This is another in a series of ongoing “reports” from the tour that I am on now, the 2008 Chicago Blues Festival Tour featuring Andrew “Jr. Boy” Jones, DC Bellamy, Shakura S’aida, Ken Saydak, Willie Hayes and Russell Jackson. The posts are often a day or two late due to the brutality of the schedule and the unavailability of internet connection in some areas of travel. Tough. Live with it.

Last evening, we played a sold-out show in a small town named Salerne, located in Provence, in southern France. A beautiful vacation area in the summer, its rolling hills cradle some of the best wine country in France. Our host told us that it is the Napa Valley of their country. As in any place in the Northern Hemisphere, food, weather and hospitality all improve as you go south. Andre, the promoter, and his wife, the regional mayor, arranged for us to have a surprise Thanksgiving dinner. One town woman worked with cookbooks for two weeks to cook as close to a homestyle American Thanksgiving dinner as she was able. She succeeded with turkey, dressing, gooseberries (she couldn‘t get cranberries, but these were even better) and sweet potatoes. She even baked a pumpkin pie for us. It was a remarkable day and their children, twin  brothers, entertained us with a clarinet/alto sax serenade. It was the brainchild of several people, but delivered at a time when nerves are beginning to fray under the strain out here. A perfect piece of home to bring solace from the unforgiving schedule. We were thankful. I hope your holiday was a poultricidal piece of paradise.

I was watching French TV this morning while waiting to meet the band. It is a fruitless exercise, but we’ve been out here for a little while. French TV in any of its forms is merely an imitation of American TV. Since I am Franco-illiterate, as I watch the programs, the voices are simply another sound to me, devoid of any meaning. I can only guess at the conversation by observing facial expressions and tone of voice. This provides a distinct opportunity to reveal the profound inanity of watching TV in any language. It’s all an illusion, with video images that represent visual reality combined with audio images which attempt to recreate real sound. Add to this synthetic mix a formulaic and limited assortment of television genres and, Voila! You ‘ave zee sheet! International vibrations of frankfurters.

This morning, before we left town, we stopped at the home of a well-known ceramic artist, Alain Vagh. We were wined and dined, taken on a tour of the premises and all of its art, and treated with generous hospitality. He had completely redone nine-foot Yamaha grand piano in ceramic tiles, including the keys. He also had covered a 1968 Corvette completely in ceramic tiles about a half-inch square, in colors and patterns that made the car resemble a snake-skin. Incredible. Along with all of the magnificent work inside the spacious home, bathrooms and kitchens, sculptures and furniture, you could see that it was a grout-intensive domicile. The folks that make Tilex would be delirious if they could see this home. Fantastique.

Now, as I finish writing this post, we have arrived in the next town, Oraison, and our hotel has wireless internet. I’ve got a few minutes before sound check to post this, and then the shit starts all over again. What a life.

This is another in a series of ongoing “reports” from the tour that I am on now, the 2008 Chicago Blues Festival Tour featuring Andrew “Jr. Boy” Jones, DC Bellamy, Shakura S’aida, Ken Saydak, Willie Hayes and Russell Jackson. The posts are often a day or two late due to the brutality of the schedule and the unavailability of internet connection in some areas of travel. Tough. Live with it.

We arrived in Nimes, one of the most beautiful places in southern France. It is cold here tonight, there has been a front bringing cold and snow to most of the country, including the south. However, we’re staying in a deluxe hotel and performing in their auditorium for a sold-out group tonight. The local Jazz Society sponsors the annual event. After the long drive from Clermont, the quarters are welcome and comforting.

Now it’s time to start bitching again. We are in a town that dates from the time of the Roman Empire, which encompassed this part of France. There is a Roman Coliseum here, an ancient magnificent structure which still stands in the center of town. As I discussed in a previous post, it was undoubtedly the host of some serious ass-kicking, perhaps dueling gladiators, Christian-fed lions, and maybe even a crucifixion or two. I’m no historian, but I’ve heard about the Romans and their specialty was not deep-dish pizza. In spite of the questionable origins and intended use of the coliseum, I want to explore this town, as any semi-ignorant American might. “Hey Honey, that there looks just like the one in Las Vegas.” However, I don’t have time. Unless I get up before dawn and start walking, which I just might do.

