Holiday in Cambodia: Phnom Penh

We only spent three and a half days in Cambodia but, boy, we did our best to do justice to the place.
To my relatively naive eyes Phnom Penh seemed older, poorer and dirtier than Saigon.  I loved the place almost immediately. We caught tuk-tuks and rode through the dusty, dusky Thursday evening air. The Velkommen Guest House, at one end of yet another chaotic, pungent street, was run by a pleasant, chatty Norwegian geezer. My room was big enough to host a five-a-side match.
We enjoyed Khmer and Thai food on our first night, before heading to Sharky Bar to say hello. We met Ben, who presides over the venue, and enjoyed a few cold beers while we discussed our Friday gig. The staff made us feel special and we had a very pleasant session before disappearing into the Cambodian darkness.

For most people, Fridays are full of optimism; the weekend beckons. For us, this particular Friday was a little short on wide-eyed happiness. We took tuk-tuks out to the harrowing killing fields of the Choeung Ek Genocidal Centre where we were exposed to the most barbarous elements of humanity. We also visited the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum (S-21), and it is fair to say that we were emotionally spent by the time we returned to the hotel. I'm glad I went, but I was happy to leave when I did.

After soundchecking at Sharky, a few of us went for a wander around the markets. Clothes first, then the food markets. I wouldn't recommend the meat unless you want flies with that.

The Sharky gig was probably the best of the tour so far. It is an anglo-themed bar, but the clientele was probably an even mix of Cambodians and ex-pats. Sharky had been promoting us for months; they'd even organised a radio interview for Sneaky and me last weekend. I think the publicity drive worked. It was their biggest crowd in months, and we responded. There was lots of dancing and singing along among the masses. Rich the sound guy, Packo and Ben looked after us very well. Everything about the show seemed to work, and we raged through our three sets as if our lives depended on it.

Just one of those nights.

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Eat (and drink and play) at Joes.

Getting to our two-day engagement at Joe's Cafe in Mui Ne was a bit of a challenge, but it was just about worth it. The vehicle that took us there from the chaos of Ho Chi Minh City was a "bed bus", where travellers insert themselves into a plastic coccoon and sleep away the journey. Fine if you are five foot tall, not so good if you are a long streak... needless to say, a little ingenuity was required.
Joe's Cafe is owned by a laid-back American guy called, erm, Joe. From a humble beginning, he and his wife have been improving the business for a few years, and Joe's is now in a new location, and they have added a boutique hotel just down the road.

We played two shows on consecutive nights; both went well, despite me only having half a voice (head cold). We were supported by two of Joe's favourites: keyboard virtuoso Kreed (thank you for the vodkas) and the friendly and very talented Clive Pendock.
We had an amazing photographer, Aleksei Serov, come to our shows (see top image), and he also offered to do a photo shoot by the beach. The results of his efforts were excellent.
These were tour gigs number five and six and, musically speaking, I think the band is sounding pretty good. Joe's gave us a five-star review, and comments from patrons were very complimentary.

As much as I enjoyed the evenings, the relative serenity of our one free day was also a highlight. Sitting in a deck chair, looking out onto the blue-green South China Sea, across to where Bhutan and Sarawak would be if I could see that far... Lost in thought, pondering nothingness.

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So Saigon

I've been in Ho Chi Minh City for a week or so. Most of the band arrived in the early hours of Monday 19 June, slightly worse for wear after two plane journeys that were separated by a lengthy delay.
For some of us, it's our first time in SE Asia and it has been an eye opener.
The pungent aromas (some more pleasant than others) are often overwhelming, the seemingly lawless approach to road use is something to behold, and the local folks we have met have been mostly very pleasant and helpful.
To say the pace is hectic would be an understatement. Everywhere you look, people are racing in all directions; residents, workers, hawkers, beggars, thieves and tourists. Like bees in a jar.
The city blends ultra-modern skyscrapers, colonial buildings and decrepit shanty towns to form a working and living enviroment the likes of which I have never seen before. Except in Bladerunner.
And, amid all of this chaos, the Buddha is everywhere.

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Bad Day on the Bike.

