A Chandelier In Hebden Bridge

We were in Hebden Bridge the other weekend, about to play in the Trades Club.

I first played there in 1986 with the Len Bright Combo - we played there twice that year in fact - once, I remember, in high summer - we camped afterwards in a Hebden Bridge adjacent field.

The concert was extremely loud. I remember the night sky twinkling with a thousand silver stars, and a silence so deafening I can still hear it thirty-nine years later. I crawled into my tent feeling utterly bewildered. Was this the coolest thing ever? Or just a new low in my ever plummeting career?

I wrapped myself up in a blanket and read a book about PG Wodehouse by the light of a torch until I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and woke up at dawn with an aching back.

The gig had been a great success - the place was packed and everybody loved us, but when it came time to settle up the organisers said they couldn’t pay, they hadn’t got any money. We could sympathise with that because neither had we. The Hebden Bridge Trades Club was a socialist collective run by disgruntled ex-miners, scary women and men with facial tattoos so there wasn’t much arguing with them.

A week later our agent had a call from them - they wanted to book us again. The agent told them they could have us back once they’d paid our fee. They sent a cheque and a month or two later off we went back to the Trades Club. It was another great night, a carbon copy of the first one - the place was packed, we played a great show, everyone loved us, and at the end they pleaded poverty and we left without our fee.

So we took a large bass cabinet hostage. We discreetly manoeuvred it out onto the fire escape, and once  our equipment was out and the place was locked up we hiked it down the fire escape and into the van.

Our agent negotiated with them and it was agreed that one of their people would come down to the Medway Towns and an exchange would be made, bass cabinet for cheque. I drew the short straw so, on a balmy Saturday evening I met up with a brick-faced lady outside the Nags Head in Rochester. I took the cheque from her and helped load the cabinet into the back seat of an old Morris Minor.

I was charming about it - I couldn’t understand how the cabinet had ended up in our van. My charm offensive worked so well that she suggested we have a drink together. I felt quite intimidated. The situation was made worse by there being people I knew in the pub who obviously thought I was two-timing my partner with this brick-faced lady. I excused myself, headed for the gents and never came back.

I felt bad about that. I felt like a cad.

I didn’t play at the Trades Club again until maybe 2010 when Amy and I played there for about thirty people. The place had changed - it was no longer a desperate social collective - there was a large, well-appointed stage, a lighting rig, state of the art PA system, a young and enthusiastic sound engineer - the place had had a huge makeover that spoke of expert management and arts funding.

I tried for years to get another gig there but no one answered my emails. And then along came a booking at the Rebellion Festival with an agent attached to it, an incompetent and haphazard agent as it turns out, but an agent nonetheless. Venues answer emails from agents so here I was on another Saturday night, lounging on a sofa in a luxury flat next door to the venue. The flat belonged, so I understand, to someone who used to manage the Happy Mondays, and was used by the Trades Club as a green room for the kind of acts that headline there on a Saturday night.

I gazed up at a chandelier in some sort of pre-show trance. I took a photo of it - I felt obliged to take a photo of something. I’ve taken lots of photos in the past - old buildings, iron bridges, crazy people, cars, trees, steam trains, helicopters, magnificent panoramas - you name it and I’ve probably taken a photo of it. I don’t often feel the need to do this anymore, just the obligation to post something on Instagram or Facebook to boost the lamentable seventy-one advance ticket sales that results from failing to create a Facebook event page.

I can’t see the point of Facebook event pages. I imagine someone in Andover, Swansea or Aberdeen saying ‘Ooh look - that Erectile Eddie, the one that did Do The Big Wide World - he’s playing in Hebden Bridge! We could go to that if only it wasn’t so far…’

I don’t feel good about posting flyers for my shows on social platforms where other people are imploring governments to stop obliterating homes, lives and countries. It feels inappropriate: Hey guys! I know the worlds gone to shit and military powers are perpetrating unspeakable acts of mass-murder even as I write this, but look at this cool and groovy thing I’m doing here…

I struggle with it, even though I’ve finally come to understand that the creative arts have an important part to play in a functioning society.

I just don’t feel the old compulsion to take photos and put them on Instagram. The charm faded when it changed from the somewhat non-aesthetic square to the more sensible vertical format. I don’t want to sound like an old person who can’t keep up, but I’ve never got the hang of reels - I just liked taking photos and treating them slightly with contrast, brightness and filters. I liked to write a little piece to go with them, and I've loved seeing photos taken by friends and people who became friends because I looked at their Instagram photos and the things they had to say about them.

