunch and on to the land of the Vikings we go.

Copenhagen, Denmark here we come!

Stonehenge 10-06-10

At this point in the journey, one must make serious decisions such as:  sleep or food?  Those of you that know me best would have lost your wager.  I opted for sleep.  It’s true that England is kicking my ass due to my inability to chow down whenever I damn well please.  It totally offends the compulsive over eater in me.  But, rather than dragging out of bed to eat breakfast between 8:30-9:30am and finding myself unable to go back to sleep, I took the one day I had the opportunity to sleep in and did so until noon.  For the most part I’m averaging about 5 hours of sleep per night.  The morning I got to sleep in, I managed a whopping 7 1/2 hours.

Since we are in one place for about 5 days, I wandered down to a market and grabbed some things to keep in my room.  Thus, whenever I don’t get to eat at the proper time here in merry olde England, I am snacking and surviving on apples, bananas, and Laughing Cow cheese .  Luckily, one can get beer anytime of any day or night.  We are in a Holiday Inn and have some American amenities as a result.  No microwave or fridge in the room but there is an ice machine on one of the floors.  Hence, my Laughing Cow cheese is on ice in the bathroom sink.  The sink is a multi-task stand-in appliance.  When it’s not acting in it’s designated capacity or as a refrigerator, it serves nicely as a washer too.  I can now report that utilizing a mini-travel hair dryer as well as an iron on the cotton setting plus cracking the window and putting socks on the ledge, it takes exactly 12 hours to dry boxer shorts (I use them as PJs), 18 for undies, 24 hours to dry a long sleeve cotton t-shirt, and a good day and a half to get socks to a wearable state of dryness.  Vince & Craig tried the same thing but were left using shampoo for laundry soap.  Being the Virgo I am, I had planned for just such a crisis and brought Tide packets made for sink washing (I kid you not) .  Luckily for the boys, I had extra packets to give away for future laundry endeavors.

Mid-week we have a day off from a gig but have to journey 3 hours south to Plymouth for a BBC radio interview.  While it sounds exceptionally cool, the downfall is that we have to cram ourselves back into the car again, drive 3 hours down, do the interview, find food, and drive 3 hours back to London for another 2 nights of gigs.  Upon looking at the map, it occurs to me that our destination for the radio interview is approximately a one hour drive from our final UK gig (prior to the Denmark dates) in Beer, Devon, UK.  So, it would have made more sense geographically to have the radio interview on the day before the Beer gig rather than driving down from London and back only to turn around two days later and go back to the same region.  Little things like this are happening often.  Vince has taken to calling it the dartboard tour because in parts it looks as though someone closed their eyes and flung darts at the map for our itinerary.  We may just have some shirts made up

Before leaving for Europe, I sent out an email and asked some friends to mp3 me good music to listen to during my travels.  I have what everyone sent me in my iphone and don headphones for a travel soundtrack whenever possible.  So, there we were cruising along.  I was zoning out taking in the English countryside and listening to Ray LaMontagne’s “Rock n Roll Radio” when I happened to catch a glimpse out the windshield…hmm, that looks like…no it IS!!!…Stonehenge!!!  It’s freakin’ Stonehenge!!!!!!  I tapped Craig on the leg I usually vice grip and pointed out the front of the car like a little kid.  “Craig, look!  It’s Stonehenge.”  Craig’s official response, “Ohhhh, wowwwww!”  We were just a little excited to say the least…and we pulled over, and we got to the parking lot, and we actually got to get out of the car and spend a couple of hours there!!!  Jim Tract scored seriously big points for this one.   Sometimes dartboards have their advantages.  Bullseye!

Most of the places in London look exactly as you would expect them to look.  Westminster Abbey looks just like it does on TV as does Big Ben.  Stonehenge is the exception for me.  I can’t really even explain it but it’s different in person, smaller perhaps.  I think I always envisioned it on the top of a hill too.  Nope, it’s on rolling farmland.  To date, it is the oldest man made thing mine eyes have ever seen.  Much like the ocean, I just wanted to sit and watch it endlessly.  What fraction of a new age thinker I have in me expected to feel some monumental energy flowing from it…not so much.  Of course, there is now a rope all the way around  and you can’t touch it or go to the center.  So, I suspect we were kept a safe distance from Stonehengy energy.

My friend Jae told me that on the summer solstice (when the sun aligns directly with the leading stones in the henge) visitors are allowed to go to the center of the circle of stones and around.  They are able to walk right up and lay their hands on the rocks.  Approximately 36,000 people went last year.  It used to be that visitors were permitted this year round but too many people brought tools and started to chip at the rocks to take home their own personal souvenir.  As a result, now, there is the rope line.  I can’t help but wonder if putting your hands on the rocks alters the entire experience.

After Stonehenge, we drove down through Exeter and on to Plymouth.  Vic Morgan is a well known radio BBC personality and he conducted the interview.  Radio interviews are quite different in the UK.  They are thoughtful and informational and they aren’t simply about promoting your product.  In fact, ours was very in depth and had much to do with the general state of country music and Americana.  My first question was so different from what I was used to that I had to stop and think…and I had to think hard.  I sat there staring at the man, thinking, “Ummmm, what?  Think, Cheley Tackett, think!  There’s too much dead air.  Think, think, think!!!  Answer the man for Pete’s sake!”  Once I got going, he couldn’t shut me up but I was so stunned at the erudite angle of the question that I was thrown for a few seconds.  Hopefully, they edited out the silent length of time it took me to pull myself together for the initial response.

On the way back, we stopped in Exeter at a pub known as the Barn Owl.  The food was delicious and good ol’ John Smith’s beer was ice cold.  I had been told before going to England by friends I knew that had visited there that the food was not very good and the beer was warm.  Folks, times have changed!  The food, on the whole, has been excellent (provided you get there at meal times and aren’t stuck to apples & Laughing Cow cheese) and the beer is always ice-cold!

God Save the Queen and save us from Lionel Ritchie (aka London part 2) 9-30-10

Abbey Road is legendary in the music world.  From ’62-70, the Beatles recorded almost all of their albums and singles were at Abbey Road Studios.  Their last album as a group is named for the studio and the cover is a picture of the Fab Four crossing Abbey Road.  So, of course, that’s where we had to go!

The fence outside the studio is covered in thousands of  graffiti odes to the Beatles and has to be painted almost every month.  Since there were four of us, we decided to get a similar shot to the Beatles cover with us crossing Abbey Road.  This apparently was not the most original idea.  There were hundreds of people essentially doing the same thing.  The street is also fairly well trafficked and the poor car drivers are clearly very over having to stop at the crossing for every Beatles fan that makes the Abbey Road pilgrimage.  Some of the drivers even speed up on approach.  A couple of Japanese tourists damn near didn’t make it.

Just down from the crossing, at the corner of Grove End & Abbey Road resides a monument to Edward Onslow Ford, who in his time was a very famous sculptor.  Erected by his friends in his honor merely 2 years after his death, there is an engraving of the man himself with a banner that reads, “To Thine Own Self Be True.”  When I stopped to read the banner and look at the monument, I rolled over something with my right foot.  I bent over to move what I thought was a rock and upon further inspection found it to be a buckeye.  Big smile…a buckeye for the buckeye girl.  Thank you universe.  “To Thine Own Self Be True” indeed!