You see, our schedule is becoming more restrictive by the day. Up early, drive for hours, arrive, check-in, sound check, dinner, show, exhaustion, start all over again……Andrew Jr. Boy Jones sings a song on the show called “My Work is Messing with My Blues.” Well I’d like to borrow and paraphrase with this: My Blues Are Messing With My Sightseeing. How am I supposed to enrich my soul and enlighten my mind, not to mention walk off some truffle calories, if my job continues to intrude into my personal agenda? I realize I’m here to work, but damn! Am I to remain an ignoramus forever just so I can go to a show and participate in a presentation of three-chord music with lyrics that are about as deep as the genetic pool in an Alabama trailer court? Shee-it!

Well, I’m going to sleep as soon as possible after the show, setting an alarm and walking to the Roman ruins so I can take a photograph which will remain unviewed on my hard drive for years to come. The kind of shot that a family can forget about together. Maybe no camera, maybe I’ll just walk in the footsteps of those who came before, Romans who were probably here on a junket for the emperor, perhaps dubbed “Operation Truffle Liberation” or some such euphemism that the Romans used to explain and justify their incursions into everyone else’s business. Right George?

This is another in a series of ongoing “reports” from the tour that I am on now, the 2008 Chicago Blues Festival Tour featuring Andrew “Jr. Boy” Jones, DC Bellamy, Shakura S’aida, Ken Saydak, Willie Hayes and Russell Jackson. The posts are often a day or two late due to the brutality of the schedule and the unavailability of internet connection in some areas of travel. Tough. Live with it.

We are in an incredibly beautiful place. We are staying in an utterly charming hotel called Chateau De L’Hoste, near the town of Tournon D’Agenais, an ancient town in southern France. We are now inland from the sea, and the whole area is dotted with castles and old towns, many dating from the time of the Roman Empire, which burst with the noble and gallant histories of one people or another kicking some other peoples’ asses. Whether in the name of the Lord or in the name of the then-current king, these lovely rolling hills have been running with the blood of Europeans for centuries, and the blood of North Americans for at least one century. If there is one thing, above all, that Europeans have excelled at throughout the millennia is the practice of finding newer and better ways to do in their fellow man. And woman. And why get right to it, let’s build some torture chambers and make the good times last. I’m not trying to single out the Europeans, there has plenty of ass-whomping on a world-wide scale. But nobody, and I mean nobody, can kick ass like the white Europeans. And they don’t even bother to take names. It’s not just a necessary evil, it’s a board game.

At any rate, the edifices that are left as the sites of all this historical booty-busting are quite impressive, at least when measured with a world-of-man yardstick. But as magnificent as the most durable works of homo- sapiens can appear, they sure ain’t a mountain. Or a coral reef. So, try as I might to be enchanted, at this point in my life I look at these stone recordings of antiquity as the sites which featured the most flagrant examples of man’s inhumanity to man and to anything else that got in the way. So my hat’s off to all the artisans and craftsmen who poured lifetimes into the completion of these monuments, but I sure don’t want to go to a Renaissance Fair, chomp on a turkey leg and wax nostalgic about the good old days of bacterial infections,stumps for teeth, and thirty-three-year life expectancies.

It was a great show last night, an annual festival in a very small town, with three bands and the most incredible local food that we’ve had so far on the trip, some seasonal wild game and sauerkraut. We were wildly received and everyone in this tiny ancient town turned out for the show and party. It was the tour highlight so far. We were served, at lunch during the sound check, baguette with a couple of thinly sliced pieces of something I had never seen before. I thought I have tasted everything that grows, walks, swims or crawls (well, not everything, just anything I would actually want to taste). This had a flavor I cannot describe. It had a woody, earthy taste, a subtle sweetness almost like a crab leg, it was delicate and unique. I asked about it and they said it was a mushroom. It turns out that they were just incompletely translating the word. It was a truffle. Not just a truffle, a white truffle which was among the first of the new season, and just unearthed in the last day or two. I think they sell in America for about fifty-thousand dollars a pound. I promise you will never, ever see a McTruffle. Now I know why the Europeans have been kicking each other’s asses for so long. It wasn’t about money, power, Jesus, or any other issue that we assume would cause  conflict. It was over truffles. Now my cynicism about European history has been challenged. Now I feel an inner stirring at the thought of knights on horseback, charging toward each other in battle. Now it makes sense. I think, given the right circumstances, that I would be capable of inflicting bodily harm for a few truffles. It’s the European in me.

