past Amazing Grace in their guitar tutor, touring can seem like a romantic idea: an endless stream of exotic cities, each day bringing new experiences; new sights, new smells.
This is not, however, a view shared by the more experienced and – inevitably – more jaded entertainer. The reason for this is that, quite apart from the world not being a subtle shade of pink14, there are two fundamental problems with such a light and fluffy view of the universe.
The first problem is one which is familiar to space hostesses the universe over. You join up to see the worlds, and although you may visit dozens a year, they all look exactly the same: big expanses of tarmac and concrete with a bit of grass and a lot of dirty spaceships. For musicians there is the added variety of a concert hall or a hotel room, but this is little more than a minor variation on the theme. Travelling is simply dull. Terminally so – that’s why all transport links end at termini.
The second problem with the happy-go-lucky view is that of distance. Look at any band’s tour-dates and you will observe the same. Gig follows gig not in a systematic fashion, touring town to town in convenient hops, drawing a route like a child’s dot-to-dot puzzle. That would be too simple. Instead, the tour map resembles a dot-to-dot completed by a psychotic axe murder – full of long stabbing lines and sharp angles.
What this means is that the life of a band is very much one of the open road. Distance eats years of a musicians life, just like Florian case moths gradually eat their logic. It’s why so many rock songs explore the themes of travel, loneliness and insect repellent.
For some bands matters are even worse. The Sirian Peanut Troupe suffered a further indignity when they toured. Quarantine regulations across the universe meant that not only did they have to travel in individually marked crates in a lorry, they also had to pass through a disinfectant wash at every state boundary. Such experiences explain why so many musicians take up causes like animal cruelty (usually the prevention of unless they are particularly aggressive).
High profile acts can ease the strain of touring by use of limousines, private aircraft and experienced prostitutes. It remains the case, however, that even the richest of entertainers has so far failed to bring about the invention of the teleport.
‘What I want to know is why he didn’t get something with windows,’ Vid dragged his body around trying to find a part of the van that didn’t grate on his bodywork. ‘I don’t mind travelling as long as I can actually see where I’m going.’
‘He said something about wanting to be inconspicuous,’ said Ben, sitting on a pile of spare wheels and toying with his harmonica.
‘Right, so he’ll smuggle us up to the gig, make sure that the audience can’t see or hear us, then stow us away overnight somewhere before we go on to the next stop.’
‘Perhaps he just meant to use the van until we got out of town.’
‘So why didn’t he lay on a minibus this morning? We’ve already travelled over a hundred miles.’
Ben shrugged. ‘Perhaps we’ll pick one up at Kidney Lake,’ he said. He raised his harmonica to his mouth.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ said Riff in a tone that was quiet but entirely devoid of nonsense.
‘Why not?’ said Ben.
‘Because.’
‘But I’m bored.’
‘Practice that in the van again and I’ll be buying a drill when we next stop,’ said Vid. ‘Then you’ll know the meaning of the word bored. What I want to know is why we had to sleep in this tin can.’
‘Well he’s hardly going to put us up in a top class hotel before we’ve even played.’
‘We played last night.’
‘Yes, but that was at the Turret, wasn’t it? We hadn’t agreed to the tour, then. Besides: it’s a three night residency at Kidney Lake – perhaps he’s got a hotel arranged there.’
The skyline of Kidney Lake was almost alien to the band. As a port city it seemed somehow taller. Huge derricks loomed in every direction and heavy-built, squarish robots roamed the streets purposefully. It wasn’t anyone’s idea of exotic, but it was different. Keys looked around as he helped Vid down from the van. His companion, meanwhile, was busily inspecting his own body.
‘I’m sure I must be covered in scratches,’ he muttered.
‘I don’t suppose there’ll be much of an anti-robot community here,’ said Keys. ‘You don’t really want to be anti- something that solid, do you?’
Vid looked up and took in the scene. ‘Perhaps,’ he muttered. ‘Or perhaps the people are big and square as well. They might have modelled the robots in their own image.’
‘I don’t think humans come in that kind of shape.’
Seemingly contradicting this, Tony was talking to a hulking figure at the front of the van. The man was accompanied by a slender robot with claw-like hands. He looked up as the band approached.
