Our beloved Nick Robinson’s Adult Origami is a work of beauty. I don’t know a lot about origami except that it seems to be an increasingly rare discipline that is criminally underappreciated these days. Anyone familiar with my work might deduce that I rejoice in the concept of creating something beautiful out of a found piece of material, exactly what Nick has done for me on several occasions at shows with nothing more than a bar napkin or an old magazine receipt. I encourage everyone to check out his work as soon as possible at http://www.12testing.co.uk/origami/books/adult/forsale.htm. If a more appropriate holiday gift for the person whom you think has one of everything exists, I have yet to come across it.
Nick presented me with a highly personalized copy of the book at a show in Wolverhampton. We had a nice chat beforehand in a surprisingly cozy dressing room above the venue, sipping cans of warm Red Stripe to ward off the chill of another September English drizzle outside. From the looks of the playroom downstairs, that night’s engagement was not likely to be incredibly well attended. We got to talking about how to combat the inevitable feelings of slight hopelessness that can set in when faced with a minimal crowd. I supposed, and he agreed, that it all comes down to accessing a portion of ‘Fuck It’ along with a good dollop of appreciation for the opportunity, not to mention a healthy side of awareness that anything can happen at anytime. It was inspiring chatter, and I took the stage with renewed vigor that the excellent crowd of fifty or so patrons responded to enthusiastically. They turned what could have been a mediocre evening full of mutual apologies into a goddamn triumph. Thank You, Wolves.
A couple of nights later I found myself backstage at the Late Late Show in Dublin with Natalie, Andy and Gill, my Irish label representative. Our dressing room was next to Kevin Kline’s, who was there promoting his turn as Cole Porter in a fine film that I have since seen but forgotten the name of. I was struck by how well he carried himself in a nicely cut suit under two pounds of make-up. The Harlem Gospel Choir was also on the show; it was quite surreal to be hearing African-Americans whooping it up in an Irish hospitality room, and slightly terrifying that I was on the show to perform ‘Human Nature’. Go figure.
The rest of the Irish tour was slightly shaded by the fact that it occurred during the last week or so of a month-and-a-half spent on the road. In that time we only had three full days off, so everyone was a bit ragged in the Mini Van as we traversed the Emerald Isle up, down and sideways. There was a beautiful rainbow in Cobh, a fine lamb stew in Limerick, a nearly sold-out show in Dublin and an amazing array of publicity and radio in Belfast. It wasn’t always the postcard that comes to mind when one considers the Possibilities of Eire, but it was certainly a step in the right direction, commercially and spiritually.

Bergen, Norway is my new favorite city in the world. I have never been in a place so perfectly balanced in culture, population and standard of living. Talk about a postcard; Bergen’s ancient Maritime architecture rises up around a lovely little harbor that stays busy with everything from fishing trawlers to cruise ships. Wonderfully expansive squares and parks are perfectly placed throughout, achieving a simultaneous feeling of Southern European grandeur and Scandinavian privacy. The closest comparison I can draw in the States is San Francisco. But you don’t have to be a millionaire to live in the middle of Bergen. In fact, it’s pretty difficult to be a millionaire anywhere in Norway because of a handily progressive tax system that seems to keep all social services running with great efficiency and care. (Although not presently wealthy and therefore possibly biased in these matters, it seems like an amazingly humane set up, sociologically speaking. I am sure that Norwegian millionaires do indeed exist, and that they have plenty of ways of hiding their income from the government, if it makes all of you raging Capitalists out there feel better.) Norway has the distinct advantage of having its economy propped up by its oil industry, the taxation of which must make life easier for everyone. But consider how they use the spoils of their fossil fuels: Norway has an excellent state-funded health care system, not to mention a 99.9% rate of literacy. I was continually flabbergasted at everyone’s robust health and ability to communicate in at least two, but usually three or more, languages. In spite of (or probably because of) this, it seems next to impossible to find traces of snobbery anywhere. Every Norwegian I met, from convenience store attendant to rock star, was overwhelmingly gracious and helpful. The only hint of any sort of aggressiveness whatsoever arose when great quantities of alcohol were involved, and even then it usually assumed the form of a mighty Viking roar or, on occasion, extemporaneous dancing in the street. The Norwegians are all very proud of their country and, generally speaking, seem to have very little interest leaving except to occasinally sample the stark contrast the rest of the world has to offer.
Our gig in Stavanger was canceled at the last minute, giving us an extra day off in Bergen. To assuade our disappointment at missing what (upon further analysis of the weather forecast) would have been an incredibly nauseating boat ride, our friend Christopher took us to an amazing restaurant in the University section of town. We greedily sampled eight different local gourmet dishes laid out in small quantities on a handmade oak table. After walking around the harbor for a couple of hours, we took a nice sauna back at the hotel. The glories of the Scandinavian sauna cannot be overstated; it’s a multilayered process of swimming in the cold pool, sitting in the hot tub, sweating in the steam room, showering, relaxing with a coffee poolside, then repeating, preferably three to four times. I have never seen anyone so in their element as Andy Nice in a Norwegian sauna. His infectious laughter bouncing off the cavernous walls is a sound that comforts me even now.

.... Ahh yes, Even Now. With four hours to kill before sound check in Rock Hill, South Carolina, I am breaking a cardinal rule in my new Solo Touring Manifesto and pouring myself a glass (styrofoam cup) of Beaujolais before 7:00 PM. The fog has followed me North, enveloping this Holiday Inn off I-77 and leaving me with a chill in my bones. There is no sauna in the hotel, only what appears to be a 1983 vintage treadmill that someone not drinking wine from a styrofoam cup might use to get their blood pumping. I have really enjoyed my time in Gamecock Country, however. I look forward to returning sometime in late Spring, when the only effort required to induce a good sweat will be stepping outside these dank and smoky walls.
As the first miniature wave of fermented goodness washes over me, I am reminded of how fucking lucky I am to be living this life. Thank you all very much for maintaining enough interest in and support for what I do to enable me to continue going out on these little adventures. I am a blessed man, to be sure. Amen.