A busy and exacting month of may for dear old jackie - it started with my Norwegian dates, as mentioned in the last Pool, then went to Porto where i was singing in David Thomas's fine avante-garage opera Mirrorman. It was the first time i'd played Porto since the seventies when i supported a band called Nektar. We were the first rock show that had been there since Dave Dee Dozy Beaky Mick and Titch (is that how you spell Titch?). Remember them? - all night, every night, as i lie in my bed (now with the lighter summer duvet on to prevent night sweats) i can still hear the whip sound - swAAASHHHH!- from their great hit Xanadu. I tried to copy it on Live Or Die, an excellent track from my underrated album Night Lilies, but it sounded weedy, so we stole the whip sound from a track by Super Furry Animals. The Portugese Revolution had taken place just a few days before our show went there, and i remember, particularly in Lisbon, the 2 shows we played had an unbelievable atmosphere. They were held in a massive sports arena with hundreds of police and soldiers guarding us, the crowd, each other, and something else - possibly their new-found freedom. It was like being in the Beatles - you couldn't hear anything except the crazed cheering of the crowd. Next day i woke up with Yoko Ono next to me: she said - 'hurro Jackie - we have sex one more time?' (I THINK that's what she said - my ears were still ringing).
David Thomas was in a remarkably good mood, which was just as well as i had flown in a day late after David had graciously allowed me to miss rehearsal so Ian Rankin and me could do a UK radio show called Front Row which was hosted by the delightful and canny Mariella Frostrup.
Toward the end of the show, David had a (nother) moment of pure genius. He told the audience he wanted to look at a picture of his dog (whom i know well) - JJ. He selected a back projection picture of JJ looking up into the camera - it was a washed out greyish photo of a fuzzy whippet of which only the eyes could really be seen. You had to be there to understand, but this was very funny, and David said 'oh well...' With the picture still there he turned back to the audience to sing Surfer Girl. It was very beautiful and i start a private blub stage right...
After the show, me and Dvid went to a classic big Portugese bar and met up with some young intellectual types who had been at the show and who i think paid our bar bill on the way out - well someone did, as a night's drinking with toasted sandwiches, eventually for 6 came to somehing like 20 euros. Thanks guys....
Our hotel had a fabulous view of the city, and at breakfast i could see the old port warehouses lining the River Douro - Graham's, Fonseca, Warre etc. I decided to walk down to the river alone, but my knee was hurting from where i picked up a cartilege injury some time ago when my suitcase twisted round unexpectedly on the stairs of a hotel in Birmingham, so i went to the cathedral instead, which was on the way to the river. From there i looked down at the river below, at the ancient roofs of ancient houses, and the many blue-tiled walls which lined the steep lanes. At this moment i thought how much my dear departed parents would have loved this city, and i could just see them walking up the street slowly, admiring the mayflower, lilac and wistaria. I fell into a juddering overwhelming sadness and walked back slowly to the square where our hotel was, and went to a small grill restaurant for lunch on my own. The patron did not really want me to sit downstairs with the locals but i refused to be ushered upstairs, he graciously accepted this and brought me a glass of white port. The man behind me was eating a hearty-looking casserole, so i said i'd like the same.
This interested the men standing up drinking coffee and brandy - when my meal arrrived i realised that it was an offal casserole with mainly tripe (Tripas). Personally i'm not crazy about tripe, probably because as a child i had tripe sandwiches everyday as a packed school lunch (as, interestingly, did Bob Dylan, or so he told me once on a train to St Petersburg from Berlin). However, all eyes were upon me, so i ordered more white port and got tore in as we say in Scotland. When it was clear i was not going to evidence squeam everybody lost interest and turned back to the television which was giving a long summnation of how Milan were going to destroy Liverpool in the cup final. Pictures of Paulo Maldini looking thoughtfully at shirts in a Milanese boutique contrasted with pictures of Steven Gerrard absentmindedly picking his nose and spitting on the pitch while losing to Crystal Palace.
Later in the month, being a long time Liverpool fan, i was one of a few very drunk men in my local bar, who, like millions around the world could not believe what they were seeing on the TV screen, as Liverpool fought from 3-0 down to win on penalties. That'll larn ya - as my mum used to say. Later that night Deborah woke me up because i was snoring 'like an Albanian steam train' and sent me to the spare room to sleep. Although i don't remember this she says i got up obediently and off i went singing 'Liverpoooool Liverpooooool - you'll ne-e-ever waaaaalk alooone'.
