The written thoughts of a traveller.
Touring with Rock ‘n’ Roll bands; exploring Europe and the world; flirting in bars… and some naughtiness.
Oh, and all with a trombone. Enjoy..
What a difference in the weather. If you scroll back four months – Crikey, have we really been on tour that long? – you’ll see that the first indoor gig for AC/DC was in Oslo. And, boy, was it chilly – the pictures show a foot of snow. Now, in mid-June, we have almost
While we’re travelling from Paris to Oslo, would you like to meet a couple of the AC/DC crew? Well, here are Adam and Steve. Adam loads my truck at night; Steve is lighting director for the support band, and probably does other stuff, too. He’s Australian so there’s a slight language barrier. Adam, on the
Let me introduce Holger, a fellow trucker on the AC/DC tour. Still parked in Paris, I hear a light knock on the door of my truck. Holger asks if he can hop in for a chat; as a German, he is keen to practise his English. Obviously I initiate proceedings with derisory laughter – he
Trucking is a bit like camping. Locate the shower block and toilets, and you’re free to explore the area. Arriving in Paris at midnight, though, means waking up with no clue how to get into today’s AC/DC venue, let alone find toilets within its depths. Namibian stirs at 5am, desperate for the loo – it’s
‘That’s the building,’ says Gentleman Steve. ‘Look, no satellite dishes.’ He grins knowledgeably. ‘Or if it’s not that one, it’s somewhere else in Marseille.’ He looks less eminent now, but his ramblings have been accurate thus far. ‘No, I have it on good authority. It’s definitely that one.’ As it turns out, it isn’t. We’re
The view from Basilique Notre Dame de la Garde, Marseille, this morning is superb. And it’s just the place to repent – the Basilica has been a place of worship since 1214. Master Peter lived as a hermit on this hill in Marseille, and he built a small chapel. As pilgrim numbers increased, the chapel
Namibian barrels past, taking no prisoners. Here he is, wildly overtaking up a hill. It’s his turn to lead us into the gig again – a pretty optimistic undertaking, actually, as Marseille’s streets are fiendish to navigate. To assist us, Little Dick telephones with a dollop of instructions: The road network is hopeless, and the
It’s Sunday today, a day of rest. Or it ought to be, but we’ve been up since 05.00 – loading AC/DC’s equipment into Barcelona’s Olympic Stadium. At 8.30, serenity at last reigns in our parking area; Alice and Cowboy set up the “Boneyard Beach Club”, carefully elevating sunloungers to the optimum solar-receiving position. ‘The club
It is 4.30am. We have been driving for half and hour, and a sign now reads ‘Barcelona 607km’. Progress is slow; Spain’s interior is hilly, and the gearbox must be used. Have you ever wondered why trucks make so much noise downhill? No, I don’t suppose you have, but I’ll tell you anyway. The general
“Barnaby’s thoughtful musings on his voyage through life. You are not alone as you travel that valley my son.”
Father Pius Smith, Hastings.