We hopped a bus to take us to the train station.  The bus was the 139 to Waterloo.  I just don’t think things should be labeled Waterloo anymore.  It’s too ominous.  As we rode along, we went down Oxford Street, a major shopping road.  Turns out that we had stumbled into London fashion week.  My boys were rather excited to witness a catwalk or two from the top of the bus and the various groups of models lingering about.

After playing around London for the day, we went back to the hotel to get ready for the gig.  Jim always wants us to be “camera ready” even at sound check.  It’s a giant pain in the ass for me but I see his point and try to oblige.  I keep reminding the guys when we’re out and about being touristy that I need a little more time than they do to get back and get ready for a gig.  They just have to rinse off and throw on a clean shirt.  I have to do hair & make-up.  Which means, without question, that I lose.  I have become rather adept at putting on make-up in the car en route.  Trouble is, the roads aren’t quite  as straight and flat here AND Richard is our driver.  Every time I’m putting on eyeliner, I keep hearing that old familiar line from the movie  “A Christmas Story,” “You’ll shoot your eye out.  You’ll shoot your eye out.”  Speaking of Richard, Jim has begun tying his scarf around his ears while in the car in the absence of headphones.  Furthermore, there are seat belts that hang from the top of the car that we haven’t quite figured out either.  They pull straight down and appear to click into nothing.  We decided they’re there in case Craig grows weary of the monologue too and finds himself in quick need of a noose.

Later that night we played in Maidstone Kent at the Breeze Bar for Alan Cackett, who runs “Maverick” magazine here in the UK.  It’s a good sized Americana magazine and we had high hopes for the show.  We played to a decent house and a good time was had by all.  Many of the people that I talked to after the show told me it was the best Maverick  show they had seen.  They seem to have especially enjoyed having the 3 of us perform as opposed to just one artist.  They appreciated the variety and our ability to add harmonies to each others songs.  All in all, a good show!  At this point, we’re averaging about every other for full & empty.

As we returned to the hotel and dragged ourselves through the lobby, Jim and I stopped cold.  There HE was AGAIN.  Lionel effin’ Ritchie!

No, not in the flesh, but in the overhead speakers and on an advertisement on the wall.  “Hello” was playing in Heathrow when we landed.  He’s in commercials all over the TV and there’s a “Lionel Ritchie” revue every Wednesday and Saturday night in our hotel lounge.  Londontown is saturated with Lionel Ritchie and it’s creepy.  He must be to London what David Hasselhoff is to Germany.  Jim went for a massage the next day and came back to report that “Stuck On You” was playing.  Somebody save us!

The day Jim went for his massage, I met up with my friend, Jae Avery, and had lunch in a cafe in Woking.  We then went down to the park so that little 5 1/2 year old Emma Mae could play.  Emma Mae met me in full cowgirl regalia…pink hat, pink boots, pink guitar slung on her back in a mini gig bag.  So amazingly cute!  Emma Mae also likes to call me by my full name.  So, in perfect Oxford english, it’s “Cheley Tackett, would you like to play with me?” or “Mummy, when is Cheley Tackett coming to stay at our house?”  If you happen to take a gander on my Facebook of any of the pics I’ve posted thus far from the trip, you’ll see Miss Emma Mae, tipping her hat to me, Cheley Tackett.

Later that same night we played in Putney at a fairly renowned club called the Half Moon.  The Half Moon has hosted bands for over 40 years.  The Rolling Stones, Kate Bush, The Who, & U2 are just a few of the names that have stood on that stage.  The wall over the doorway leading from the bar into the music hall is littered with pictures of performers that have played the Half Moon.  Many are rock legends.  What a thrill to put my feet on that same stage!

Jim pulled me aside prior to the gig to have a conversation with me about being gentler to the sound guys.  He thinks  that I am hard on them.  I disagree.  Actually, I disagree a lot.  I think the fact that a woman is direct and knows what she wants throws some of these fellas.  But the one time on this tour that I felt like I may have been even slightly gruff with a sound man, I made sure to go talk to him after the show to make sure we were cool.   I’m friendly but I’m not saccharine.  I’m working.  I say please and thank you.  I’m polite but I’m not sugar sweet and I know what I want sound wise.  If they can’t figure it out, I don’t cuss them out or call them names.  I wait and when they leave the room thinking  that sound check is over, I go to the board and set it myself.

The Half Moon’s sound man’s name is Doon.  Doon is da man though he moves at a snail’s pace.  He’s Scottish and looks as though he’s ran sound and partied with every act that has ever come through the joint.  Our main man Doon, is a man of few words.  I warned Doon during check that I had been accused of being hard on sound men but told him I thought he looked like he could take it.  Jim looked a little horrified but with that, I managed to draw a little chuckle out of our stoic Doon.  Doon told Tim, the record label owner, that his original name was Gordon but his father didn’t think it sounded Scottish enough and thus added an extra “o” making it Gordoon.  Doon said maybe 2 words to me all night and less to the rest of the boys.  Tim must have the magic.

We ended up playing to a small but attentive crowd.  Really, it was disappointing given the exceeding coolness of the room.  For you Nashvillians, it was a cross between 12 & Porter and Exit/In with a touch of Douglas Corner thrown in…dark and filled with lingering energy from many gigs long past.  We played another gig in Fairncombe the next day to a small house as well.  The owner of the venue was super nice, fed us, gave us all London Pride (a fine local beer) souvenir glasses, and invited us back.  He suggested we work directly with him in the future and take the promoter out of the arrangement.  Jim & Tim essentially fired the promoter that night and then canceled the gig for the next night that was supposed to be in Ascot, Berks as the promoter had his hand in that one too.  So, we didn’t anticipate much of a crowd.  Though we hate canceling gigs, Craig, Vince, & I were glad to have the night off.  Between the travel from Scotland, playing, and driving several hours  to do a radio show and then back again to London, we were pretty fried.

It is widely known that London is the most camera saturated city on the globe.  For national security and other reasons, the British government know what’s happening on the streets of London at all times.  If you speed, you get caught by camera.  If you do anything, you are being filmed.  Period.  Craig & I took the opportunity on our night off to get some sight seeing in and asked Richard to take us into London.  It’s a whole different vibe lit up!  As we rode into town, Craig pulled out a bottle of vodka and a small jug of o.j. (there’s no open container law in England).  By the time we got to the city, Craig had to do his business.  Richard pulled over in the Kensington area at a swanky hotel.  Craig meandered in and found the loo.  From there, we drove past Herrod’s department store.  It’s really a site at night!  We walked across Tower Bridge and took a ton of pictures of the Tower of London and on down to St. Paul’s Cathedral (where Prince Charles & Princess Di married).