Back in Blighty the next day i had a show with Ian Rankin at Queen Elizabeth Hall, London, which also featured Michael Cosgrave, Kevin Foster and Deborah Greenwood. We were doing our show JACKIE LEVEN SAID and Ian and i had not seen each other for some time. As soon as he came into the theatre at soundcheck i felt the same old bone-deep fondness for this unassuming genius of a Scotsman, and i knew it would be a great evening. It was, and we got excellent national reviews which really cheered us up. It's a strange show in some ways, and unrehearsable. Ian reads his story JACKIE LEVEN SAID and me and the musicians play songs which illustrate the narrative, then Ian and i banter in an unscripted comedic way, hoping for the best.
I then flew straight to Athens for a show of Paxiot music with the Greek guys who feature on my next studio album - released 12th September. I came round some days later lying on a beach on the isle of Paxos, tiny waves shlip-shlipping at my feet, a book called How 'Mumbo-Jumbo Conquered The World' by Francis Wheen in my sweaty paw. This book, like the 'Fontana Book Of Modern Thought' is interesting in that you find yourself thinking 'damm right - the bastards - well said!', but then they touch on a subject which is dear to your heart with the same ferocity and you think 'hey, steady on - THAT's not right at all'. (Give us an example Jackie, that we may sleep easy in our beds - well, what Francis Wheen has to say about Jaques Derrida could not be more correct, whereas his analysis of the of the 'hysteria' following the death of The Princess Of Wales fails to accomodate any understanding of the power of ritual and the hunger for meaningful ritual in modern societies - don't worry about it).
Flew from Corfu Town to Athens to Edinburgh where Michael Cosgrave met me and we drove to Perth in Scotland for another show with Ian Rankin. A huge bottle of Greek olive oil had smashed in my bag and saturated all my clothes, indeed, everything. So distracted by this discovery was i at Heathrow airport that i then left my mobile phone on a chair and it was gone....the night before a car alarm had rung all night, so i really wasn't feeling good. However, the show must go on, and we were wonderful AGAIN! The next morning Michael and me had breakfast in a lovely old fashioned hotel dining room with a sunlit view of the River Tay outside the window. I went to a bar called Kirkside and had an Irn Brew while listening to a couple of guys talking. One of them was disturbed that his girlfriend had finally agreed to wear nipple tassles, but on the condition that he did too.
'Fuckin cheeky bitch' he opined of the lass. His friend wondered if they made nipple tassles for men - maybe he could check this out in a gay porn shop? This idea very much pissed off his pal, who explained that the problem was not where to get nipple tassles but that he would NEVER wear them in this situation or any other. I thought about this - i could see his point (or points) and i enjoyed speculating on conversations that had presumably gone down previous to this one on the subject.
'Still nae luck wi' the nipple tassle scenario Dougie?'
'Weel, she says she'll think aboot it, and that she's got an idea, but she'll no say whit that is'...
That day, i had a sentimental journey through Fife with Michael driving. We drove through the Lomond Hills, passed the bilberry bushes where we went berry picking as a family in summer. Then through the town of Leslie where life started for me.
'Not much to it' said Michael as we drove slowly passed the Auld Inn and on to Kirkcaldy for the last show Ian and me are to do of JACKIE LEVEN SAID. It was an emotional evening for both of us, and Ian made me tell the story 'Sting's dead' - the Kirkcaldy crowd loved us and we loved them - later Michael and me had an outstanding curry in the high street, talked at length about how lovely it had been working with Ian, and the next morning i got an early plane home.
On Tuesday 31st May i play a show with Nick Harper at the Pier at Southsea. I asked to be on this show - i saw Nick at the Canterbury Fayre festival 2 years ago and fell in love with his music - he's the best. On that night we drove home with Robert Plant's voice rising through moonlit pear orchards. We stopped briefly in a bar which had the most beautiful light i have ever seen.
When i lie down to die, the memory of that light will be with me - the holy pear orchards outside - a man's true voice sounding in the distance - and knowing hands, both rough and tender, from centuries of moving through leaves to the living fruit.