Three reasonably fit men. Three days mountain biking on the Mawson Trail. Meticulously planned. What could possibly go wrong?
Wednesday held all the portents of another day in paradise. Sunshine, birdsong and a cool breeze helped to make Day Two of our scheduled three-day mountain bike ride look like it was going to be a belter. The day began like so many others have, shaking off the cobwebs and slowly preparing man and machine. Kapunda had been a lovely host, and now it was time to press on to the unassuming town of Riverton, via a fabulous few hours of trail riding.
We rode off, two of us, out of the caravan park and along the bitumen that would take us out of town and on to Riverton. Despite the previous day being pretty hard on the legs, I felt good. The riding wasn't overly onerous; neither was the legacy of the night before's indulgences.
We rode onto the dirt at Taylor's Run Road, and began the undulating route that I have traversed may times before. After about 20 minutes, I suggested we stop at the top of a hill to take a photo.
I dismounted and took a couple of shots. Then, from nowhere, a dizzy spell hit me like a gunshot. I was down on my haunches and up again before I had much chance to process.
I told Bob what had happened. Weird; probably just one of those moments. We got back on the bikes and rode off. Immediately I knew something was wrong.
There was no strength in my legs. My breathing was laboured. My chest was tight. I got about half way up the next hill and had to get off and push the rest of the way.
"Something's wrong," I said.
I tried again, rolling down the hills and trying, mostly unsuccessfully, to ride up. Deteriation was rapid. After two or three attempts I announced that I didn't think I could go on. That I needed a rest. Within myself, I suspected that this would be the end of my ride.
I was struggling to breathe without making noises, my chest felt like there was a metal band being tightened around it, and my legs were like jelly. It's fair to say I was getting frightened.
I sat on the side of eucalyptus-lined avenue, knowing I wasn't getting up, despite my desire to do so. A couple of motorcyclists went past; I nodded stoically yet mournfully. Here I was, deep in the heart of one of my favourite places in the world, a broken and rather pathetic figure. I gazed upwards through the canopy at the beautiful blue-sky day, and earnestly wondered if this was to be my last. Seriously.
After sitting for probably 20 minutes, we thought it best to ring Rod and see if he could get the car down the track to pick me up. 15 minutes later he arrived, and they put my bike on the back and lifted me up into the passenger seat.
In the interests of full disclosure, but against my usual robust nature, I announced that I wasn't sure that I hadn't had a heart attack, and that I wasn't sure I was going to survive. I didn't want to freak anyone out, but I wanted them to know that I was feeling seriously compromised.
As it happened, I started to feel better once I was in the car. My breathing wasn't quite as noisy, and I was starting to converse. By the time we got to the Kapunda Emergency, I was able to get myself out of the car and speak coherently with the nurse.
The nurse checked my vitals, measured my blood pressure and gave me an ECG (first time in my life I've had my chest shaved). Everything appeared fine. She advised that I shouldn't ride again that day; I told her that there was no chance I would be getting on my bike.
Unfortunately, but sensibly, we decided that it was best to curtail the riding holiday and return to Adelaide.
I saw the doctor, he thought it was oesophagitis, perhaps brought on by the pain-killers I'd been taking for my recovering fractured fibula. It some situations it can feel very much like a heart attack, something to which I am inclined to agree with. My chest was tight for about three weeks afterwards, but both the doctor and the cardiologist have given me the all clear. Two months later, it still gets a little tight when I sing with the band.
Scary.

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The Last Post: high-flying reflections

Photo:Heather Bevan-Hunt

Tour highlights:

• Hanging out with the guys, playing music and having a great time
• Chaos at Mr Scurf's place!
• An unexpectedly amazing gig at Luna in Leytonstone
• Having a beer in Govan
• A dozen t-shirts
• The Italian feed at Cucina Rustica in Birmingham
• Chatting with Chris Farlowe and Cliff Bennett after our gig at the Retro Festival
• Glamping
• Friday night at The Scotia
• Meeting John from The Zips in Glasgow
• Seeing Secret Affair up close
• The fab folks from Radio Caroline
• Take-away and beer in the sun, with the boys out the back in Cambridge
• Appearing on BBC West Midlands
• Seeing The Waterboys, Justin Currie and Lloyd Cole in concert
• Making new friends at our first gig at The Cluny
• Proper beer
• All the lovely people we met on our travels
• Playing at The Fiddler's Elbow, with various Dexys looking on
• Feasting at The India Club
• Watching Nick Parker and The False Alarms do their thing at Lakefest
• Buying a £2.50 tambourine in a Leytonstone charity shop
• Friendly policemen
• Live to air on Sunny Govan
• Meeting Steve Daggett at The Cluny
• Getting to play at four proper festivals
• Pat! Cam! Rob! Dave! Ade! Pete! Me! And... the Guv'nor

I'm sure there's much, much more to add. Watch this space.

www.davidrobinsononline.com

All good things...

The last weekend of the PlanB UK Tour was spent at the delightful Retro Festival in Newbury. We spent the Saturday and Sunday there, arriving directly from our Friday adventures at Lakefest. The Retro Festival is an annual gathering of folks celebrating the golden era of mods and rockers, and just about any other element of pop culture from the middle of the last century. There were big old American cars, classic British motorcycles and vintage scooters all over the place.
The sun was out; it felt like summer, and I think we were ready to sign-off in style.

We had two gigs to play; one on Saturday night and one on Sunday at noon. A bittersweet notion, because with only two shows left it meant that the great music we were making would soon be over, however, all things must end and it would be refreshing to be in a different routine after almost a month of touring. We were scheduled to appear on the Ricky-Tick Mod stage, and we'd be a little bit different to the usual offering of northern soul and ska bands. Both of which I took in whenever I could over the weekend.
The festival was situated on an enormous plot, with plenty of space for music, vintage cars, merry-go-rounds, aeronautics and, erm, miniature steam engines. We were directed to our accommodation, which took the form of a couple of very nice looking tents. Welcome to the wonderful world of glamping! Three of the couples used one of the tents, while the rest of the gang took up residence in the other. There was also another tent for our domestic use,  featuring electric power, a fridge, water etc. All very nice.

