Our last show was 200 kilometres down a dirt road in the middle of Saskatchewan. It had been raining, so the black dirt of the prairies was thick and sticky as hot tar. We were shown to an old barn by our host, an enormously fat man with bifocals who proffered doughnuts – the meal we had been promised.
Our audience consisted mainly of elderly people – most of whom promptly fell asleep. We played a subdued set – we were enormously hungover after our two nights in a row at Lydia’s in Saskatoon. In our break we were shown around the farm – a few heifers had wandered over, curious over the strains of banjo and watched as we pottered around flower beds and green paddocks now sparkling in brilliant sunshine. Uncle Burnin’ Love was sleeping it off in the van and Jones was beside him nursing a sore nose from his face plant outside the pub at 5am.
Back in the shed – my mike stand consisting of a cow prodder gaffa-taped to some farm implements – we played some more to the resting concert goers. Then we motored off – with another plate of doughnuts donated by our host. We’ve got a few days off before playing to five thousand at the Ness Creek Festival. That’s up in bear country, in the north where there’s more lakes than mosquitoes – and those buggers bite you through your jeans.