Then, we went to Buckingham Palace.  By day, the grounds just beyond the front gate are covered in tourists.  It was barren by night.  We virtually had the place to ourselves.  When I was done taking pictures and ready to walk back to the car, I couldn’t find Craig.  I looked everywhere.  Lost him AGAIN!  Knowing he’s been partaking in his OJ & Smirnoff this evening, there’s no telling where to find him.  So, I went ahead and started walking for the car thinking that maybe he had lost track of me too and went back.  As I waited to cross the street to go the block or two to where Richard and the car were, Craig suddenly wandered out of the shadows from around a bend.  “Man, I had to go sooo bad!”  I stopped and paused.  “Craig, you just went back in Kensington.  You had to go again?  Man, did you ‘go’ back there?”  “Yeah, I HAD to.  Nobody was back there though.”  “Craig, you just took a leak on the side gate of Buckingham Palace!”   So, I’m pretty sure, somewhere in London, some poor schmoe in security got a good look at Craig answering nature’s call and whizzing on the side of their beloved Buckingham Palace.  Wonder if Craig’ll get a ticket in the mail?  God Save the Queen!

The Grey Lady 9-28-10

I’ve been told by my good friend, Laurie Holloway, who is an avid blogger that there “is no linear time” in blogging.  Up until this post, I have been trying to keep you in proper chronology with my journey.  I had a good attempt at it until I forgot to share a story from our 2nd stop in Scotland.  I was reminded of this story by my partner, Tera, who cracked up when I recently posted a picture of a pigeon at the Waterloo train station on my Facebook profile (if you care to look at pics that coincide with the blog, that’s where to go).  Tera knows that I hate birds…HATE them, somewhat scared of them, vastly prefer them at a distance.  The only thing worse than a bird is a dead bird (well, tomatoes are pretty bad too…but in my book,  dead birds trump tomatoes).  I hate all things dead and dead birds are the god awful worst of the worst.  Earlier today, probably because I intended to come home and write this blog, I was wandering in Malmo, Sweden and the universe presented me with a bird eating another dead bird.  Horror of horrors!!!

So, wander back with me friends, a day before London, back to the Inn at Lathones, Scotland.

I’ve mentioned that for our 2nd gig we played for an overwhelming crowd of 3.  Unfortunately, that occurred at the “Rocking at the Stables” at the Inn at Lathones.    It’s too bad for a variety of reasons but a real bummer because the venue was so cool.  It was in the old stables for the inn.  Hence, the name.  The walls were covered with some of the coolest rock paraphernalia that a collector could assort in the UK.   At 400 years old, it is the oldest “Coaching Inn” in the St. Andrews area.

Prior to the gig that same day, Craig and I had spent a few heavenly hours wandering about St. Andrews, Scotland.  St. Andrews is essentially the home of the sport of golf.  It has been played on the St. Andrews links since the 1400s.  There is much charm & history in St. Andrews and Craig and I tried to take it in with lightening speed.  Richard was good enough to drive us the 7 miles from Lathones.  Lathones is in the country and there are no buses or cabs.  So, had there not been a good-natured Richard, there would likely not have been a St. Andrews for Craig & Cheley.  There is a fabulous ruin of an old cathedral and just around the corner from there stands the magnificent remains of an old castle right on the coast of the North Sea.  On the golf course, spanning the 1st & 18th hole is Swilcan Bridge.  It was built over 700 years ago to help shepherds move livestock across the creek.  It is the oldest bridge in St. Andrews and the creek is the only water hazard on the course.  Jack Nicklaus stood on the bridge to give his final adieu to professional golf.  So, of course, Craig and I had to join in the touristy fun and get our pictures on the bridge too.  Richard even joined in and ran out for his pic.  The only trouble is, it is an active golf course, and people are playing the 1st & 18th holes while tourists are trying to time running out to the bridge for pictures without interrupting shots or getting knocked upside the head by a rogue golf ball courtesy of a poor swing.  I’m happy to report that we all survived.  Later on, we wandered a few streets in St. Andrews and did a bit of souvenir shopping.

When we got back to the inn, Craig pulled out a book he had bought at one of the shops.  It was a book about the haunted properties in & around Fife & St. Andrews, Scotland.  When he looked at the index, sure enough, our very own little pocket of paranormal residence for the evening, the Inn at Lathones, was there.  Upon closer investigation in the book, a number of strange events have been reported about the property including the noise of a baby crying, windows opening and closing on their own, fire pokers moving from one side of the fireplace to the other, etc.  The former stables, the venue for our gig later that evening, was said to be the most haunted area of the property with frequent visits from an apparition known as “The Grey Lady.”

We played our gig and took pics.  In line with reports, most of those pictures had orbs in them.  Now, not long ago, I was a skeptic on the whole paranormal front.  I always opt for a logical reason for odd things occurring before buying into it being a ghost or anything else for that matter.  Since moving to my house in Nashville, I’ve done a 180.  That’s for another blog but let’s just say I’ve experienced first hand too many events beyond coincidence to chalk it all up to science and logical reasoning anymore.

That being said, I don’t go looking for trouble.  If these things are about me, I’d prefer not to know and just be left out of the energy and weirdness.  Go on about your paranormal path and leave me be.  This approach works most of the time and  what experiences I have had haven’t scared me for the most part.  However, after the gig, Vince, Craig, & I sat down to enjoy some fine Scotch and ale before retiring to our individual rooms for the evening.  We started discussing the show, then Craig’s newly purchased book.  Craig went on to read a passage about “The Grey Lady” and “Wee Mad McGregor.”  The Grey Lady is occasionally spotted in the bar and the stables putting her horse away.  Wee Mad McGregor was under 5 ft. tall and disfigured on one side of his body so that his face dropped and he drooled from one side of his mouth.  Apparently, a few hundred years ago, he stopped often at the inn to catch a bite to eat and drink.  Some people have even experienced  a grey mist forming in their rooms over their beds.

So, needless to say, I went back to my room half drunk from the gathering in the restaurant with these stories fresh in my brain.  I already have a fairly good imagination.  Alcohol just serves to heighten it.  I was exhausted from the previous 3 days journey and fell into bed.  I zonked out as soon as my head hit the pillow and I was in a deep, sound sleep…until, PING!  An hour later I shot straight up in my bed with head cocked and one eye open.  I fumbled for the switch to turn on the light.  What…the hell…was THAT???!!!   It had been a single hard metallic noise, a high pitched ping, like someone hitting a thin pipe with a hammer.  I sat still and scoured the room with my one awake eye.  My other soon became alert too and I sat in the bed and looked and looked and looked everywhere in my line of sight to see what on earth possibly could have made that noise.  I finally threw off the cover and sock foot paced every last crack and crevice of my small room along with my enormous bathroom trying to solve the great ping mystery to no avail.

I climbed back in bed, pulled the cover to my chin, kept the light on, and laid there totally freaked out.  If I could only figure out what made THAT NOISE!  Luckily, I was tired enough from traveling that I did finally fall asleep.  I awoke the next morning and headed to the restaurant for breakfast.  I happened to turn my head to the right as I left my room glancing down the porch toward Vince’s room.  There was something on the ground in front of Vince’s door.  I thought maybe he’d dropped something taking his bags out to the car but he came around the bend and walked right past it.