But the humanity has been overtaken by inhumanity and crassness. I don’t want a revolutionary new woodworking tool, or a gadget that will allow me to plug in six synthesisers at the same time, or even a brand new gloopy liquid that guarantees radiant beauty, doubtlessly via an unstated attack of violent diarrhoea… And I can do without yet another chair workout for elderly men.

Here’s my photo of a chandelier in Hebden Bridge:

August
30 SUFFIELD, NORFOLK Suffield Summer Fiesta (SOLD OUT)

September
11-14 KUFSTEIN, AUSTRIA Sprachslaz Literary Festival

October
04 NORWICH house concert: grapevinesteve@gmail.com for details
19 CHELMSFORD Hot Box

November
21 LONDON The Lexington (details to be announced)
23 CHICHESTER The Havana

more dates being added - new album November 21st - details to follow

The Endless List

 

As we rolled on down the road towards Suffolk, Amy wondered why an open top car is cool, whereas driving a car with all the windows down marks you out as a loser. Could be the broken air conditioning. It’s on the endless list of stuff I’ve been meaning to get around to.I often feel like my life is an obstacle course of stuff that needs doing. We were rolling towards Suffolk because the Latitude Festival needed doing.

I’ve been busy finishing up a new album - first the recording, then the mixing - day after day of it. I love it all but it moves at a very slow pace. You can’t rush it - that is, you can, but I prefer not to - the simple truth with anything creative is that it takes as long as it takes.

And then there’s the packaging - I always think this time it’s going to be simple but it’s always more complicated than I thought it was going to be. In this case the problem was copious sleeve notes. I got it all together with our very good friend, Karen Hall, an artist, designer and visionary who has even more loose screws than I do.

Karen lives nearby so it’s no problem to drive over with pages and pages of handwritten notes, sketches, diagrams, pieces of wood with stuff painted on them…

And back home to face the chaos ahead of an imminent invasion of builders. The house is suddenly overrun by men who wear shorts all year round. Big men following the progress of electrical cables from fusebox to outhouse, cutting holes through walls for wastepipes and extracter fans. 

It’ll be nice when it’s finished.

And on to Suffolk in an old car with a brand new MOT. It was wet, getting muddy. Amy was incredulous: ‘Do people actually pay money to do this?’

We drove to a far-flung field - the artist’s parking - following a large, red utility vehicle driven by a man called Stuart. The artist’s parking was full of small, sensible cars - Ford Focus, Volkswagen Polo, the odd Yaris or Ka, and the occasional rental van. Once it would have been Rolls Royces and Bentleys, tour buses and Aston Martins. I wondered what Sting showed up in - a Subaru Forester, a Tesla perhaps. The Tesla would have suited him, him being the wanker that he is.

Stuart loaded us and all our equipment into the utility vehicle and we made the long trip to the Trailer Park stage in slow, sardine-like intimacy. We arrived shellshocked and squashed, and stood around ineffectually as big, capable men carried our equipment across the mud through dripping trees, stacked it in a dank storage container and labelled everything with fluorescent gaffa tape.

Mark Kermode and his band the Dodge Brothers were playing before us. It was good to see him - I like his film reviews and I like him, but since I got kicked off Twitter and Twitter became X I’ve missed him.

We all hung out in a portacabin. I made a cup of tea, more for something to do - it was quite a project. The Dodge Brothers played, we carried on hanging out in the portacabin while the rain kept coming and going, and then it was time for us.

The stage was a trailer, a semi-derelict, post-psychedelic, seventies trip. The monitor man was in the living room, the drums were in a dining alcove, and there was an avocado toilet on a plynth between the drums, the kitchen and the bass amp. It was undoubtedly the best toilet on the festival site, but very public and thankfully decommissioned.

Eric at the Latitude Festival with Morris Windsor on drums plus (not pictured) Amy Rigby guitar and Graham (Graham) Beck keyboards and keyboard bass. Thanks to Sue Butler for the photo.

We were quite nervous, it being our first show together. The sound was a bit blurry with the drums in the dining alcove and the bass amp in the corner behind a partition but I could hear the vocals and our amps were loud, and it felt like there was some intention and forward propulsion. We were alloted an hour but we did a succinct thirty five minutes, ten minutes less than what I’d calculated it might be. We finished with Standing Water from the Leisureland album with it’s psychedelic interlude before the end chorus. The interlude went on a bit too long and perhaps didn’t float in the way I would have liked, but it was okay. We should have played another song or two but I was worried we might have outstayed our welcome so we left it at that.

