This piece was originally published on the James official site Jamestheband.com that was lost when the band split in 2001
A Day in the Life
Autumn Theatre Tour 2000
by Jim Glennie
I’m awakened by a knock on the door, it’s very dark in the room and I don’t know where I am. I pull myself out of bed, open the curtains slightly; the bright light makes seeing harder rather than easier. With each step towards the door I remember, breakfast, hotel, tour, and city, in that order. I open the door to a cheery youth who has obviously been up too long. “Morning, sir”. I mumble an attempt at a reply. He marches in with a large tray held high, and I’m glad I cleared a space for it last night and left some change handy. He puts it down, I scrawl on a piece of paper for him, he rather tactlessly counts the tip I’ve handed him, then smiles, thanks me and leaves.
I look at the antiquated late 70’s red-digit clock by the bed, 10:05am. We’re not leaving until 12:00, and I kind of regret not skipping breakfast and sleeping in instead. I went to bed late last night, or early this morning, after staying up all night talking shite with Mark, Mike, Adrian and Saul, finishing off bottles of malt given to us by the Scottish promoter washed down with overpriced room service Heineken.
I start breakfast with a couple of Advil and a third of a bottle of Volvic. I examine the tray: a too small glass of syrupy orange juice, lukewarm tea, a tiny pack of Alpen, and a chrome basket covered by a starched white napkin revealing the bakery selection. As always, it contains a greasy croissant, underdone cold white toast, overdone cold brown toast, and a Danish pastry. Who wants Danish pastry for breakfast?
I eat, then shower and shave, and finally the ibuprofen clears the worst of the night before and I look convincing enough to face the day. My clothes, enjoying their freedom, are reluctant to go back into my suitcase, but I’m soon down in reception arguing over the extras and denying having had anything from the mini-bar.
And so to the bus, our big, rambling, trundling home. We hire them for every tour, and they’re all pretty much the same. Downstairs there’s a small lounge and kitchen, although making tea while we’re moving can be precarious. Upstairs bunks, lounge and toilet. Every bunk on this bus has it’s own little cupboard in it, which sounds handy, only it takes up half of the room for your feet, forcing obscure sleeping positions for everyone except Saul who could actually sleep in the cupboard if he chose to. We don’t use the bus for a full night’s sleep as we always have hotels after gigs, but they come in handy for getting emergency naps. Each bunk also has a window with a curtain, which usually only shows the other lanes of the motorway, and occasionally the welcome winding of the services slip road. That’s our chance to scurry for food, newspapers, toilets, etc. As I mentioned, there is a toilet on the bus, but it smells of piss and chemicals and is not nice to use. Signs try to encourage males to sit to pee, but I’d rather contribute my splashes to the growing mess than stick my arse in there. God knows what I’d catch. Bus happiness really depends on trying not to think of all the other scummy bands with poor hygiene and disgusting habits that have slept in your bed, used the cups, etc. But when it comes to the toilet this isn’t possible. When we’re not sleeping, we sit in the back lounge and say stupid things, watch Father Ted, or argue. The bus journeys in the U. K. are all relatively short and we’re soon there. We nearly always go straight to the venue. We pile into catering and have soup, provided by our tour caterers.
This is one of the many points in the day where you feel fortunate as you remember back to the old days. Trundling to gigs in the back of a transit with no such niceties as hot food waiting for you, just a surly local crew tutting impatiently as you hurriedly set up your gear perched perilously in front of the main band’s equipment. Waiting to play ten minutes after the doors open to a few disinterested early birds, before shifting your gear off and heading home, and for this you don’t get even paid. You cover your expenses, so in effect you pay to play. In the luxurious cotton wool world of success, it’s all too easy to forget this.
We don’t enjoy soundchecks. The sound you get bares little resemblance to that which you suffer later on when two thousand fans soak up the P.A. and we all play twice as loud. But it’s a timeworn ritual, and a place to work on new songs if nothing else. The best soundchecks are short and sweet, the worst, long and bitter, and again we argue.
After soundcheck we either stay at the venue for our evening meal or go to the hotel. I usually go to the hotel. There isn’t much to do there but I like getting a break from the venue. I usually watch TV for a bit, surfing the limited selection of channels always interrupted halfway by an unnecessary block of radio stations. Sometimes I’ll sleep, then coffee and a shower to shock me back into the day.
Eventually we all dribble into reception. The first bubbles of anticipation surface as the banter picks up as we wait for the missing members. Someone mentions the need to do a set list, but there seems little enthusiasm yet. The last of us arrives and we leave for the gig, as always, fifteen minutes late.
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