by Jamie Lidell |
December 02, 2008 5:51 EST
Ah, a rare moment of sun out here in space. It's as crisp as Quentin out there this morning. After the air on the bus, this is like gulping down the Swiss Alpine oxygen. They tell us we have arrived, but it's clear that Hamburg is still a galaxy far, far away from this place, the Color Line Arena. It's like we are in a huge empty vessel, a superfluous bowl of something, and we've got a small spoon.
Our crew grabs laptops and hunker down around the perimeter of the arena. We could be in Munich right now, or maybe Birmingham. The security gives it away though. There are one or two fellows that must be Hamburgers, not meat heads – something more distinguished, but solid nonetheless. They are light on the garnish here though. There's always an unmistakable directness about the German way. All that meat and no pickles sometimes leaves English etiquette in a jam.
Speaking of which, I smell home cooking. It's a food-heavy tour this so far. We are trying to cram in as much high-end catering as we can before the long hauls overland, with a bus entertainment system full of Bond flicks. The word is that they've overcooked the beef today but that the cookies are amazing. "Crunchy butter [toffee]?" I ask.
It's noisy in the food room. There's a whole lot of knives, forks, bottles and spoons. On stage it's all about slapping wood, plucking nickel and honking in brass. I think of how strange it is to make music with wood and steel. It sort of puts me off the shrimp, but only for a second.
I'm wearing a generous slab of Scotland today in woolen form. It's the one you see here in sound check. It's louder than the PA and warmer than toast. I can't believe I'm still hungry...
Our crew grabs laptops and hunker down around the perimeter of the arena. We could be in Munich right now, or maybe Birmingham. The security gives it away though. There are one or two fellows that must be Hamburgers, not meat heads – something more distinguished, but solid nonetheless. They are light on the garnish here though. There's always an unmistakable directness about the German way. All that meat and no pickles sometimes leaves English etiquette in a jam.
Speaking of which, I smell home cooking. It's a food-heavy tour this so far. We are trying to cram in as much high-end catering as we can before the long hauls overland, with a bus entertainment system full of Bond flicks. The word is that they've overcooked the beef today but that the cookies are amazing. "Crunchy butter [toffee]?" I ask.
It's noisy in the food room. There's a whole lot of knives, forks, bottles and spoons. On stage it's all about slapping wood, plucking nickel and honking in brass. I think of how strange it is to make music with wood and steel. It sort of puts me off the shrimp, but only for a second.
I'm wearing a generous slab of Scotland today in woolen form. It's the one you see here in sound check. It's louder than the PA and warmer than toast. I can't believe I'm still hungry...
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