I’d told the promoter I wasn’t sure what everyone was expecting and he said ‘You’re Wreckless Eric, you can do anything you want!’ So I suppose that’s what I did.

As I came off stage and a woman accosted me: ‘Excuse me, I’m Fat Boy Slim’s sister - I knew your mother when I was at Sussex University.’

We’re doing it all again this coming weekend - Saturday night in Hebden Bridge at the Trades Club and then Sunday at the Blackpool Opera House as the final act at the Rebellion Festival. I’ve resisted offers to do Rebellion for years but the offers kept on coming. They need me, I’m one of the last men standing. I’ll probably disappoint - disappointment usually ensues when I intersect with the punk masses, but as one of the few remaining un-bricked-up portals into the heady days of punk, new wave, anarchy, freedom and Stiff Records I have a duty to perform. We’re even working up a version of Take The Cash. And is it too late to mention that I once had my photo taken with Rat Scabies, Captain Sensible and Cat Woman from the Bromley Contingent? 

I think it probably is.

August
09 HEBDEN BRIDGE Trades Club
10 BLACKPOOL Rebellion Festival, Opera House
16 BEDFORD Esquires
30 SUFFIELD, NORFOLK Suffield Summer Fiesta

September
11-14 KUFSTEIN, AUSTRIA Sprachslaz Literary Festival

October
19 CHELMSFORD Hot Box

November
23 CHICHESTER The Havana

more dates being added - new album November 21st - details to follow

You can also read these posts on Substack where you have the choice of reading them yourself (skill level fairly difficult), or listening to an AI generated robot reading what I've written. I'm working on replacing the robot with actual recordings of me reading, which may or may not be even worse...

Broccoli - my first greenhouse, adventures outside the recording studio...

I grew some purple sprouting brocolli. I’ve never grown anything you could eat, apart from a pot of supermarket basil once that sat on the window sill and yielded a rather dismal second crop. Other people do this stuff all the time but growing vegetables is new to me.

There was a fifteen by ten foot patch of weeds with a rotting wooden border, and there was a greenhouse. The dour Protestant in me felt obliged to to put it all to use, the frivolous Catholic in me thought it might be fun, and inherent Catholic and Protestant guilt combined to get me to the garden centre.

I love garden centres - I could spend hours wandering around looking at shrubs and marigolds and geraniums - the sight of terracotta flowerpots and that earthy smell of geraniums awakens something in me, memories of Bill & Ben the Flowerpot Men - my favourite TV programme when I was four or five. I get quite stirred up, but doing anything about it, well, that’s for other people, along with steady jobs, pension plans, central heating, car finance… I can look, I can dream, but when it comes to doing I’m afraid I’m the perennial deer in the headlights.

The ladies who man the local garden centre are very kind and patient. I’d lined a wall in my studio with recycled scaffolding planks and used the offcuts to make raised beds. I needed earth to fill them and something to plant in them. The garden centre woman who helped me gave me a deal. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the compost but the labels have been faded by the sun,’ she explained, ‘so I can give you a third off.’

scaffolding plank panelling and trashy equipment

She keeps giving me deals - I thought it was because I looked down at heel in my gardening outfit, but it doesn’t matter how well dressed I am, there’s always a deal. A watering can, a hose attachment, bags for growing potatoes and other root vegetables… ‘I’ve got a couple of these out the back with weather-damaged packaging - you can have them for twenty-five percent of the original price - there’s nothing wrong with them, and they’re going to be outside anyway, but the boxes are a bit soggy.’

I brought on my parsnips and courgettes in there, nurtured pots of basil until the heat became too much for them and I had to plant them outside. There’s twine and canes and anti-aphid spray - stuff that perhaps I’ll grow into over time.

my first greenhouse…

And outside there’s purple sprouting broccoli. The seedlings looked pretty pathetic for a while, sitting there in the raised bed forty centimetres apart as per the instructions. They started out yellowy and vaguely wilted but I persevered, watered them every day and gave them the occasion silent pep talk. I did some research, bought a frame and some netting to keep birds, butterflies and other broccoli predators off them. (My city born and raised stepdaughter, Amy’s daughter Hazel, thought it was security netting.) I went out there one sunny morning after a heavy rain storm and they’d grown to prehistoric size and lifted their cage off the ground.

