Reading · Mrjimbob · RSS Amplifier

In a world of black squares with white text announcing cancelled gigs and the rising costs of putting on a pop concert, me and the team drive for an hour and a half to a Travelodge just outside Carlisle and yet in the middle of nowhere, to save money after our triumphant gig in Glasgow. The hotel is in an area where there are fewer attractions, not so many reasons for people to want to stay there on a Saturday night, unless their idea of fun is a closed Costa coffee restaurant and a BP garage. Hence, the cheaper rooms. Also, the lodge’s close proximity to the M6, will give us a head start on the next morning’s long drive to Skegness for what will be a fraught, angry, eventful, but again, triumphant, Shiiine On show.

In my hotel room, I hang up my gig clothes and unpack my rider leftovers. Before vacating the dressing room at the end of each night, I chuck a few essentials and luxuries into a plastic bag: some room water, a can of Coke, a sandwich if there are any left, a bag of crisps, a handful of Celebration chocolates. No booze. Due to illness (a cold), I’ve been going to bed earlier, staying up less, not drinking so much. Apart from the pre-show drinks, the ones on stage and the few in the dressing room afterwards, I’m practically straight-edge.

After the Manchester gig, I tipped my carrier bag out onto my hotel bed to find just three Celebrations.

And here’s Newcastle’s haul.

The Bountys are clearly the least popular Celebration with the other members of the band.

Despite the ironic skimpiness of my Newcastle dressing room bounty and the smallness of the Celebration, I was determined to still make a feast out of it. I got myself comfortable, opened a mini Coke Zero, popped a couple of Paracetamol, and carefully unwrapped the tiny chocolate. I ate it as slowly and deliberately as possible. Like it was the last coconut filled chocolate in the world.

After the Glasgow show and the long drive to the M6, I’m disappointed to find my carrier bag contains nothing but a thin can of Fanta orange and a large packet of spicy flavoured crisps. I look at my phone. It’s 1am. It’s late, but not quite too late yet for spicy crisps and fizzy orange. I open the can of Fanta and the crisps and look at my phone again. 2am. What the eff! The clocks have sprung forward before my eyes. 2am is way too late for Fanta and crisps. I brush my teeth and go to bed.

Beneath this Substack post, or when I share it on Facebook or Instagram, somebody is going to comment “Rock ‘n roll!” And they’ll be right. This is exactly what rock ‘n roll is.

It’s eating and drinking badly, it’s driving for miles to save money. Rock ‘n roll is sitting up late with Jen, Lindsey and soundman and tour manager to the stars Dave, drinking prosecco and putting the first Talking Heads and Television albums on iTunes on my phone, because me and Dave think they’re the best Talking Heads and Television albums. Rock ‘n roll is playing van chess with Ben, trying to guess what colour one another’s front doors are and the best way to cook mashed potatoes. It’s sitting in the same seats in the van every tour.

Rock ‘n roll is waking up in a hotel bed early in the morning with no idea where you are because the hotel has the same abstract framed print on the wall that it has in all of its other hotels. Rock ‘n roll is walking in the rain to the nearby Costa or Greggs, where you’re the only customer, and ordering a flat white and an almond croissant, sitting in a window seat, watching the rain and feeling both incredibly lonely while at the same time enjoying what Paul Weller called “The tranquillity of solitude”. Rock ‘n roll is spending time with your friends: Chris, Jon, Jen, Ben, Lindsey, Dave, Jim, Marc and Neil. Rock ‘n roll is making new friends: Charley Stone – who heroically stood in for Jen, something I’d always thought would be impossible – on lead guitar in Manchester and Newcastle, and Dunstan and Griff from Interrobang‽