Today we visited a high school and spoke with students about why they should find more constructive ways to spend their lives than playing in a blues band. I hope they got the message. They looked so young, like children. Not that long ago, high school students looked to me like young adults. They were very interesting and very interested. Self conscious as teenagers are, these kids also could be very poised and direct. It was an outstanding way to spend the afternoon, hanging around with bright young people who will undoubtedly be more equipped to take care of the world than my generation has been. I feel safe and optimistic. More later.

Darnell Miller here. Again, I would usually post this as a comment on my boy’s bullshit writing, but he have irritated me so much with his last post that I felt it were approprius to respond with a post of my own. He such a fool.

There you go again. Why can’t you just let things be and let peoples do what they wanna do? Everything have to be a big deal about some bullshit that come out of your head. Let the childrens enjoy theyselves. Just cause you got a bug up your ass about some damned cricket you got to begrudge other peoples they fun. What wrong with Disneyland? The kids have theyselves a good time, the grownups wouldn’t spend they money if they didn’t have none. Lots of peoples have jobs because of them places, and everybody have a smile on they face. Except your monkey ass. What the hell is the matter with you? You could find a speck of flyshit in a barrel of beer, and you’d go diving in after it. Why not just have a glass and feel good? The fly have done already shit and the beer still gonna get you high. I’ll tell you why you can‘t do that. You a damned fool. You live inside your head. I’ve trying to tell you that for a while. Get over yourself and quit bitching about the world. I, myself, had a good time at that French Disneyland. I just sat back, accepted they hospitality, looked at the lights and the shit they had, drank they free drinks and laughed at the white peoples dancing. What more do you want out of life? Man, I can’t take you anywhere.

This is another in a series of ongoing “reports” from the tour that I am on now, the 2008 Chicago Blues Festival Tour featuring Andrew “Jr. Boy” Jones, DC Bellamy, Shakura S’aida, Ken Saydak, Willie Hayes and Russell Jackson. The posts are often a day or two late due to the brutality of the schedule and the unavailability of internet connection in some areas of travel. Tough. Live with it.

I am now sitting on a bullet train, leaving Euro Disney, headed for Bordeaux. Bullet trains travel at very high speeds, I was told in excess of 100 miles an hour. Perhaps even faster. It doesn’t matter, the countryside of France is whizzing by my window. How ever fast this train is going, it can’t go fast enough to get me away from this Disney Debacle. They used to call it Euro Disney. Now it is called Disney Resort Paris. My theory, although totally uncorroborated, is that once France changed its currency from the franc to the Euro, calling this place Euro Disney would be the continental equivalent of calling the Florida fiasco “Dollar World.” Or the Anaheim atrocity “Dollar Land.” While any of these names might more accurately describe the inspiration and intent of the Disney empire, they are not conducive luring the parents of the world to the cash-hungry Disney turnstyles.

It is at this point that I would like to present an open letter of apology to the people of France. On behalf of those Americans who are man or woman enough to admit and confess, I am sorry for eight years of George Bush. I am sorry for taking your national pastry, slicing it open, and placing 300 grams of corn-fed beef inside of it, renaming it the Croissanwich and serving it with Coca-Cola and Freedom Fries. While on the subject, I am sorry for Coca-Cola and Freedom Fries. But most of all, I am sorry for Disney anything. If I thought it would atone for the intrusion, I would defrost the founder and send him to you for final judgment, perhaps to the guillotine. For in spite of the wide-eyed glaze on the faces of your children as they stand in whatever line, waiting for whatever wonder, the contribution of Walt and his descendants is insidious and culturally caustic.

