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...
