The crampt, free bus hurtles down the highway, passengers all infected with the liveliness that only the road can bring on. Squeezed in between the music equipment, the beer, and the red bull are three DC bands, a seasoned driver, and one Limey. The destination: a less than ostentatious Austin, Texas—two days on the bus, two gigs, and a free holiday.
The Blue Ridge Mountains arrive and pass by, their eternal, ghostly presence bearing down like some imposing but prostrate foe, powerless to the velocity of the vehicle. Making good time now, the foggy bottom is going down well and we’re most of us doing an economical five miles to the gallon; Brad’s carrying a monstrous V8, martini guzzling beast beneath the hood and managing only two ::::: consumption is up and the turbo has long been engaged. The bus has a cosy, almost Okie-like feel to it—so there’s no toilet on board. Empty bottles are passed around the uninhibited among us while the more reserved suffer in silence, frustratingly holding back the inevitable like an English gentleman in some old London club and lamenting every bump in the goddam asphalt.
Then, salvation! A faulty radiator and a neon truck stop sign signals relief, the end of the grind. They say that happiness is relative and, while I’m no gambling man, I would have bet my bottom dollar that no one that morning would have placed happiness in a dodgy radiator. Supplies are brought, wholesome country waitresses are chatted up, and drink bounces from the of guts of men, fresh and wet onto the tarmac as some feel the need to say hello to ruth...
Ruuuuuuuuuuuth!!!! Yep, only he knows?
An overnight stay was the result of the only technical setback of the tour, and we all checked in. All motels are indistinguishable from the next. The franchise beast saw off any variety long before we arrived but it’s the people that make a place, not the bricks nor the mortar. Beer flowed, stories were swapped, and unlived adventures endeavoured to unfold. The foggy bottom and the cigarettes disappear freely into the innards of men. And the red bull, which I swear was delivered by sponsorship angels with caffeine dipped, sugary tipped wings into our hands, see us well into the night; the alooom-in-um capsu-oles (we’re all Americans now) were a welcome gift. Men are consumed by excitment and trepidation. Friendships were formed as quickly as inhibitions are lost, the appeal of the [whimsical] attitude of the band shone through.
The second album expands on the ground covered by the first. Opening brashly ‘Just Wanna Be’ confidently and quickly announces the arrival before the hugely affected guitar hails from the speakers, promptly accompanied by a fierce drumbeat - ‘This Could Take A While’ - like a posh bird, it doesn’t cum, it arrives. The song, having knocked around in the live set for some time, appears as a professional, polished track for the album and shows what the boys do best; seasoned champions of pub rock, they do well to continue along this line. The steady beat continues with ‘Reasons’ with an immovable rhythm section underlying an energetic lead guitar part and vocals remaniscent of the 90s Seattle scene. The first four tracks come out the blocks at the same, robust speed. Then, a tempo change with ‘Signs’ becoming a slower anthem that sets the tone for the more ballady and noticeably more sentimental ‘What's Behind the Door?’ and ‘Fallen Off’; some soulful female backing vocals adding depth to the performance.
A Month Of Sundays, I am told began with an insult. Ed met Jim (Jim met Ed) while they were both completing a stint doing each other in the Army (?!!). On meeting, the singer (Ed) and the drummer (Jim) briefly mocked each other’s respective rock ‘n’ roll aspriations before building a friendship that would extend beyond their years of their service. Once firmly back on civvy street Chris, the brother of Jim, picked up his bass and began to play both in time and at the same time as the duo. Due to the lack of numbers in the band, the trio was forced to remain in the studio. Their frustration at the restriction of not being able to play live took a firm hold and before long, they were looking for an extra dimension, a fourth member and a break from the mixing desk.
Although the recent cocktail party was behind him; its legacy remained, manifesting itself in those hands that now shook like a shittin' dog. Brad had appeared on the scene; not really knowing what it was, but it was morning. He started to play. His temporary, but all too apparent, lack of ambition was thankfully outweighed by his techincal ability and, while nothing happened immediately, it wasn’t long before he found that he had realised a cooler way to spend his Sunday afternoons. The boys that had once grown up in the same neighbourhood soon had a first gig and, thanks to blues singer Janine Wilson and producer Marco Delmar, a debut CD.
Following this more serious vein, the album then picks up again with ‘Passing Years’, the drums and cymbals pounded with a belief that playing this instrument is like making love to beautiful woman, you don’t sleep with it, you bang it. ‘Maverick’, with the reverb-influenced guitar strumming ringing out, devlops this mantra further which emphasises the blacker side of the darker ‘Dream Big.' Then, a treat begins with ‘New Town Girl.’ Starting softly and adding a string accompaniament with Sgt. Pepper-esque horns that give way to a folk-fiddle ending that precedes another gear change with ‘It’s Getting Harder’ upping the speed and energy toward ‘Garden Of Stone.’ Any position this far down the album is always too easy to fill, but the harmocia fits nicely with the steady tempo and again it shows the use of a different style that keep things interesting. Then, to finish, ‘Cold,’ which in your humble narrator’s opinion is the true standout track. Employing strings, harmonies, and little else in a carefully polished simplicity, the upbeat Irish folk epitaph leaves the listener feeling infused with a gentle, Gaelic optimism as he heads out the door. The abrupt end just adds to the magic.
To return briefly to the loose narrative, the dawn broke over a parking lot and revealed a certain suprise. The faulty-radiator-red-neck-tour-bus had morphed into a 52-seater behemoth, complete with all the mod-cons: DVD player, karaoke machine, and toilet. Toilet! Back on the road. The Texas star shining more vividly now, focusing the resolve of the bands on board. So, as the group prepared to gig in Austin, I prepared to fulfil my own destiny—to succeed at teaching some yet-to-be-met la femme Americanas all that was suave, sophisticated, and charming about English culture. A Month Of Sundays arrived played their two gigs to great reception. I, on the other hand, got too drunk and taught little else. Following the excursion, I headed out across the flat Texas East and into Louisiana while the band headed back to Washington, DC, and back into the studio. And, that, dear friends, is where the story ends and the album begins....