Over breakfast, I laughed and told the boys they had totally scared the crud out of me with all of the ghost story talk.  I told them about the metallic noise and how I searched the room looking for causes.  I complained about the lack of quality sleep I got courtesy of the whole debacle.  Vince looked up from his eggs and said, “Well, I woke up to a dead bird in front of my door this fine morning.”  And then my gut response kicks in and goes something like this:  “UGH!!!!!! …shiver head to toe… UGHHHHH!!! nostrils flare…BBBLLLLUUUUAAAACCCKKKKKKKK…slight body convulsion.  That’s soooo disgusting!”

…and then, it all became clear.  I had heard the bird greet his grim reaper, meet his eternal rest, flip his final light’s out.  You get the point.  THAT was the PING!!!  I had heard him smack full flight into the metal gutter.  At last, my puzzle was solved and, even better, the damned dead thing wasn’t in front of my door. 

Back to London we go…

There’s pineapple shrimp, lemon shrimp, coconut shrimp, pepper shrimp… 9/27/10

The second show in Scotland, we played to exactly 3 people.  If you include the sound man and his son, we played for 5 people.  Booking a show in late August/early September for the latter part of September/early October was probably not the best approach.  We also appear to be having trouble with the promoter and may have been misled as to his  actual ability to get people into a room.  This is certainly a learning curve kind of tour.  So, I anticipate more of the same for some of the shows.  Top it all off with the fact that nobody knows who the hell we are over here and it’s a crap shoot as to the kinds of crowds we’ll be playing for.  The upside is that the 3 that were there really liked us and bought our products.  Hopefully, they’ll share the music with some friends and should we ever come back to the region, maybe we’ll draw a bigger amount of people to play for.

Jim had a talk with Richard and asked him to slow it down.  As a result, the 8 hour drive it took to go north to Scotland took 10 1/2 hours on the return journey south to London.    Tired of being a 6 ft. 5 in. sardine in a can and scared of Richard’s driving, Jim took the train back along with Tim, the record company owner.  Word on the street is they paid for this decision by having to switch trains five times.

Even though the front seat has the most leg room, the boys always try to get me to ride shotgun not only to avoid the anxiety of watching Richard drive but because Richard tends to go on & on & on about all of the shows he’s ever seen, every autograph he’s ever collected, and all of the possible roads he could be taking on our journey.  Whoever sits in the front passenger seat is Richard’s company for the drive.  In the back, you get to put on headphones and zone out.

“Well, I could take the M1 but we might hit traffic, perhaps the A74, and then maybe the M9 but we could get stuck in a jam.  We could run into trouble around Manchester if we don’t get there before school lets out.  The M61 goes round the city so we might fair better going that route but it’s hard to say….”  Oftentimes, I glance over and he is racing along reading his map, listing off possibilities, and accelerating to 80-85 mph.   An exasperated Queen’s English “C’mon man, get out of the way!”  gets snapped at drivers in front of us and then we have more map and more mph.   It’s all a bit Monty Python meets Bubba Gump.  “Well, in 1994, no, actually, I think it was 1995, might’ve been ’97, no, no, it WAS 1995.  I went to a show at the Royal Albert Hall, that’s in the Kensington area (pronounced aree-ar), nice place.  Princess Diana used to live there.  There’s a lovely statue that was Queen Victoria’s memorial for Albert.  Paid a very reasonable price for the ticket.  Dwight Yoakum was on the bill.  I got there early and stood outside the backstage door to get his autograph.  He wasn’t very pleasant but he did sign for me.  Oh, but he has a BEAUTIFUL signature!  The ‘D’ is quite graceful with a grand swoop….”  Fried shrimp, boiled shrimp, shrimp scampi, grilled shrimp….  At one point on a different jaunt into London, I looked up from the back jump seat while a similar soliloquy was occurring only to see Jim slamming the left side of his head into his window repeatedly.

I should note that due to a conversation in the car en route to a gig, Richard has discovered my blog.  I unabashedly told him that he was indeed a character.  Having read it, he seems to be offended by my calling him “the driver” more than anything else.  But, as I told him in a recent email, he may have started out as our driver, but for me, he is most certainly considered a friend by this point, a friend that puts the pedal to the metal, but a friend nonetheless.

We finally got back to London and stayed in an area called Woking about 20-30 minutes outside the city by car.  Though we didn’t have a gig in this area, it is on the east side of London as are most of the gigs (so we didn’t have to cross London to play anywhere) and it had great access to the trains.  We could also walk to the city centre for anything we needed.  So, all in all, it was a good place to be.   Originally, I was supposed to stay with my buddy Jae Avery.  Jae is from England but lived in Nashville for a period of time.  In all of the bookings and organizing Jim was doing, he got his wires crossed and booked me a room at the same hotel as everyone else.  Eventually, this may have proven to be a gift in disguise as Richard gets turned around often and Jae lives roughly 30 minutes from the hotel.  Since Jim booked online, the hotel wouldn’t let him cancel the room.  We had the room anyway, so Jim asked that I go ahead and stay at the hotel for logistical reasons.

I don’t know how much the rooms were but I know that had I stayed with Jae, it would have saved the record label at least a few hundred dollars.  While it’s technically not money out of my pocket, I do have to recoup before I see money from sales of the EP.  So, I was angry and frustrated knowing that somebody else’s small mistake was costing me money in the long run.  Jae and her little girl Emma Mae “were pretty down” as Jae put it a few days later.  They had planned for me to stay there the week too.   In addition, I had budgeted for lesser expenses and greater amenities since I was planning on staying with Jae. ( i.e. less restaurant eating, ability to do laundry, free access to internet, etc.).  Our Holiday Inn had a “deal” of 30 pounds for a week’s wi-fi usage (that’s $47.48 US dollars).  I got it and it only worked 50% of the time.   I paced the floor of my hotel room that night.  I cussed…a lot.  Cranky cranky cranky…jet lag still in full force…played to an empty room last night…10.5 hour drive back to the city…staying at the stupid Holiday Inn…losing money…CRANKY!!!

I’m a Virgo and as such I’m a planner, an organizer, and details are beautiful things to me.  I’m not so good at being on time but I can tell you every last bit of minutia regarding where I’m supposed to be in 5 minutes.  I research people, places, and things so I know what to expect and can plan accordingly.  I am a borderline control freak and leaving the booking in someone else’s hands has been difficult for me.  When things vary from what semblance of a plan we have, it drives me crazy.  It’s all rather trying but I’m learning to roll with it.  This tour was not the most organized of ventures from the get go and has had me a bit undone in varying moments.   The day I stepped foot on the plane, I still had not been given the last 5 days of tour dates.  They were unfilled in the hopes the promoter would find last minute openings.

It seems ill-mannered to complain since I am getting to sing all over the UK and a bit in Denmark as part of the bargain.  I am experiencing things I would have never experienced otherwise.  So, for the most part, I feel very blessed.  But, I have my days.  Thank god for Skype (even though it took 7 calls to have one conversation to the loved ones back in the states due to continually getting kicked off the incredibly expensive internet).  One “face to face” conversation and I settled down and went back to feeling blessed.

