HEY SHOLAY

HOLLAND SEPT 2011 pt. VII - AN ENDING (ASCENT) Memory is not something you can touch or see. Its existence is not measurable or quantifiable, nor is it disputed. Try picturing a bird flying in the sky, we all see the blue background, maybe some indistinct white clouds or vapour trails left by passing airplanes, but yet we aren’t really seeing it, only what our mind thinks a flying bird looks like. This is not knowledge, evidence or fact; it is a form of creation, we design our own idea of how a thing happens, has happened and will happen. Unlike knowledge, memory is subjective to the individual. It is influenced by past experience, by what we notice and what we miss, by the angle at which we view an event, by our proximity to the sounds to go with the motions, by our willingness to accept the impossible or rationalise the fantastic… and most importantly by the number of people present who will correct you when you blatantly change details to improve the story. You might be thinking to yourself at this point, why am i being served a delicious slice of perspective pie? You might also be asking why am i washing it down with a nice tall glass of information juice? Should i expect a serving of anecdote for desert? Perhaps. In all honesty I really have no idea where this one is going, but what i am essentially trying to say is that after two very hectic weeks recording our album and preparing to go on tour, some of the finer points of the trip might be ever-so-slightly lost to me…forever, resulting in some minor guesswork and full-blown exaggeration. So it is without further delay I bring to you the concluding instalment of our Netherlands odyssey.  The morning passed with relatively little to report. An unexplained pillar of dirty smoke rose high up from the mainland less than mile from where we landed, distracting us just long enough to allow an unprovoked attack on our stuffed rabbit Andy. A rather confused little dog decided to bite the rabbit’s face, and though it did scare itself stupid for 30 to 45 seconds trying to understand why Andy did not move, the dog came to realise that those who embody death do not fear it. Once again we were on the road, heading towards a port to catch a ferry, and once more we were early. So early in-fact, that we decided to detour for the next 6 hours to Amsterdam. Having visited before, we were no strangers to what this city had to offer, culture and sleaze in equal measures. Fear not, we did not sully our reputations and honour by venturing into questionable establishments to engage in illicit activity, though judging by the general attitude of the, ahem, window-based under-dressed females of this particular district of Amsterdam it would seem difficult to draw their attention from their phones should you require their services at 3:30 on a monday afternoon. Having scoured the local record stores for hidden gems and consumed a few leisurely pints in the square, we set out onto the highways of Holland one final time. It would appear that we left at just the right time too as a nuclear bomb was detonated, destroying much of the surrounding area of the port. The blast almost caught up with us, but fortunately we managed to hit a ramp at top speed and land on the ferry which had been forced to leave early to avoid total destruction. So far this incident appears to have gone unreported due to a massive government cover up, but here at last is the only known photographic evidence.  So there you have it, our short trip from beginning to end, unedited, unabridged and unlikely to be made into a major motion picture anytime soon. LW

HOLLAND SEPT 2011 pt. VII - AN ENDING (ASCENT)

Memory is not something you can touch or see. Its existence is not measurable or quantifiable, nor is it disputed. Try picturing a bird flying in the sky, we all see the blue background, maybe some indistinct white clouds or vapour trails left by passing airplanes, but yet we aren’t really seeing it, only what our mind thinks a flying bird looks like. This is not knowledge, evidence or fact; it is a form of creation, we design our own idea of how a thing happens, has happened and will happen. Unlike knowledge, memory is subjective to the individual. It is influenced by past experience, by what we notice and what we miss, by the angle at which we view an event, by our proximity to the sounds to go with the motions, by our willingness to accept the impossible or rationalise the fantastic… and most importantly by the number of people present who will correct you when you blatantly change details to improve the story.

You might be thinking to yourself at this point, why am i being served a delicious slice of perspective pie? You might also be asking why am i washing it down with a nice tall glass of information juice? Should i expect a serving of anecdote for desert? Perhaps. In all honesty I really have no idea where this one is going, but what i am essentially trying to say is that after two very hectic weeks recording our album and preparing to go on tour, some of the finer points of the trip might be ever-so-slightly lost to me…forever, resulting in some minor guesswork and full-blown exaggeration. So it is without further delay I bring to you the concluding instalment of our Netherlands odyssey. 

The morning passed with relatively little to report. An unexplained pillar of dirty smoke rose high up from the mainland less than mile from where we landed, distracting us just long enough to allow an unprovoked attack on our stuffed rabbit Andy. A rather confused little dog decided to bite the rabbit’s face, and though it did scare itself stupid for 30 to 45 seconds trying to understand why Andy did not move, the dog came to realise that those who embody death do not fear it. Once again we were on the road, heading towards a port to catch a ferry, and once more we were early. So early in-fact, that we decided to detour for the next 6 hours to Amsterdam. Having visited before, we were no strangers to what this city had to offer, culture and sleaze in equal measures. Fear not, we did not sully our reputations and honour by venturing into questionable establishments to engage in illicit activity, though judging by the general attitude of the, ahem, window-based under-dressed females of this particular district of Amsterdam it would seem difficult to draw their attention from their phones should you require their services at 3:30 on a monday afternoon. Having scoured the local record stores for hidden gems and consumed a few leisurely pints in the square, we set out onto the highways of Holland one final time. It would appear that we left at just the right time too as a nuclear bomb was detonated, destroying much of the surrounding area of the port. The blast almost caught up with us, but fortunately we managed to hit a ramp at top speed and land on the ferry which had been forced to leave early to avoid total destruction. So far this incident appears to have gone unreported due to a massive government cover up, but here at last is the only known photographic evidence. 

So there you have it, our short trip from beginning to end, unedited, unabridged and unlikely to be made into a major motion picture anytime soon.

LW