5am The van is packed and I'm on my way to James. It takes three attempts - twice I turn back for forgotten items (microphones, demo CDs). A soft, but insistent rain is falling. I meet James, we pack and repack the van and his car, till there is barely space left for a Christmas card.
7am I have picked up Andy and Iain, filled up the tank and we're on our way. The van lurches and shudders on the slippery highway, struggling for traction. The shocks are all but gone. As we leave the streaming streets of Johannesburg behind us, the surface improves and the van settles down. We drive. Breakfast in Bloemfontein. I realize that my silencer has developed a hole and now sounds like a V8. Noisy, obnoxious, I like it.
We drive on... at Colesburg we resist the N1 fork to Cape Town and head straight towards Graaff-Reinet. Then on to George and finally, after scudding along the lushly fringed coastal road, we reach Knysna at 7pm. En route we have discovered the ultimate insult (Darren, as in Just Plain C---), christened the van (Boogie, from Boogie Nights) and developed incurable third world accents. We arrive at the Tin Roof Blues club, where we are not thrilled to have been double-booked with Saron Gas, also on tour. This mix-up was only discovered the night before. Zen Arcade is given minor billing on the chalkboard outside the venue. Nonetheless it works well. There is a good turnout. There is no time for a soundcheck, but playing through SG's bass rig (a small Trace Elliott combo), the sound is punchy. The tiny wooden stage bounces every time we hit a downbeat and keeps switching James' pedalboard off. The audience seems reticent to dance, but is highly attentive. A girl detaches herself from the throng and gyrates in front of the stage. As we play on, a few more venture forward. The applause between songs grows louder each time. Now we're cooking. By the potboiler end of Trash people are really excited. Afterwards, compliments flow. So does the beer. We join some new converts in the car park for a hubbly. I bump into an old friend from school days - Sally - who after living for five years in Sedgefield looks serene and lovelier than ever. After she and her sister leave, we go upstairs to the club and catch Saron Gas. Their onstage energy is excellent, they are tight and aggressive and the audience loves it, moshing till the wooden floorboards are humming. Unfortunately, their music is derivative to the point of masking any originality. Afterwards I chat a little with bassist Dale, who lacks the stand-offish mien of the other band members. Based on their earlier contract with the club owner, Saron Gas pocket the entire door takings. Nice one, guys. The drummer has the gall to ask Andrew to help him pack down. "Pay me some fucking money and I'll help you," growls the tequila-blunted Commander. However, graciously acknowledging the mix-up, the club does pay us a minimum for the night.
It's time to go. Andy, Iain and I take a drive to the shores of the Knysna lagoon. We have seaweed fights and drink more beer in the near-full moonlight. Then drive slowly through the up-market suburb of Leisure Isle, furiously revving Boogie's pseudo-V8 at the speed bumps while Iain loudly exhorts the sleeping community to, variously, wake up, vote for the ANC and give him their daughters. Eventually we wind our way up the steep hill to the wooden chalet in which we are staying and pass out.
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