Richard drove us through London the next day.  It was the most rapid fire sightseeing tour I’ve ever had.  I took most of my pictures from the back seat of the car and most of them ended up a blur.  I also have a peculiar knack for taking a picture right as a bus passes by, or a pole positions itself in front of the lens, or a blonde lady’s giant hair waves in front of the shot, etc.  I have a whole series of “things in my way in London” for the scrapbook.   We decided to get out of the car and take the train back so we wouldn’t have to see London through car windows.  We all started following Jim because he appeared to have a plan.  (We have done this several times since.  It always turns out to be a false positive.)  That plan was the London Eye.  The London Eye is essentially a mammoth sized ferris wheel with enclosed capsules that takes 38 minutes for one full turn on the wheel.  It is supposed to be a grand way to see the layout of London.  Problem is me and heights, we don’t have much love for one another.  So, I opted out.  Damned if I’m gonna pay good money to be scared to death and then have to pay more money to buy new underwear.   Turns out no one in the group wanted to get on the bloody thing.  We encouraged Jim to get on it if he wanted to.  He just said he thought it’d be a cool thing for the group to do.  So, we took some pics of it from the ground and moved on to what we did want to do.  As we walked away, Jim turned and asked me, “Why didn’t you tell me you were afraid of heights before we came down here?”  I responded with, “Why didn’t you mention we were going to the London Eye and I would have told you that I had issues with heights?”  People with A.D.D.  shouldn’t be pack leader.

First on the new agenda was to find a Starbucks.  Next, Westminster Abbey.  Westminster Abbey looks just like you would think it would look.  On approach we found paparazzi everywhere, guards, military, red carpet, and chairs arranged at the entrance.  So, we hovered around trying to get a glimpse of whoever was in there.  Jim finally asked a policeman.  Survey says, the Queen & Prince Charles!  She apparently is just following us around.  First, Edinburgh now this.  They were there to memorialize the 70th anniversary of the Battle of Britain.  We stuck around for a few minutes to see if we could see them but the boys grew impatient and we moved on.  What could possibly be more important than spotting the Queen and Prince Charles while you’re in London you ask?  Remember, we are all musicians and while the Queen may be a big deal to you, the Beatles are a bigger deal to us.  Abbey Road, boys & girls.  Abbey Road!

Kirkcaldy – America 1, Scotland 0 9/25/10

Our original plan en route to Scotland was not to necessarily drive the whole 7 1/2 hours from London to Kirkcaldy but to stop along the way be it in some random small town, or Glasgow, or Edinburgh.  Edinburgh’s not far from Kirkcaldy but has much to see in the way of touristy crumbling castle type fun.  So, we thought we’d stay there for the first of our Scottish eves.

About this time, God had a good chuckle and put his main man, the Pope, all up in our crib.  By the way, I’m not sure how you can gather a group and just elect God’s right hand man.  Also, is it just me or was Pope John Paul the only real Pope?  There will never be another Beatles and there will never be another Pope, except there is…and he just doesn’t have that same rock star papal dazzle that Pope J.P. had.  He’s so the unPope that I can’t even tell you his name.  But hey, he apologized for all of those kids getting molested so I guess we’ll just give him a break.

God not only dropped the Pope in the one city in Scotland we wanted to stay in, he sent the Queen there too.  Two heads of state for the price of one means nary a hotel room or a tour could be had anywhere near Edinburgh.  For security and traffic reasons, they canceled all of the bus tours.  Jim called ahead to where we were supposed to play the next night and they had rooms available.  So, we drove all the way to Kirkcaldy a day early.

The folks at the Beveridge Park Inn were wonderful from the time we stepped foot in the door.  Our first night in London, aside from not having a clue as to how to operate a light switch, I had a very weird disconnected feeling. There’s something about knowing you’re on ground your feet have never felt and you are an ocean away from any sense of love & comfort you’ve ever known.  That feeling went away the moment I got into my room in Scotland.  There’s something very welcoming, familiar, and warm about the Beveridge Park and the entire town of Kirkcaldy.  While I had no real reason to, I felt entirely at ease.

You could walk to anything you might need to get to including the city centre and the North Sea.  Actually, the bartender who sounded straight out of “Braveheart” laughed at me for suggesting we were on the sea.  “Seeeeaaa?  ‘At’s a rivah.  ‘At’s the Rivah Forrrrrth on it’s way to the sea.”  Technically, he’s right (I s’pose he ought to know as he lives there but whatever).  Kirkcaldy sits on the Firth of Forth (say that five times fast) where the River Forth pours into the North Sea.  But, when I look at the map, I am of the opinion that by that point the river is so wide that it is the sea.  I saw a group of seals basking on warm rocks when I went traipsing around down by the shore.  Surely, seals don’t play in rivers.

Courtesy of the sea, Kirkcaldy has some of the strangest weather I’ve ever experienced.  It can turn in a nano second.  I walked out of the hotel and elected to leave my umbrella as the skies were blue with little cotton ball clouds floating about.   I went into town with Jim and we wandered down to the city centre.  We took in some street musicians busking.  I expected to see a jester with a lute, maybe a fella with some bagpipes, minstrels with flutes perhaps.  In actuality, what I got was blues.

Then, unexpectedly, it was raining on us.  It wasn’t raining directly across the street just on our side with steady drops.  This happened the whole time we were downtown.  Rain five feet ahead.  Stop.  Wait for rain to clear.  Proceed.  Rain 100 yards to your right.  Hmm, so we should go left.  Nobody carried umbrellas.  They just set their course to walk around the rain.  For 15 minutes, it went on in one spot over us, though the sky just behind the phantom black cloud was blue and clear with white clouds.  So, we stopped, got some tea, then went on about our business as it dried up..

Next, we wandered down to Ravenscraig castle & Bath Rock.  Speaking of Craig, he was nowhere to be found.  Vince, Jim, & I all met in the city centre.  Craig didn’t answer his phone or his door that morning.  He had left late in the evening to go enjoy the spoils of the town.  So, our bets were being placed as to whether he had a late night with a lovely local or whether we’d stumble across him rolled up in a ball in front of one of the village pubs.

Ravenscraig castle was amazing and until Stonehenge a few days later, it was officially the oldest thing I had ever laid eyes on.  It was ordered built in the mid-1400s by King James II and was the first castle in Scotland built to withstand cannon fire.

Then, back to the the hotel it was for a sound check and a wonderful lunch provided by Bobbie, owner of the Beveridge Park Hotel.  Bobbie appears to have Indian heritage but has a rockin’ Scottish accent.  These things amuse me terribly.  Unfortunately, it probably means that somebody somewhere thinks I’m intolerant and an ignorant racist.  To clear things up,  I just get a kick out of my preconceived notions getting all smacked around.  Really, it’s similar to expecting roving minstrels and getting blues music.  I am finding that there is a good deal of Indian food in Scotland & the UK.  I suppose that’s so because India is a former British colony.  Nonetheless, the Beveridge Park Inn has by far the best Indian food that has ever crossed my lips.  I enjoyed a good bit of Guiness while there for 2 days as well (Indian & Guinness go nicely together btw)…until I discovered “John Smith’s.”  Best. Beer. EVER.  Period.  The end.  The boys had a tendency to gravitate toward Peroni.  The irony of the fact that we traveled a few thousand miles to enjoy the local culture in Scotland and drank Irish & Italian beer, ate Indian, & listened to the locals play the blues isn’t lost on me.  Ah, globalization.