And then there were purple flowers. I harvested a few. Amy lightly steamed them and drizzled them with olive oil. A revelation. Brocolli can be disgusting - I could never imagine how it first occurred to anyone to eat it, sour-tasting as it often is and smelling like rotting swamp vegetation. But that’s the supermarket stuff, sprayed with who knows what chemicals, handled by strangers on very low wages, hermetically sealed in shrinkwrap plastic, slowly passing its best on it’s way from polytunnel to container lorry to supermarket shelf.

My broccoli was sweet, tender and fragrant. And there’s a load more out there. I’ve also got potatoes, parsnips, courgettes and onions. I’m busy mixing a new album at the moment but it’s an absolute joy, in between fretting about snare drums, bass guitars and vocal levels, to pop down the garden with a watering can and tend to the vegetables.

I can’t help but think I’ve been missing out for the past seventy years.

summer tour dates

Seventy

Apparently it’s a milestone. Or should that be a millstone? I can’t remember which because I’m seventy so my brain doesn’t work. My brain didn’t work before, but then it was down to crazy living. Now it’s down to living long enough to be crazy. It’s expected. 

Soon I’ll be pissing in my trousers and there’ll have a gentle word with me about my driving, and I’ll give the car away to a distant neice and catch the bus instead, and sometimes a kindly neighbour might give me a lift, and I’ll repay their kindness by ripping the display out of the dashboard as I haul myself out of their car thinking the display is a grab handle - because everything’s a grab handle when you get to this age, or that age.

Hell - I remember my mother grabbing hold of passers-by, floral displays, broom handles, anything to stop the FALL, steadying herself against the back of a stationary taxi which drove off and left her sprawled and concussed in the middle of Shoreham High Street, whizzed off in ambulances, and eventually losing her mind in a corner of the geriatric ward of some far-flung hospital.

Oh, I’ll handle it with aplomb:

‘Don’t worry about that’ I’ll say, indicating the passenger seat, ‘that’ll soon dry off.’

And off I’ll go to cause mayhem in the post office, or the supermarket.

Millstone or milestone…either way it’s a bloody nuisance. This wasn’t in the plan, The Grand Masterplan Of My Life which I’ve never got around to planning because I was too busy putting one foot in front of the other.

One

Foot

In front of the other

One

Foot

Another foot

In front of the other foot

Feet, inches, miles, minutes, days, hours, milestones, months and years. 

And finally this fucking millstone: 

Seventy.

It was supposed to be glorious. It was supposed to reach a crescendo, but this is the way the life ends: not with a resounding chord, but with a whimper.

They say seventy is the new forty-seven or some such nonsense. And it is nonsense because I remember being forty-seven and this is nothing like that. I was a boy, I had my life in front of me with plenty of time to fritter my life away doing stupid things, and doing nothing, and not getting around to things, and pontificating, and putting things on hold, and thinking about things rather than doing them, because I had all my silly life stretching out in front of me like an endless school summer holiday.

I know how all this ends. I lay on a gurney with a team of doctors and nurses working around me, saving my life. It wasn’t scary but it was definitely final. The will to live is what makes dying scary. Once that falls away i think it’s very easy.

I’ve woken up in the middle of the night stricken with some imagined cancer (who hasn’t?) and felt, not fear, but fury, because I’ve got shit to do and I’m not finished, and I still haven’t found out everything there is to know. It’s no good denying it, and resistance is useless. This is a finite thing and the end is coming into view. I’m not giving up, but there’s a definite slowing down. I’m not Mick Jagger and I certainly don’t want to be Mick Jagger. I’m seventy, I’m no spring chicken, and if I look in a mirror and see a fifty year old staring back at me I’m smart enough to know that I’m deluding myself.

Here's a list of tour dates:

May

30 SUTTON, SURREY - the Sound Lounge TICKETS

June

01 NORTH SHIELDS -Engine Room TICKETS

o6 BIRMINGHAM - Rock n Roll Brewhouse TICKETS

09 COVENTRY - Just Dropped In TICKETS

20 LONDON, WALTHAMSTOW - Rock n Roll Book Club TICKETS

Story Of A House

A house can take it out of you. When we got it, almost thirteen years ago, it was in a horrible state - a foreclosure, abandoned by the previous owners who apparently fled to South Carolina leaving behind debts and mountains of junk. We never knew how many of them there were - it’s a slow process of casual detective work. We've been able to tell a lot from the mail that still sometimes arrives for them. 