Speaking as a child of the American 50’s and 60’s, I know first-hand the corrupting influence of the Disney consciousness. Here is the company that made a three-fingered smiling icon out of common household vermin. Here is the cult that anthropomorphized every conceivable species of animal and attributed orchestral music to each stereotyped character, e.g. dopey bassoon lines for that waddling bear, piccolo cadenzas for that frisky ground squirrel, etc., ad nauseum. Here is the brain trust that had the balls to turn slavery into a mere inconvenience in Song of the South, turn blood-soaked battles on land and sea into heroically sound-tracked antiseptic adventures, and generally misrepresent American history through jingoistic, idealized eyes. Then of course there is the ever-present misogyny of the princess-waiting-for-the-right-male-of-any-species-be-he-frog-or-prince to give her life validity and completion. In short, I suppose the most succinct way to express my feelings about this apparently innocuous intrusion into our lives would be this: Fuck Disney!

One more complaint I would like to air. It concerns the utter disrespect shown at Euro Disney to my hero, Jiminy Cricket. First of all, he taught me how to spell e-n-c-y-c-l-o-p-e-d-i-a. Secondly, if you look closely, he bears a striking resemblance to another of my heroes, blues great Muddy Waters, minus the green complexion. I perused several gigantic shops on the premises, looking to buy a souvenir with Jiminy’s image. I didn’t care what it was, a refrigerator magnet, a key chain, anything as long as it was cheap. When my search was unsuccessful, I turned to a beautiful young cashier and asked her, “Why no Jiminy Cricket?” Her response cut like a knife. She said, “Ees too old.” As I previously stated, Fuck Disney!

That being said, we had a great gig at Billy Bob’s Saloon in Disney. We were treated extremely well by all of the people we worked with. The band was as tight as the stage was, and by the end of the night, with all the drinks “on the Mouse” so to speak, the band was really, really, really tight. The people loved us and demonstrated once again that whichever part of the world you are in, white people should restrict their dancing to the minuet and polka. Maybe particularly in France.

Tonight we perform in a suburb of Bordeaux, origin of my favorite wine in the world. Along with our tour promoter and old friend Didier, we will play, laugh, eat and drink incredible fermented grape juice. What a life, what a world!

Darnell Miller here. I can’t believe I let this dude drag me over here where I can’t find a damned thing to eat. least not nothing that I want to eat. I can’t believe these French peoples lasted as long as they did with some of the shit they put in they bodies. Look, it bad enough that they don’t cook nothing’ til it done, blood leakin’ out of every damned thing on the plate. That’s just the meat. Then they eat some other shit that peoples was meant to leave alone. I don’t want to eat nothing’ that be crawlin’ on the ground. I’ll make exceptions for shit like lobster and crabs cause they walk with legs, and they can swim away if you try to make a grab for them. But you tell me how can a man get down with one of them little bitty forks and pull snails out of they shells and eat them? There ain’t enough garlic in the world to make me forget what they be doin‘ before they on the plate. Let’s face it, the muhfuhs movin’ so slow, you know you supposed to let them just go by. They ain’t got no legs, no fins, they ain’t got shit! You can grab them muhfuhs and they don’t even try and get away. It’s like they can’t believe you gonna mess with them! Anytime something don’t mind if you try to eat it, you got to ask yourself, “Do I really want to put this inside of me?” Sheeeit! I’m gonna lose a lot of Darnell Miller time I get back to the states. Next thing you know this dude gonna take me over to China and try to make me eat a German Shepherd. Damn!

Well, I’m off to tour Europe for a while. I’ll be appearing with the 39th annual Chicago Blues Festival Tour, along with DC Bellamy, Shakura S’Aida, Junior Boy Jones, Russell Jackson and Willie Hayes. I plan to blog my way through Europe, so check back and keep up with our progress. You can also click the “Calendar” tab at the top of the page to see the itinerary and more details about the gigs. We’ll be home in time for Christmas, weary but full of stories and cheese.

Finally we have arrived in the France that I had come to love before. We are in the southwest part of the country, near Spain, in a beautiful town named Bayonne. It is in the region of Europe inhabited by the Basque people, an ethnic group that has long fought for independence from Spain. Their culture, food, art, and dress is alluring, robust and earthy. What a far cry from the sophistication of Paris! I could easily live out my remaining life here, spending my days in a seaside town, living in a dream, drinking wine from a goatskin bag, gnoshing on octopus, their special dry-cured ham and crusty country bread, sporting a beret and acting the clown.

