To summerize the first few days:

• We barely got into Britain because of that darn volcano.
• Shows were really good.
• Tony got an infection in his foot, which rendered him unable to play the kick drum for a show - but it worked out just fine.
• Despite minimal drinking and pronounced efforts to remain healthy, i start to feel a little tightness in my throat.

By the time we got out into the west of England, we had all the kinks worked out. The band sounded great, and we had our daily travel vibe set. Up at 11am, lunch, read, walk around, hit the road, check into the hotel, eat dinner, load in, visit, play, drink, hotel about 1am. The rhythm was comforting.

But the day we got to Swindon, my luck ran out.

I had felt bad, and been taking medicine. I had been working the Netti Pot and the hot water bottle, but when I woke up the morning of the Swindon show, I just couldn’t sing. My usual full-voice range is from low G to high E or F. Today it was low G to middle E. That’s about 5 notes. While the boys hit the town, and have fun I’m in the hotel room worrying, gargling, medicating, standing in the bathroom with the hot water creating steam breathing deep, hoping for a miracle.

We could cancel the show, but on these tours the money is already spent. You need to play every night to keep the books balanced. We don’t cancel.

As we drive over to the club I’m still thinking I can make it through. I know that I’ll have to rewrite the melody lines as I go. There’s no way I can sing these songs as written. I’m no Pavarotti, but I like to write melodies that go up and down…tonight the voice ain’t going up and down. Tony tells me that someone he knows is going to be there with a 4 camera rig ready to record the show for posterity, sweet jesus.

We unload, set it up, and I go to the toilet to warm up. Except that i have no voice. No nothing. Not 5 notes…Not 1 note. I can hear these guys tuning up, and I’m in trouble. I go grab Johnny (Hawthorn who is playing guitar on this tour) and tell him the bad news. “Johnny is there anyway we can get up a list of blues numbers that you can sing, so we can entertain these folks tonight?” He nods and we start digging into the songs that we can perform. Much to my surprise, we work up two sets worth of music that Johnny can sing, and we can hack our way through. I know Johnny is a talented guy who has his own band, but it’s 20 minutes til show time and most of these songs are complete unknowns to Josh, Tony and myself.

I take the mic and explain to the club what’s up. The people are very gracious and once we get going things sound pretty damn good. Johnny sounds really good. It KILLS me to see all that video tape burning on the band doing Muddy Waters tunes, but I’m so thankful that we’re getting through it. At the end of the night, the bartendar makes me a hot toddy and we head back to the hotel feeling like we dodged a bullet.

The next night is in Bristol. We played in Bristol 3 years ago…a great club called The Prom and I had a migraine headache. We made it through but I was barely able to stand up. In fact, I remember the pain of that night much more than I remember anything about the club. I’m so worried that tonight is going to be another substandard performance. I feel like I need to make up for the last show here, not limp in with another excuse to be terrible.

Once we get to the hotel, the boys set off for fun and I stay in the hotel room doing my routine. After 3 hours of hot shows, gargling, hot tea and netti pot, I get hungry and go looking for some grub. There’s nothing good nearby, but I do see a KFC. Now, I’m trying to eat a little better these days, but I think that KFC would be a good choice for one reason. I can grab lots of little packets of salt, which I can use for my hot salt water gargle. Once inside I decide that a little fried chicken couldn’t hurt, and I get a two piece meal.

My voice is about the same as yesterday. Rough, phlegm choked, and inflexible. I’m certainly worried about the show tonight. As soon as I eat those two pieces of chicken I remember something I heard Christian singer Amy Grant say once. When she is in the studio singing she has potato chips in the booth. She said that the grease lubed her vocal chords. So, I tried to do a little singing in the KFC. LOW AND BEHOLD…my voice sounded pretty good. At least I had the flexibility to sing the melody. WHOA! of course, in about 20 minutes the benefits were gone, but I was encouraged. Before I left, I went over and grabbed about 50 little packs of salt.

When we left for the show, I grabbed the electric kettle that every European hotel room has. On the way, I stopped and got a huge bag of chips. The stage was my little vocal hospital ward. I put the kettle on my amp and the chips on stage left. As we got ready to go on I wanted to do one last salt water gargle, so I ripped open one of the little KFC packets and poured it into my coffee cup. It was pepper. I had grabbed 50 packs of pepper instead.

Much to my relief, the show was great. The crowd was enthusiastic and as we continued to play my throat got looser and better. We served up some country music that night.

The next day we went to Stockport, which is a part of Manchester. That show was good, but strange. The crowd was…aggressive. After we were done playing some guy started making fun of Josh’s hair, grabbing it and such. Some woman asked me if we would play her wedding, and when I said, “I’d love to, but we live in Los Angeles.” She got pissed off, like I thought I was too good to come and play at her wedding. The people there were so drunk — like drinking-to-forget drunk. We waited for an hour to get some dinner, and when we got up and walked out of the restaurant the owner came out on the side walk screaming at us, “If you waited it quickly why didn’t you tell me!!”

This all made our final show in Chelmsford all the better. The people there are so nice. We have some sweet and loyal peeps in that town. There is a great pub around the corner which we use as a dressing room. Josh beat my playing darts, and we watched 1980’s videos.

That was that. Josh and Johnny flew home. Tony and I flew to Krakow to rest and relax about playing.

Thanks to everyone who turned up, bought a CD, bought us a beer, said hello, or just clapped. The British are VERY good clappers. The first show we did after returning to California was one of those dance hall joints where the people love to dance and have no interest in clapping. Sure made me miss some of those British audiences.