We did a great radio interview with a really warm & sweet gal named Jackie Storrar.  Then, we played to a room absolutely packed with Scots.  They were enthusiastic AND paid attention to the lyrics.  Whoa!  They really listened.  What a great way to kick off the tour!

Afterward, a few women approached me and asked where all of my emotion came from in delivering my music.  They said that it was a Scottish thing to emote like I do when I play and then decided on the spot that there’s no way that I don’t have Scottish in my bloodline. “HAAAAS t’beeeee!” one of them said.

Next, Steve (our sound dude), pulled me aside and said, “I just thought you’d like to know I was in the bathroom and there was a man in there, tattoes up n down his arm, rugged sorrrta fella, and he said to me ‘Aye lad, those other two boys were alright but there’s SOMETHIN’ ’bout that lassie.’  That same gentleman found me later at the bar and bought me a whiskey.  Jack Daniels to be exact.  He was impressed to learn that I drink my bourbon straight…no rocks, no coke.  In Scotland though, Craig & I found that their version of a shot is about 1/3 our version of a shot.  No wonder the shots were so cheap, they weren’t all there.  So, yes, Mr. Scotsman, this little lassie can handle 1/3 of a shot of Jack Daniels straight.  And with that, I think I scared the nice rugged tattooed fella back to the highlands.

And now for the best part of the story:

Enter our favorite southern boy, Craig Monday.  Yes, we finally found him.  He had hibernated in his room all day.  Turns out he had, in fact, gone out the night before and found what nightlife was to be had in Kirkcaldy, an 80′s nightclub ironically named Blue Monday.  I kid you not.  He tore it up in Scotland jammin’ to Culture Club and Richard Marx.

After the tattooed sweetie left me to drink my whiskey unto myself, Craig came over to hang out.  A couple was buying us pints and shots.  I agreed to the pints and did a 1/3 shot with them of some clear liquor they set on fire called Sambuca.  I’m sure it’s in the states too, I’ve just never had it.  At one point, I looked down and waiting on me, I had 2 pints, a whiskey, and a blazing Sambuca.  The lady went to buy me another pint (I hadn’t even begun my 2nd) and the bartender gave me a look.  I read it quick to mean, “Aye lassie, don’t even try to keep pace with this one over here.”  Message received sir.  Message received.  About this same time, Jim Tract came over, put his arms around Craig & me, and gently reminded us that we have another gig tomorrow night.  I politely and ultimately tenaciously turned down the 3rd pint from the good couple.  Craig on the other hand was going full throttle but at 1/3 American sized shots

When I stopped at the 2 pints & 2 shots, he and the aforementioned gal made a pact to start going shot for shot.  He bought the first round and then disappeared for a few minutes.  Back downstairs, he arrived with a bottle of Makers Mark in hand.  I think it’s actually considered smuggling but he brought it in his bag across the Atlantic.  Good to always have a bourbon back up plan in case of emergency, I suppose.

And so, it began.  She was very obviously a drinker but NOT a bourbon drinker…and it didn’t take long at all.  I glanced over and there she was, sittin’ on her barstool, arms crossed over the bar, head collapsed in arms.  I hadn’t even finished that 2nd pint.  Delighted, Craig came over and said “You were here Cheley Tackett!  You bear witness.  I have officially outdrank a Scot.  Look at her.  We’ve had exactly the same amount and I’m just fine.”

Then, it was like something straight out of a movie.  Upon hearing this, the gal lifted her head to argue with him about her drunkeness, and sluggishly raised her right hand to make the point.  This small gesture was just enough throw off her center of gravity and she went crashing in NFL slow motion, slightly askew to the right with arms propelling, grasping for anything that might slow the impending plummet.  Craig leapt and didn’t catch much of her but did manage to keep her head from hitting the floor.  As we tried to lift her and prop her up on the couch, the bartender walked out, threw his towel over his shoulder, put his hands on his hips and pronounced, “Awwww, Chrrrrist.  Nawt again!”

Craig & I decided to clear out of the bar so the lady’s fiancee could take her out to the car and the bartender could actually go home.  Craig reported the next morning that he came back downstairs about 15 minutes later (en route no less to Blue Monday.  He apparently didn’t get enough of Air Supply & Tiffany the evening before) and the gal took another divet in the parking lot.

…and so, sports fans:

America 1, Scotland 0

I do wonder, however, had our beloved Craig gone shot for shot with a ScotsMAN instead of a lassie, if the score would have remained the same.

p.s.  It bears mentioning that we are days ahead of this blog in our actual adventuring and Kirkcaldy is still, thus far, my favorite place.  The people, the land, the old little village, the Forth river/North sea.  I’ve missed it since we left.

p.s.s.  I’m actually typing this flying across the continent on a plane headed for Copenhagen, Denmark.  I’m just a girl from a cornfield in Ohio and this all seems terrible exotic to me.  Rumor has it though, that while the UK is a good 10 years behind the wi-fi technology curve, Denmark is actually on the cutting edge.  Perhaps, these blogs will come close to getting caught up in real time.  Additionally, hoping with a faster connection I can include some photos for your enjoyment.  As always, thanks for taking the time to read.  I’m certainly enjoying sharing this adventure.

Kendal 9/22/10

We decided along the drive to Scotland that we would pull off the main highway and drive into a small town to get a bit of the local culture & food.  (By the way, I found that along the drive up, Northern England seemed much like Ohio’s landscape except with sheep instead of cows.)  So, we alerted Richard, our driver (see Blog #2 for more on Richard) that we wanted to pull off the road, use the loo & get a bite to eat.  Richard began to point  out various “services” that we could stop at.  The “services” here are very like our rest stops and truck stops and almost all of them have a KFC.  England is saturated with Kentucky Fried Chicken.  Go figure.  So, we explain to Richard that we don’t like that option that we want to go into a town and get some pub food.  Richard again points out the next service exit.  This goes on for a good 20-30 minutes longer until Jim demands that we pull off to the main road for the whatever next little town appears.  That town was Kendal.

Right at the entrance to the town sat a pub.  We were just delighted.  So, we went in and Richard asked  the young maid behind the bar, “Have ya got any food for our American friends?”  She said, “Nah, we stopped serving at 2:30pm and the cooks gone home.”  It was 2:40pm.  Richard gave us a look and said “Sorry guys.  I’m afraid this is what we’re going to find.  Most pubs and restaurants have stopped serving.  The “services” are probably our best bet.  England is very regimented regarding what times you can get a meal.  I’m less than amused by the concept.  It has been the hardest adjustment to being over here for me.  My body enjoys the ability to eat at any time it so chooses.  England & Scotland say breakfast is 7-9:30am, lunch is 11-2:30pm, and dinner is 4-9:30pm.  This shouldn’t be a problem but we have sound checks most of the time at 5-5:30 and shows often around 8pm.  So, we’ve been trying to sound check, eat, then play the show.  It’s not always the best idea in the world to eat before one sings.  I don’t do it in that order back home.