I walked to the centre ville this morning, drawn to the old town area by the twin spires of an ancient cathedral. It’s quite a dichotomy being an American tourist in Europe. On one hand, so much of the beauty, majesty, history and charm is embodied in the splendid cathedrals, castles and fortresses found in virtually every region. At the same time, these magnificent structures represent a period in human history forged by the blood and agony of the common man. Monarchies and the Holy Mother Church kicked serious ass, in a brutal and judgmental way. So you can easily find yourself admiring the remnants of a past that is antithetical to our more modern concepts of freedom and equality, a past which is built on the torture and colonization of the indigenous peoples of the world by the dear-born and self-righteous, hell-bent on passing divine judgment right here on earth. Mammoth works of engineering were built over centuries to pay homage to a God in whose name suffering and syphilis were wantonly disseminated, all in a presumed effort to “civilize.” It’s those darned Catholics again.

Tonight we will play at a theatre nearby, to what promises to be a receptive audience, if memory serves about the last tour through here. I love being here so much, soaking in the dark-haired mystery of the people on the street, the smells of the town, standing on the bridge leading to the old town and watching the swirling eddies in the swift moving river below. What a gift to the soul just standing in this place is.

It’s been a couple of days (I think) since I last wrote a post for this page. It certainly was not for lack of intention, nor for lack of time. We have been in Paris since last afternoon with both yesterday and today being days off. We’re never actually  “off” because if we’re not performing, we’re traveling some great distance to arrive at the next gig. Yesterday and tomorrow are no exception . We came from Amsterdam, where we had our best show yet. Tomorrow we go to Bayonne, a beautiful town in the Basque region of France, near Spain. This is my favorite place in France. The natural beauty of the area and the cultural shading of the people, the food and the lifestyle is absolutely irresistible. To drive from Amsterdam to Bayonne would have been insane, the distance is too great. So, we stop in Paris for a day and continue on in the morning.

Now, the reason for my lack of notes since the last. That would be Euros. In Paris, everything costs Euros. I swear they would put pay toilets in the rooms if they thought no one would lose his head in a Second Revolution. I cannot believe that a huge metropolitan hotel would charge for wireless internet, but alas, it is true. Not just a nominal fee, but nearly thirty-five dollars a day for connection.  Sacre Dieu! Zees sucks le gran un! I love to stay in touch, but just not that much. I also was placed on a floor of the hotel that has no wireless connection ability, due to reception problems. So here in Paris, City of Lights, the lights are out on my WiFi connection, or as they say here, Wee-Fee. I always feel so foolish saying the phrase, asking some concierge in a deep voice if they have “Wee-Fee.” You may ask, then how am I writing now? Only through my own persistence and the ingenious trickery of Darnell Miller am I able to share these thoughts. Darnell asked me not to divulge the system, for fear that we may need to repeat the process on our return here. In spite of my reluctance to bring Darnell on this trip, I am now beholden to his brilliance. He insisted that I, in exchange for his creative end-run around the cyber rules, allow him to borrow the computer to post a few blogs along the way. Be forewarned.

Back to the music. DC Bellamy has been suffering with a cold and sore throat for a few days, so he sat on a stool and brought his portion of the show down to a country-blues whisper in Amsterdam. What began as a physical concession turned into a stroke of genius. He performed in the style quite capably and convincingly, and the intimate arrangement of the seating in the theatre made the whole effort perfect. Suddenly, our presentation had yet another dimension. All things taken into account, I think our show began to show the unmistakable signs of cohesion, much in the way that Jell-o starts to wiggle rather than slosh when you open the refrigerator door at the right moment.

More later. Tomorrow, Guillame, our road manager (who incidentally looks like Conan O‘Brien), will drive our beautiful tour bus at breakneck speed to deposit us in the province of berets and Paella. Zen zees weel be gooed!

Well, I’m off to tour Europe for a while. I’ll be appearing with the 39th annual Chicago Blues Festival Tour, along with DC Bellamy, Shakura S’Aida, Junior Boy Jones, Russell Jackson and Willie Hayes. I plan to blog my way through Europe, so check back and keep up with our progress. You can also click the “Calendar” tab at the top of the page to see the itinerary and more details about the gigs. We’ll be home in time for Christmas, weary but full of stories and cheese.