A neighbour told us he sent his kids to daycare at the house - another neighbour used to drop them off and bring them home. One day he picked them up himself, saw inside the house, and never sent them here again. He said the place was filthy. We knew that already - it took us years to clean it up.

There had been an above ground swimming pool but another neighbour took that when the house was empty. He also took the patio bricks. He came round shortly after we moved in to explain himself. He stood at the front door with a cigarette in a cupped hand, the burning end facing inwards - a jailbird smoke - and explained that he had worked for the previous owners, maintaining the property while it stood empty. As payment they had given him the patio bricks and the swimming pool. I said I wasn’t aware the banks paid neighbours to maintain their foreclosed properties, but he hardly noticed. He waxed lyrical for a moment: 

‘When we got that pool home and set up lil Danny’s eyes were shinin’…’ 

He broke off, took a clandestine drag of his cigarette, his eyes darted around, he lowered his voice: 

‘I don’t know what the neighbours around here have been telling you, but none of it’s true.’ 

‘Oh’ I said with a magnanimous gesture, ‘they’ve had nothing but good to say about you.’

We never were friends. He died a year or so ago. We sent a consolation card but we never heard back. We’d see Neighbour Dan, as we called him, busy cleaning his gleaming white pick up truck in the autumn sunlight when we were raking leaves. ‘Just imagine every one of them’s a hundred dollar bill’ he’d yell, and we'd reply with a sort of ahh whaddya gonna do? gesture that one of Amy’s brothers, who has lived for years in a suburb of Pittsburgh and knows how to handle these things, taught us. 

I sometimes thought the only reason for having such a large back yard was to keep the neighbours at bay. We could see them - keep an eye on things - but they were way off in the distance.

Neighbour Dan’s neighbour, an Italian American called Denise, ran a daycare next door to them. Seems like everyone ran a daycare. From our bedroom window we could see processions of cars in the early morning, pulling up, discharging children, driving off. Denise would sit on her front step and conduct telephone conversations that rang through the neighbourhood. She sold up and moved away last year. No more daycare. There are new people now, we haven’t met them but they’re having their basement done - you know these things when you’re a neighbour. We’ve seen a truck in their driveway with All Things Basementy on the side.

We absolutely loved our next door neighbours, Al and Tammy and their son Alex, who used to cut our grass. Tammy grew up in the house. Her mother, who was in her late eighties, lived with them. We’d see her on the back deck smoking a joint. Tammy told me her father had been a pharmacist. He distilled gin in the basement. In one of our earliest encounters she told me how on her eighteenth birthday he had presented her with a phial of grade A pharmacutical cocaine and told her to go and enjoy herself. She grabbed my sleeve: ‘Eric, I nearly shit my fucking pants!’ And to underline the point she reiterated: ‘I…nearly…shit…myself’. All this in a loud voice in the street. She was my first experience on an American neighbour. I was thrilled to bits.

One day during our first summer there I asked Tammy if we made too much noise. She said not at all - she really liked hearing us play music - they loved having us as neighbours. She said it was the first summer in years that they’d been able to open the windows on that side of the house. The previous owners kept dogs in a kind of dog pound in the back yard. Apparently they hardly ever let them out and they never cleaned the cage. Then there was the swimming pool - Al told me it was full of stagnant, green water with frog spawn in it, but the kids still jumped and splashed around in it. I thought perhaps they were trying to get clean having spent too long in the house. He agreed that that was very likely.

A wily old lady called Roberta lived on the other side. The kids were all scared of her. She knew everything that went on, and on the occasions that we talked to her she told us every detail, right down to her friend in the next street, the one with the prolapsed rectum.

Roberta had a clear view of our driveway from her back deck. When the hillbillies, as she called them, moved out the junk they left behind was hauled away by the truckload. A twenty foot dumpster was parked in the driveway, and when that was filled up another took its place and that was filled up too. They were hoarders. The basement, which they’d tried at some point to turn into a party venue, was filled with their crap. They’d built stud walls down their, insulated with fibreglass roof insulation, and lined with with plasterboard. The house had no gutters so the rain water drained into the basement and turned the walls of the party basement into a rotting, rancid mess.

In the first month we lived there I cleared out the basement as best I could, tore down the sheet rock and removed the soggy insulation. I dismantled a hideous structure that was intended to be a bar - it was built out of left over two by fours and offcuts, held together with four inch nails. It was probably meant to look charming and rustic, but it was just a filthy mass of nailed wood. We dealt with the basement most of the time by keeping the door shut and only going down there when the heating furnace broke down and had to be coaxed back to life.

