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Ripping Autobahns | |
Part the second of Adam Buxton's Germanic odyssey on Travis's tour bus. Read on for Adam's futile search for groupie action, Brett Anderson's performing nipples, and the monster that is Bad Fran...
Saturday 27 November 1999
All the while Neil blows smoke at the ceiling, oddly detached as if resigned to Fran's need to crack his "nicest man in rock" facade from time to time.
Sunday 28
The gig goes fine, despite time restrictions, forcing the crowd-pleasing "Baby One More Time" to be dropped. Fran and Doug seem relieved. Then heading for Cologne on the bus that night they unveil a fine version of TLC's "No Scrubs" that shits on Britney. Now, there's an image.
Monday 29
Tuesday 30
In the evening, we leave Fran and Nora in the hotel bar and take a taxi to see Suede, who turn out to be much better than I imagined. It's an extremely loud gig and Brett seems on good form, bouncing about, rubbing his nipples and shouting "You fucking love it!" at very regular intervals. Afterward, we rejoin Fran and Nora for Amaretto sours and bullshit in the bar. I think about trying my tough interviewer bit again but decide not to bother on account of having too good a time.
Wednesday 1
As it's my last night, Fran insists that I join them onstage for "Coming Around," the new single. Sadly, I have no musical skills. At all. Really. So Nick finds me a tambourine and everyone sings the chorus as I practise hitting it. No one seems worried that I am unable to hit it in time. No one, that is, except me.
I check the set list and realize that it's almost time for my perfect moment. "We're going to get two people to come onstage and help us with this next one," says Fran, as Nick strides on and picks up his guitar. He is already wearing his best "Rock" face and looks relaxed. I am wearing a twitching mask of terror and am ready to get bottled off as I walk over to share Andy's mic. "Coming Around" starts and I struggle not to cry. I notice that most of the audience is still concentrating on Fran and couldn't give a toss about me, but when I start bashing my tambourine out of time in the chorus, I sense disapproval and step away from the mic. Just as I start to feel like I'm getting it, it's all over. Back in the dressing room, I get a cheer from the band, which is undoutedly overgenerous but very much appreciated, although the publicist finds time to say, "You looked fucking terrified up there," which brings me back down to earth.
The dressing room is full of people tonight, and everyone's in a good mood. It was a fantastic gig, my tambourine antics notwithstanding. Too soon, the driver is tapping his watch and it's time to say good-bye. Several minutes of frantic girly hugging and address-swapping later, the band is speeding to Hamburg, and I'm taking a taxi back to the hotel with Nora, who is staying in Berin to visit her Ma. I feel suddenly overwhelmed by sadness at leaving them all and their wonky adolescent world. Back at the hotel, Nora and I share one last beer before bed and are just about to say our good-byes when I realize I've left my bag containing my passport, plane tickets, and wallet on the bastard bus. Nora, who by her own admission is normally fairly ditzy, flies into action, and we chase the bus in a taxi. We manage to find them a few miles outside Berlin, and I am regaled with a very long and quite catchy song about me being a horse's arse from the entire band and crew. Nora gets one last snog off Fran and they are gone. Again.
A week on the road and no class-As, no groupies, no hotel trashing, and only a couple of little tantrums. But what did you expect from Travis? Not rock's greatest innovators, but that isn't really the point. There's no shortage of avant-gardistes, knob-twiddlers, and amusingly arrogant gobshites in the pop world, but you wouldn't want to spend a week on a bus with them. And for a good tune beautifully rendered, Travis are definitely The Men Who...Fuck me, that's a shit last sentence.
Select
When I wake, the bus has stopped in Stuttgart. One by one, people roll out of their bunks, stuff their stinky clothes in their bags, and check into the hotel. It's not that posh, but it's a fuck sight more appealing than another night on the bus. After a shit, shave, and shower, everyone meets in the hotel bar. With a little coaxing, keyboard player Jeremy sits at the piano and plays a lovely version of Joni Mitchell's "River," with Fran massaging his shoulders and singing. Everyone looks on fondly, and it's every bit the Norman Rockwell-style Travis family portrait that Fran so often paints. But the coziness is short-lived.
We order some cocktails and Fran, who doesn't normally drink too much, gets quite tooty. Tonight, the stress of spending weeks in this weird lifestyle begins to tell. Without Dougie to keep him his usual sweet self, Fran's usually well-suppressed evil side seeps out. Like some grumpy father, he needles guitar-tech Nick about wasting his time moaning about things instead of doing something constructive. The atmosphere goes a little odd as the two lock horns while everyone else laughs weakly. Then Mike the monitor tech steps in on Nick's behalf. Fran looks stung and accuses Nick of slagging off the others behind their backs. Bad one. Moments pass awkwardly before Nick says what everyone is thinking: "Oh, shut up Healy you c***."
The crew are already at the venue when the bus drops the rest of us off. Fran, riddled with angst about his behaviour last night, wastes no time in finding Nick to apologise. Soon it's hugs all round, and when Dougie and Andy turn up, freshly shagged and sprightly, the family Travis is nuclear once more.
Wake in Cologne. After the soundcheck, we take a taxi to a nearby hotel where a "day-room" has been booked for cleaning and wanking purposes. Doug and Fran do a spot of ironing, and I take a shower, then we get back to the venue for more PlayStation, interviews, and fag smoking. I only have a few days left before I have to get back to the U.K., and I've still not been exposed to free sex or cocaine. It's a fucking disgrace. Maybe I'll get lucky in Berlin.
Everyone is in a weird mood tonight, and they play a bad-tempered gig. "I like that though," says Andy. "I think we sound better when we're pissed off." On the bus, Dougie and I stay up far too late singing very early Bowie songs. Dougie has impressive Bowie knowledge but is not a serious threat to me, and I am word-perfect on several smashes by David Jones and The Lower Third he has never even heard. Nice.
Berlin. Another swish hotel today in the former East Berlin and no gig to play. Unfortunately, we can't take advantage of the time off because the band have got to do a cover shoot. I try to get into some of the shots, but the photographer keeps framing me out. Fran's girlfriend, Nora, is on hand to apply the make-up and make sure everyone looks as sexy as possible. Their manager Ian McAndrew is also present to provide moral buoyancy. He keeps feeding them uplifting statistics whenever they get tired. "Good Feeling has just gone platinum! The Man Who sold 10,000 copies last week alone! Travis are the most successful British band of 1999!" etc. I wish someone would follow me around with cheery facts: "Someone bought a copy of The Adam & Joe Book last week! There's a shop in Birmingham that stocks a copy of your video!" Well, that would do me.
Several interviews are scheduled today, as well as one at MTV during which Fran and Doug's rendition of "As You Are" is cut short by a Bush video. "It's good if you let us play the whole song," says Fran to the floor manager afterward, trying to be polite but sounding suitably sarcastic. Then it's back to the venue for a succession of interviews that tests the band's collective niceness to the limit. "The first album was so happy and this one is so sad, why is this?" "What was it that you lied about when you were 17?" And best of all, "I don't like your band but the radio station said I had to interview you."
The gig starts well but there is an uncomfortable moment when Fran's heartfelt introduction to "As You Are" is interrupted by some baldy punter shouting, "Just hurry ap and play ze fucking songs!" Probably fair enough if you're German and don't know what Fran's on about, but it didn't go down too well in the Healy camp. "Hey, you! Yes you! What's your problem? Do you want me to tell this story or not?" Luckily, the crowd shout that they do, and the evening moves happily on. It occurs to me that if Fran gives up music he could always take up teaching.
March 2000
Text: Adam Buxton
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