We got the first gig done. We really wanted the first show to be a good one, it was a big festival and a full house. After a three-and-a-half hour rehearsal in the afternoon, we still managed to mangle most of the songs and arrangements. The beautiful thing about it was that the audience didn’t care about that, they were receptive and responsive. The other great news was that in spite of screwing up everyone’s material, none of the musicians copped an attitude, and we all managed to make silk purses out of sows’ ears. The chemistry in this band is really good, no ego trips, lots of laughter, lots of mutual support. This evening, in spite of the screw-ups, was a success and our stage presence together is good and going to just keep getting better and better. It’s a relief to know that we have a group with nothing but potential to keep getting tighter and more expressive. We have a fine blend of personalities and styles and we are lucky for that. It’s almost as if the people who assembled this group knew what they were doing, but I doubt that. This is France, that’s important to remember.

Speaking of France, the folks here are absolutely delighted about the election of Obama. They not only feel that we vindicated ourselves after the Bush debacle, but the election has brought a feeling of hope for the world to the people we have spoken to. America is certainly seen as a powerful force in world direction and we need to remember that and act accordingly. I think we are forgiven for Freedom Fries. (Actually, French Fries originated in Belgium, so the French were never offended by the inanity of renaming a dish to which they lay no claim). We are simply looking less stupid and the French wine that American idiots were pouring down the sewers when this country didn’t go along with the Bush-Cheney war plan was paid for anyway, so the French again sat back and laughed at us over a nice glass of Bordeaux. Anyway, we are no longer the laughing stock of Europe.

Time to sleep, moving on in the morning for a one-hour drive to the next gig. Stay tuned and check back for some more Franco-American reporting from the land which gave birth to chain smoking.

Well, I’m off to tour Europe for a while. I’ll be appearing with the 39th annual Chicago Blues Festival Tour, along with DC Bellamy, Shakura S’Aida, Junior Boy Jones, Russell Jackson and Willie Hayes. I plan to blog my way through Europe, so check back and keep up with our progress. You can also click the “Calendar” tab at the top of the page to see the itinerary and more details about the gigs. We’ll be home in time for Christmas, weary but full of stories and cheese.

We are currently in Mantes le Jolie, a sort of suburb of Paris. Actually, I suppose you could call it an exurb. It’s on the Seine River and we are going to perform at the Tenth Annual Blues sur Seine Festival tonight. I met all of the musicians yesterday, and this trip will definitely not be short of laughter. Of course, that is usually the way these trips start out, but after being together for forty days without the comforts of home, some laughter down the road may be forced through gritted teeth. There’s no kids on this tour, however, so we’ve all been here/done that and I expect a good time. We’ll have a rehearsal today, so that when we hit the stage for the first show tonight, the distinction between our asses and holes in the ground should be much more apparent than it is now.

Speaking of yesterday and today, it seems that no matter what day it is at home, it’s tomorrow here. By the same token, no matter what day it is here, it’s yesterday at home. It’s a time warp. What makes this dimensional challenge negotiable is the coffee. They drink coffee over here. With a capital “C”, upper-case, boldface type. I’m talking COFFEE. Like a mofo. Starbucks needs to come over here for some caffeine clinics. Maxwell House wouldn’t even be a shack over here. They could make a molehill out of Mr. Folgers’ mountains. Juan Valdez could be the Prime Minister. Then, when you add the coffee to one of the hot, fresh-baked croissants in the morning, you see what fuels this culture and sends them hurtling toward the wine hour, which starts about 11 a.m. I swear, if we lived in the States the way they live here, we would be making love to beautiful, pouty women instead of dropping bombs on dusty civilian targets in the Middle East. I think the most important job in the new Obama administration should be Ambassador to France. I’ll take the job. I have the experience, drive, and caffeine addiction for the position. My first duty would be to advise the president to issue an  executive order to outlaw the Croissanwich at Burger King. It is an insult to these people and a criminal culinary concoction. With that issue settled, we could move on to the next step in the Great American Cultural Reformation of the New Millenium. The future is looking up. Well, more later. I need some coffee.