‘I hope you’ve had a pleasant trip,’ he said in friendly tones.
Ben stretched uncomfortably. ‘Hardly,’ he said.
‘You’ll feel better after you’ve checked in.’ Tony passed the well-built man some money.
‘Checked in?’
Tony said nothing, but waited for the man and robot to depart. Then he smiled. ‘To your hotel,’ he said.
‘Oh, we actually get one tonight, do we?’ said Vid. ‘What’s brought about this sudden burst of generosity?’
Tony looked affronted. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘You know we were travelling overnight last night. I know how important it is for you to be comfortable, but we wanted to leave town quietly, remember.’
There was a grating noise from behind Tony and the group looked over his shoulder to see two robots sawing holes in the sides of the van.
‘Why are they doing that?’ asked Ben.
‘They’re adding some windows,’ said Tony. ‘It should be safe enough now.’
‘Adding windows?’ said Vid. ‘Why not just get a bus?’
Tony didn’t answer.
‘Will they be adding seats?’ said Ben hopefully.
Tony looked away distractedly.
‘Will they?’
Tony turned back, his expression suddenly cold and serious. ‘Let’s just see what business we do tonight, shall we?’ he said. ‘Mr Nutter,’ he added, turning to the drummer. ‘Could you come with me please?’ He strolled off in the direction of the hotel building and then turned back to them. ‘You can check in if you like,’ he said. ‘I’ve had some drinks sent up to your room.’
20
The hotel wasn’t the final word in elegance. In fact it was more like the first syllable of the word - with the ‘h’ dropped. Seasoned hotel veterans would undoubtedly have run for the hills on entering the lobby – the rubber plants and coloured lighting would have quickly tipped them off – and even the hardier business types would likely have baulked at the poor quality of the décor and shambled off to somewhere safer.
There was, all in all, a somewhat jaded feel to the building, not so much the past caught in aspic as something nasty bred in agar. Even the receptionist appeared to have been acquired from one of the cheaper types of spaghetti western.
He was chomping on a cigar as the band approached. It wasn’t lit, but this didn’t seem to matter. In fact, a lit cigar might have been a serious risk to his luxuriant moustache. He cast one eye up at Ben, the other rolled down and stared disinterestedly at the desk. Ben waited nervously, not sure which eye – if any – was functional.
Eventually, the man blinked, rolled his cigar to the opposite side of his mouth, and sneered. ‘Well?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Are you gonna stand there all day or are gonna check in?’
Keys pushed to the front of the party. ‘We’d like to check in, please,’ he said.
The man adjusted his hat and stared the robot up and down. His second eye rolled up to join the first, as if for a second opinion.
‘What name?’ he said.
‘Keys,’ said Keys.
‘Not until you give me your name.’
>
‘It’s Keys.’
The man grunted. His second eye rolled back to the desk, evidently deducing there was nothing interesting to see here. Eventually, the first eye followed and the man thumbed through the pile of papers in front of him. ‘Nothing by that name,’ he said.
‘It might be under my name,’ said Ben. ‘I’m the human.’
First eye moved back up and blinked without conviction. ‘Are you now?’
‘Yes. My name’s Ben. Ben Harris.’
‘Nothing by that name, either.’ This without consulting the pile.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Certain.’
‘P-perhaps it’s u-under our j-joint name,’ said Nutter.
‘Joint name?’
‘We’re a band,’ said Keys.
‘Are you now? And what are you called?’
‘B-b-b-blood and oil,’ said Nutter.
‘How many ‘b’s’ in that?’
‘Just one,’ said Ben.
The man consulted the papers again, this time slowly and deliberately. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘Nothing under that name. You sure you got the right hotel?’
Ben shrugged. ‘This is where Tony said to go.’
‘Tony?’
‘Our manager, Tony Ombreggiati.’
The man’s face lit up as if a torch had been shone on it. ‘You’re with Tony,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’ He threw the paperwork to the floor and extended his arms in greeting.
‘You know Tony?’ said Keys.
‘Everybody knows Tony,’ the man said. ‘He’s practically family.’
‘An evil uncle, I imagine,’ muttered Riff. Then, out loud, ‘so you’ve got the booking?’
The man began to gather up the paperwork. ‘Yes, I remember