Eventually we got hooked up to gas and waved a less than fond goodbye to the old fuel tank. We ran out of fuel on a regular basis, dug our way through to the tank through three foot high snowdrifts, and poured in red diesel from the gas station, five gallons at a time, in blizzard conditions. The mains gas hook up was absolute paradise after a few years of that.

We had the roof replaced, and when we’d got over the shock of that we had work done in the basement to make it dry and watertight. We finally made the effort and got rid of the remaining junk that was left down there, most of which was a large, rotting sound system left over from when the previous idiots tried to make it into Catskill’s most happening nitespot. While I panelled, painted and finished things that we’d left half done Amy painted the basement walls with special basement paint in fresh shiny white, and having done that she painted the entire basement floor with utilitarian grey floor paint.

I used to find the house quite daunting, but only if I thought about it too much. For ten years I would lay in bed, morning and night, and plan how I would replace the bedroom door with something that wasn’t the horrible, brown-varnished hardboard slab that wouldn’t close properly because there was no door frame for it to close into. I’d do the job twice a day in my head. It became an immense undertaking, a constant irritation, a niggling daily depression, a testament to my failure as a homeowner and as a human being.

One morning I could stand it no longer. I took the door off it’s hinges, carried it downstairs to the garage and came back up with the panelled door I’d been saving for all those years. It only took three hours to build a door frame and hang the door.

Now I lie in bed staring at a slight imperfection, a gap between the top of the door frame where it doesn’t quite run parallel with the low attic ceiling, and dream of pieces of trim that might somehow even it up. I shouldn't be hard on myself. I built everything in the place - walls, shelves, the front porch, the entire kitchen, and even the dining table. The house has worn us out and could quite possibly drive us insane if we stayed there.

But now it’s official - we’re leaving - we’re gone. We have a realtor, or estate agent if you’re in the UK. We’ve spent the better part of three months making the place into a saleable proposition - mending, finishing, cleaning, painting, decluttering… 

The other week I took the definitive step of I dismantling and packing up the studio ready to roll it into a shipping container. It took four days and I found it emotionally draining. It was a great sounding room. I made a lot of records in then - A Working Museum with Amy; my last four albums: 'amERICa', Construction Time & Demolition, Transience and Leisureland; The Old Guys for Amy; her latest album Hang In There With Me due out of Tapete Records in August; an unfinished reworking of my 1985 album A Roomful Of Monkeys; plus a whole load of tracks for compilation albums and tracks and albums for other artists. 

The room looks wonderful now, with only a Wurlitzer electric piano, a celluloid bikini mannequin, and a couple of armchairs and a coffee table added by the realtor, but it sounds like the acoustic disaster it was when I first tried to record in there. I remember driving hooks into the ceiling and tying an old quilt above the drumkit with string meant for wrapping Christmas presents. It sounded a lot better but it looked dreadful. It stayed that way for three years until I took the matter in hand and built some nice looking acoustic panels. It took years to get that room sounding right.

The sale listing went live just yesterday. We love the place but it’s time to start a new chapter. We couldn’t stay any longer - everything we needed was in storage and quite honestly the place was beginning to intimidate us - every smudge, every speck of dust… I’d love to live in such a beautiful place, but it’s up to someone else now. Here's a link for the listing in case you're interested in buying the place, or if you're like us and enjoy looking at houses for sale:

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/1-Orchard-Ave-Catskill-NY-12414/30494760_zpid/?fbclid=IwZXh0bgNhZW0CMTEAAR0b57ReSUpw7qFFUtntCWfHkIeWAnY2slxmHCFYs9qkPg-i1w9g22xQH7w_aem_AfnKfWXgKABOZ8KkcwB1KbD_XbKkEO6oIxskTEvxaHEkzwt-B0_iQg31bH9P6nI1u-gn41Xqv8MPxiZ5muhlZVuo

And here's a list of tour dates:

May

17 KINGSTON UPON HULL - Wrecking Ball TICKETS

18 HOLT, NORFOLK - Community Centre TICKETS

30 SUTTON, SURREY - the Sound Lounge TICKETS

June

01 NORTH SHIELDS -Engine Room TICKETS

o6 BIRMINGHAM - Rock n Roll Brewhouse TICKETS

09 COVENTRY - Just Dropped In TICKETS

20 LONDON, WALTHAMSTOW - Rock n Roll Book Club TICKETS