Saint Cloud—the patron saint of screwed up middle america. Our first day in the country without a show. CJ deposited us at a cloned suites hotel in a sub-urban sprawl of strip mall franchises, a landscape of two storey retail, entertainment and `hospitality’ that stretched to the horizon. There was nothing to be seen that even vaguely resembled what passes for a city in the civilized world. The staff were wide-eyed at a fancy looking Prevost tour bus pulling in to the parking lot—never a good sign. But they were eager to please and had arranged for rooms to be made ready for us when we arrived at breakfast time which was a massive plus.

Three blocks from MC’s Dugout and we were in the leafy residential grid that lies behind the endless highway strip mall

9th Avenue South seems to have been laid out on a map with a ruler and the prairie on either side sold off in 50ft lots

each lot has a clapboard house

sitting in a parcel of lawn

no fences separating the lots

but nevertheless as clearly delineated as if there was a picket by when and how expertly the grass has been mown

The BMO Pavilion is right on the shore of Lake Michigan and the view from the bus when I woke was of the sun on the water. A welcome relief from the drizzle in Chicago the previous night. The geography of the city of Chicago somehow seems to indicate that it is on a lake but I always have to remind myself that Milwaukee is not on the sea Then again, Lake Michigan is about the size of the Irish Sea: you could sail due north for three hundred miles from Chicago before you would land in Canada—the Michigan coast is way beyond the horizon seventy miles to the east of Milwaukee.

Back to another back stage parking lot. This one with military levels of security; buses and the trucks checked with mirrors as they enter, metal detectors at the entrances to the lot, a second security ring and another metal detector to get to and from the Prevost, and a third level of security and a third metal detector to get on to the stage. Something to do with the levels of gun violence in Chicago. At least they take it seriously here, even if no one seems to care that everyone passing through the detectors has something on their person that sets them off.

This was our first headline show on this tour and the first place that was not airport or bus or venue (or zoo) that I had set foot in since leaving home. It is only a three hour drive from Toledo and bus came to rest outside HI-FI Indy early. The club was on Fountain Square which revealed itself to be a designated national historic district and a very cool neighbourhood indeed. Bus driver CJ and I were the first customers in a hipster coffee shop a block away from our resting place when it opened at 7am.

Now this was unexpected. A show in a zoo. Breakfast was served in the Great Hall in the basement of the Toledo Museum of Science—through the doors, turn right at the huge stuffed yak and head down the stairs. The stage was located between the flamingos (more ludicrously pink than you could imagine and stuck in a cage that they could not possibly fly in) and the aquarium. Lions could be heard roaring querulously from deep in their lair.

Everyone was a little more chilled today. The venue was a proper shed—outdoor but with a roof to protect audience and stage from the elements. Just as hot as yesterday but we didn’t have the sun actually cooking us as we played. In fact by show time it was not unpleasant on the stage. No general admission though, so the love we got in Columbus from directly in front of the stage from the few souls gathered there who bought tickets because we were on the bill is missing. But the love was still there scattered around the cavernous space and by the end of our set it was starting to feel like there might be a concert in the room.

It seems appropriate that we are back in Ohio where the we played the final show of last year’s US tour—Columbus this time. But it was touch and go getting here. A catalogue of mishaps on the journey—phantom bags; lost (and, thankfully, found) passports; a two and a half hour delay at Heathrow airport that left us stranded in Philadelphia; a disagreement with US Customs that almost resulted in us having all of our guitars impounded. But we made it to the show with an hour to spare, a little frayed around the edges but in one piece and with the guitars.

With some trepidation, we are on our way across the Atlantic once again to spend the summer as the opening act on the Last Summer On Earth Tour.

The prospect of living on a bus for seven weeks and playing thirty odd shows across the USA certainly has its appeal. The tour will take us to some exotic places; Tuscaloosa, Alabama. Mankato Minnesota. Nampa, Idaho. Indio, California. We play at Red Rocks, Colorado and the Greek Theater in Los Angeles. The main act is The Barenaked Ladies who are the organisers of this undertaking. They have run similar ventures before and by all accounts they run a cool operation and take pains to look after everyone on board.

Cleveland, early on a Sunday morning. I feel fully recovered and in denial that this is the end of the road. The final venue is another damn supper club, The Music Box. There is a decent looking Sunday brunch on offer there but distressingly this will be accompanied either by a Doobie Brothers or a Crosby Stills Nash and Young tribute band depending on whether one chooses to eat upstairs or downstairs in the club. There is a long day ahead and this does not appeal to me as the most relaxing way to start it off. We are just across the river from The Flats where there seem to be a bunch of decent places to sit and chill with a coffee and a decent plate of food. The river taxi that would take me the 200m across the Cuyahoga River doesn’t run on Sundays but according to my phone it should only take 20 minutes to walk. Unfortunately the pedestrian bridge to downtown is shut for repairs and after forty minutes of going round in circles I am high up on the Cleveland Memorial Shoreway pretty much directly over where I started. I eventually make it across. It has taken me an hour to traverse the 200m. I find a shady table a chi-chi eaterie overlooking the river but the vibe is somewhat undermined by the fact that there are thousands of dead and dying fish floating on the surface. The canoeists and the scullers that pass by seem unperturbed by this but I have to consciously suppress being really creeped out–—I would be utterly shocked to see this in the Clyde, or even in the Thames.