No one in the group is happy about the pub not serving and I decided I’d be damned if my first meal in this country was going to be KFC or Burger King.  I’d sooner eat blood pudding (which I don’t recommend by the way).  I announced to the boys that I needed to run to the ladies’ room before we tried to find another place to stop and off I went.  As I was heading that way, I noticed the fellas were trying to be friendly and strike up conversations with some of the locals at the bar.  I went on about my business and failed to get the commode flushed.  It seems to be an issue for me over here and I only get it accomplished about 50% of the time.  There is something different about the flush mechanism and I can’t always get it to work.  I’m sure it’s user error.  There can’t possibly be that many broken toilets here.  Although, that being said, I have had some sort of plumbing leak in EVERY room I have stayed in.  Keep in mind that this blog is several days behind my actual journey.  My first London hotel had a sink leak & a shower leak.  Kirkcaldy had a sink leak.  Lathones had a shower handle issue as does the room I’m currently in.  Dear English plumbers, use some tape or tighten it one more notch for pete’s sake.

I came out of the bathroom ready to go on about our day only to find the boys teetering on a bar fight.  I wasn’t in the bathroom but for 5 minutes.  What in the world could have happened in THAT amount of time?  There were plenty of 20 something brawny local lads gettin’ their drink on at this fine establishment.  My boys started talking to their boys and that’s apparently when the trouble commenced.  Their boys were drunken.  My boys were jet lagged but sober.  Our even keeled, sweet, southern, polite boy Craig stuck out his hand to introduce himself, and said, “Hi, I’m Craig.”  At this precise moment, the fella he was talking to curled his mouth, furrowed his brow, leaned chest to chest with Craig and said in Mary Poppins chimey sweep voice, “What did you say to me????!!!”  Something apparently was lost in the East Tennessee to English translation.  Craig’s eyebrows lifted and he said slowly, “I said my name is Craig” to which our Kendal drunk settled and said “Ohh, I thought you said ‘I was a  prick!’ .”    I’m reasonably certain that we’ll all be surprised if we survive this journey.

Kendal is actually very pretty and has a narrrow river winding through it.  It’s quite hilly and smells like the cow barn at the Clark County fair.  Not horrible, just appears to have the wafting aroma of cow floating about for some reason.   We found a Wetherspoons that serves food all day.  Wetherspoons is Englands version of Shoneys only instead of Strawberry pie, you can get a good pint.   I had a lousy ham sandwich but a great pot of tea.  I’ve been drinking it like a local since we landed.

Once we left Kendal, we decided that instead of driving the full 7 hours to Kirkcaldy, it might be good to look for a room around Edinburgh instead of driving the full drive to Kirkcaldy.  This was a great plan until we turned on the BBC radio news only to learn that the Pope & the Queen were in Edinburgh.  Hotel rooms, not so much.

So, we drove on to Kirkcaldy…and that has thus proven to be the best decision made as yet on our adventure.  Stay tuned…more on Kirkcaldy to come.

If the blood clots don’t get ya, the driver will (aka OMG! We’re all gonna die) 9/20/10

After the millions of hours on the plane, being herded for hours through customs, spending half the night trying to figure out how to turn on the lights in the hotel room, we then, the next morning, piled into a car.  Four of us, our bags, guitars, gear, & driver in a Ford.  Nope, not a van, a car.  We were a touch cramped & Scotland but a mere 7 hours away.  Clearly, this was a well thought out plan.

Richard is the name of our driver (though cursed with waves of jet lag, I have a tendency to call him Robert).  It seemed a good idea at the time to have a driver to carry us about over the river and through the woods, to & fro on the opposite side of the road and what not, around the roundabouts and past the sheep…and then past more sheep…some beautiful hills, then more sheep, under an overpass filled with sheep, and on to more sheep.   Every landscape picture I take, there they are,  freakin’ sheep…sheep, sheep, &  more sheep.

As I mentioned, it SEEMED like a good idea to hire a local to drive us around.  Richard is a good ol’ chap from around London.  He was proud to tell us that he is a sturdy 71 years old.  He’s sweet as can be & extremely British.  He also drives 90mph, kisses the bumpers of other cars driving said velocity, and whips around them like an Andretti.  White lines & speed limit signs are mere suggestions for our good man Richard Robert and he finds that keeping the lines in the middle of the car works just fine by him.  No need to stay to just one lane really, until there is, and so he jerks back into it as the occasion calls.  Being from London, he’s not terribly familiar with Scotland.  Robert has a GPS but only follows its directions about 40% of the time.  Thus, we drive around many roundabouts 2 to 3 times as he argues with the computer generated lady before he takes the exit the voice told him to take in the first place.  It’s akin to the scene from “European Vacation” when Chevy Chase gets stuck in the roundabout for hours, only much faster and with more sheep.

As I am the only girl and the short one of the crew, I was relegated to the back seat.  My legs were squished to my chin and poor Craig Monday got the middle (hey, I offered) .Vince Melamed landed on Craig’s right.  On the plane, I took aspirin to ward off possible blood clots (35,000 feet & sitting for 7 hours apparently don’t always mix well) but I just didn’t think to take any for the car ride.  By the time I remembered, my bags were on the bottom of a 5 foot tall Samsonite & guitar sandwich in rear of the vehicle.  Between the plane ride & getting folded into the clown car looking down the barrel of another 7 hours with my legs tied up like shoelaces, I became convinced that a blood clot was imminent.  Then, Richard started driving and I soon realized the percentage odds of demise by blood clot didn’t stand a chance of likely demise due to Richard Robert crashing us all into a tree, another vehicle, or, perhaps, a field of sheep.  Jim Tract, our fearless leader, was riding shotgun.  He has not sat in the front passenger seat since.  Jim is over 6 feet tall and he continues, 6 days into our adventure, to sit in a back seat any time he has to ride in the car…so much for “fearless.”

I mentioned Craig in my first post about this trip.  Craig is a great guy, a gifted songwriter, and hails from East Tennessee.  His southern boy speaking voice tends to sound like a mix between Vince Gill and Andy Griffith (during the Mayberry years).  The look on his face for the duration of the journey was utterly priceless with a few “Ohmygosh” murmurs quietly thrown in.  By the way, Craig’s polite southern “Ohmygosh” followed a sigh and a quick shake of the noggin’ translated to my Midwestern wide-eyed “Oh my God!!!  We’re all gonna die!!!!!” scream inside my head accompanied by my more audible and dramatic high pitched dolphin-like squeals with intermittent vice grip clutches to Craig’s left leg to keep from spiraling like a top about the back of the car.  I didn’t ask but I’m wagering the poor boy has a bruise.

Richard is a huge music fan in general and has seen more shows and has more autographs than anyone I have ever met.  He says he likes country music but appears to think that still includes Barbara Mandrell & Charley Pride.  Skeeter Davis is his favorite.  He mentioned that “some of the new guys are alright.  Garth Brooks is very good.”  Given that he enjoys listening to BBC1, it makes sense to me that he thinks Garth is one of the new guys.  Radio is very different over here.  I’m not saying that’s for the better.  It is certainly more eclectic but we keep hearing great Motown songs that have been rerecorded with strange Lawrence Welk-esque arrangements.  Think Mary Poppins sings the Supremes and you’ll kind of get the picture.  The other options are BBC2, BBC3, etc.  I suspect there may be other FM options more like the US regional stations but Richard enjoys his national radio.  He likes to hum and be jolly racing down the highway.

