On the Road: The Hazey Janes take Europe with Wilco (Part Four)

The Rain In Spain Falls Mainly On My Brain

Routines are generally something you quickly slip into while on lengthy tours: days can quickly become uniform, or blur into one homogenised van ride, a load-in, a sound check, a load-out. Of course, this is the path we choose. So, at the risk of sounding formulaic, we arrive in Seville after a seven hour drive to what becomes a relentless downpour. Auditorio Rocio Jurado sits on the edge of the Old Town amongst a fascinating patchwork of juxtaposed buildings, many of which were erected for and quickly abandoned after the Seville Expo. 

We have what may be our best show to date and the venue is virtually full from the moment we take the stage. Aside from maybe the English language, we wonder exactly what it is about visiting ‘guitar music’ groups that produces these kind of fervent Spanish audiences, and when did their well documented, staunch union with Western Indie, Country and, particularly, Americana begin? Is it a lack of preconceptions that make them so much warmer and hospitable than, say, some UK crowds? Who knows, but certainly talking with people after the show, there seems to be a wonderful purity to them and their thoughts on live music. 

Anyhow, we’re now in neighbouring Camas, lost, tired and in search of an elusive hotel. However, thanks to a distinct lack of crime in the vicinity, we soon have our very own police escort leading us through quiet, narrow streets, blue lights akimbo. Finally, we arrive at our place of rest and with a toot and an extended hand out the window, the local constabulary disappear into the night. 

Sombrero Fallout

The prospect of the tour culminating with a performance in a bullring has us in good spirits as we head through the barren landscape towards Murcia on Spain’s South-east coast. Anecdotes are being exchanged and bandied round the van, willy-nilly, until Alan informs us that he ‘first heard of the Iraq war from Debbie McGee’, while engineering for Paul Daniels. We decide there and then, in the interest of everyone involved, to keep the chat to a minimum until we’re in the ring.

An early stage affords us time to have dinner after we play. Worth the wait, as an array of tapas appear in catering: artichoke, chorizo, pork, cheeses (etc), asparagus, mushrooms and sautéed potatoes. Delicious. Unfortunately after our set the dank weather sets in again and Wilco are playing to a soggy, though unperturbed, audience. We chat with the band after the show and it’s clear that it wasn’t their favourite performance of the tour.

After some parting photos we give our sincere thanks to them and their crew for having us on the tour and, not without a little sadness, go our separate ways. Driver Doug has already retired to the hotel for some well-earned rest, so avoiding the monsoon, we jump in the nearest taxi. The driver quickly realizes exactly what we’ve been up to in El Plaza de Torres and promptly slips a cassette in to the stereo, clears his pipes and proceeds to sing Italian opera loudly at us until we pull up at the hotel.

A mere half-hour flight to Mallorca from Valencia means we get our first long lie in over two weeks of extremely early starts. Some of us, wisely, use it to search for a launderette, while others batten down the hatches until it’s time to head north to the airport. Our third visit to Palma is to be a fleeting one. We’re collected by our dear friend, and ‘Pecan Pie Promotions’ boss, Joanet Andreu and immediately whisked off to soundcheck at Factoria De So.

Isolated, there are concerns about the geography of tonight’s venue. They’re short-lived though, as the good folk of Santa Maria once again place their trust in Mr. Andreu and the place is packed by the time we go on. Before that however, there’s a small matter of some authentic Mallorcan cuisine for us to enjoy. It’s a fitting end to our tour of Europe. A great show with a sense of band and audience both pulling in the same direction, wanting the best for one another. The tumultuous weather seems to have taken to us, and as the heavens open we load out and make for a Balearic beach bar in Palma to toast an incredible, and slightly surreal, two weeks in Europe.