By he way, in the UK, they don’t stop you for speeding.  They have cameras stationed along the major road and anchored on police vehicles that are driving.  They just track your speed.  If you get caught, you don’t know it until 2 weeks later when you receive your ticket in the mail.  Richard told me that.  I have no idea how he might have come by that information.

p.s.  For the record, I actually have great affection for Richard.  He’s been a gentleman and very kind to me.  On the other hand, I’m also thoroughly entertained by him and everyone’s reactions to him.  More to come on all of that…

The Dark Side of the Moon, literally (a.k.a. Stupid American girl can’t turn on a light) 9/16/10

I’m here in the UK!!!

My flight was uneventful (as I rather enjoy my flights to be).  However, multiple international flights including ours landed pretty much all at once at Heathrow Airport in London and border patrol was thus thrown into mass chaos.  So, after 7 1/2 hours of being bunched up like pretzels in a can hurtling through the air 600mph at 35,000 feet, we unfurled by standing in line at customs lugging all of our gear for 3 hours more.  It felt remarkably like a Saturday afternoon in July at King’s Island going from just riding the Demon Drop to waiting in line to get on The Beast (only with guitars and giant heavy bags).

There is a Cardinal with the Catholic church who is in big trouble in the news over here for suggesting that Heathrow looks like it belongs in a third world country.  He has offended many by this statement and I’d say if he walked through what I walked through last night, he’s spot on.  It’s under construction and there’s not much happening in the way of adornment at the moment.  Actually, there’s not much happening in the way of a ceiling at the moment.  Just some metal way up high covering your head with construction type debris thingys and wires dangling about (it looks frighteningly similar to some of the post-flood Nashville houses).

Next on Pee Wee’s Big UK adventure, we got ripped off on the conversion from US dollars to British pounds because we were stupid Americans and changed our money at the airport instead of patiently waiting for the next day and going to a bank.  From there, because we hadn’t stood in line long enough, we got in line again, for a cab.  Forty minutes later, because we hadn’t been ripped off enough, we got a cabbie who was horribly rude to us, demanded cash, and drove an extra few miles to our destination because we’re stupid Americans and we foolishly told him after he asked that we hadn’t been to that particular hotel before.  As stupid Americans, we only know we were ripped off because the other part of our group was in another cab and their fare was a good 7 pounds (think 14 dollars on a bad conversion) less than ours.  Thus far, the stereotype about Brits being utterly polite is total crap…and can’t you just hear Pee Wee now, “I know you are but what am I.  I know you are but what am I.”

Finally!  We arrived at our hotel, checked in, and drug off wearily to our rooms.

Just like U.S. hotels, you slide the plastic key in the door, the light turns green, and you enter.  Upon getting into my room, like every other mortal in the free universe, I flipped on the light switch…except every other mortal’s lights then tend to turn on.  Nope, nada, no enchilada.  The door was propped open with my mountain o’ bags so I could see from the hallway light coming into the room a funny little box next to the light switch that obviously beckoned for a room key.  Aha!  Feeling very clever, I swiped my key knowing I was about to conquer my first culture shock challenge.  The lights came on!!!  Easy breezy and I thought to myself, “I am sooo gonna rock this continent!!!”  Exactly 3 minutes later, the lights turned off.  Yup, just enough time for me to push my bags against the wall, kick off my shoes, & cross to the other side of the room.  It’s a tease of a time really.  They don’t shut off instantly.  Those buggers stay on  just long enough for you to think they will stay on giving you a false sense of comfortable incandescence.  So, I am now across a hotel room, across an ocean, and it is pitch black.  I feel for my room key on the dresser and head back over for the card swipe beside the light switch.  I swipe it and again, God said, “Let there be light”  and there was light and it was a good thing…again, for 3 minutes.  So, I start trying every option, swiping and randomly flipping switches convinced there must be an order you have to do it in.  After typing out “War & Peace” in morse code on the assorted lights switches and swiping my key card so much that I chipped off its corner, I gave up handling the situation on my own.

Knock, knock, knock.  Craig Monday, another Nashville songwriter on this trip, was in the next room over.  I explained the mission and he looked at me like I was a moron.  He came over and saw the light switch card swipe box.  Apparently, there wasn’t one in his room and there was no problem keeping the lights on over there.  Thus, with a half grin, he swiped my room key card and the lights came on for, wait for it…wait for it…3 minutes.  Craig looked up quizzically and declared, “Huh.”   That’s ALL he’s got?  My one ally in a foreign land and all the game he’s got is “Huh.”  Reallllly?!!!  So, I rush to the “lift” –that means “elevator” to us stupid Americans– to head to the front desk and ask how to turn on the lights.  Though Craig might not be a man of many words, he is a gentleman and asks if I need him to come with me.   I do not.  I am a modern proud feminist woman and I can deal with this situation…and I don’t want him to see me cry in the elevator.  Truthfully, I was too tired for tears.  The hotel manager came up to my room and I showed him what I was doing.  I then gave him my best Chandler “What gives?” hand gesture.  He politely plucked the card from my hand and put it in the little box beside the light switch…and the lights came on…and the lights stayed on.  Ohhhhhh…, no swiping.  The card must rest in the slot for the lights to remain on…and now, we know.  The hotel manager left laughing and I’m pretty sure that the head that he was shaking as he walked away was thinking, “Stupid American girl can’t turn on a light switch.”

Don’t worry it’ll get better for me.  I am confident about that.  I’m a glass half full kinda girl.  Actually, I’m a “I’m in Scotland typing this right now with another day’s worth of events yet to blog about” kinda girl.  So, yes, mo’ better stuff coming to this blog near you.  I’m just too tired to type it all up.  So, good night beloveds and thanks for reading.

The UK & a new respect for flax seed 8/11/10

I don’t often allow myself to get truly excited about things that occur with my music as I’ve had sooo many almosts and heartbreaks.  However, not terribly long ago, I finished recording a new EP for Adroit Records called “Whisper Me Slow.”  It will be for sale very soon so keep checking back in.  I am proud of this cd and realllllly looking forward to getting the music that is on it out there into the world!

Part of the reason for recording the EP is to have it for sale on an upcoming European tour I am doing with fellow songwriters Vince Melamed (he wrote a little ditty called “Walkaway Joe”) & Craig Monday.   And so, this is where the excitement comes in:  I got the first official dates for the tour!!!  We just posted them on cheleytackett.com.  If you have friends or family in any of the regions we are playing, please send them our way.  We’re starting from scratch over there building a fan base and need all of the help we can get.

I am trying to be a healthier me partially so that the European tour doesn’t physically kick my butt.  As a result,  I have started taking Fish Oil caplets and adding ground flax seed to my daily routine.  I eat pretty healthy and try to roll with organic & local foods but I fail miserably in the exercise category.  All this is simply to tell you that I learned the hard way last night that one should ease into adding ground flax seed into one’s diet.  Just sayin’.  I share because I care.  Please learn from my mistake.