I bought a few vinyl singles, including the original 'It Must Be Love' by Labi Siffre. Peter Guitar bought Arkeology, a great set of World Party rarity CDs; I think most of us did a little shopping.
After playing quite a bit over the previous three and a half weeks, we'd grown in terms of our musical togetherness so we were expecting to put on a good show wherever and whenever we played. Of the two, the Sunday lunchtime performance probably enjoyed bigger numbers, but both gigs went down pretty well.
Here's a story I posted elsewhere:

So, it's Saturday night at Retrofest and we've just finished our set. I'm out the back, completely spent, trying to catch my breath.
This geezer sits next to me.
Him: "Are you on tonight?"
Me: "Just been on mate; knackered. What about you? Playing tonight, or are you a DJ?"
Him: "I'm on later. I'm a singer, Chris Farlowe's the name."
Me: (surprised) "You don't look much like your pictures..."
Thankfully we got past that dopey comment and had a decent chat; mainly about the fun of being a constantly busy musician. We would have talked longer but we were out of time...
This is certainly a world full of surprises.

After that I wandered off and found a friendly felafel for my tea.
Some of us went to watch Chris Farlowe on the Saturday night and he still does a great job with 'Handbags and Gladrags' and 'Out of Time'.
The Sunday gig was a kind of celebration, being the last gig of the tour, and we all supped whisky from Peter's flask before we went on. Nice.
The afternoon was spent sitting in our deck chairs outside of the tents, eating and drinking to our collective heart's content. A few of us had gone on a £100 food and beverage run so we had plenty to get through.
Some of us were leaving the camp to stay in Reading that evening so it was with a somewhat heavy, but affectionate, heart that we all hugged, shook hands and said goodbye a little later that afternoon.
Pete the bassman dropped us in town and, that was it, no more tour. Peter Guitar, Rob Trumpet, Lynn and I shared a few drinks that night before parting company the following morning.

Within days of the tour ending the eight members of the band were scattered all over the world. From the north of England, to the USA, to Greece, to Australia, to a cruise chip in the Mediterranean, the PlanB diaspora was massive. Rock and roll!

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A Primal Affair...

After the long trip from Wales and a well-earned sleep in, we awoke to find ourselves in the weirdest, most interesting house. It certainly didn't sleep 12 people comfortably; there wasn't really enough dedicated rooms or beds. Still, most of us managed to sleep in relative comfort. The "Hemp Lime House" was full to bursting with the most amazing array of stuff - artifacts from exotic places, homespun artwork, books, strange furniture and junk. It would be a great place to spend some time, albeit in a smaller group.
It was a pleasant summer's day, and we spent the morning taking in the joys of the delightful Cotswolds town of Stroud. Markets, charity shops, sunshine, and brunch in Greggs.

Hopes were high for Lakefest; it has a decent reputation and some of the acts that have appeared in previous years made us feel a bit special. Billy Bragg, The Selecter, Ocean Colour Scene, Embrace, Ash, Buzzcocks, Levellers and The Beat have all played the festival. 2016 was offering Primal Scream, The Coral, Starsailor, Secret Affair and, erm, PlanB. Well, "Plan Beat" actually. We had to change our name in the advertising because the organisers were a little nervous about people getting confused with the English rapper Plan B. So it goes.
It was an easy trip out to the festival (no police, no speeding tickets) and the venue, Eastnor Castle Deer Park, looked beautiful. On the hillside across the river giant letters spelling the word "LOVE" filled me with happiness. There were people of all ages milling around, there was a cornucopia of food and beverage choices, and the sound of music filtered through the air.

We wandered around, soaking it all in, and checking out the various tents and stages. Spirits were pretty high, and we ate and drank merrily as we saw the sights. I bought a t-shirt, to add to my growing collection.
We were scheduled to appear late, after Primal Scream, so we were hoping people would spill out of the main stage, looking for some more music, and find their way to us. We were on in the Real Ale Tent, which also doubled as the "BBC Introducing" tent during the afternoon.

One of the great bands of my youth, Secret Affair, were playing early in the evening and I went along. I was surprised there wasn't a bigger crowd but no matter, it meant I got to stand right at the front without any of the usual crush. They were great; it was quite a moment to see and hear 'Time For Action', 'Let Your Heart Dance' and 'My World' live on stage. Ian Page's  voice is still pretty good and the band was tight. It took a couple of songs to get the mix right but once that was done the overall sound was great.
A little later I went along to see Primal Scream do their trippy, loopy thing in front of a huge crowd. It was a proper festival show and Bobby Gillespie was in decent form. They played old and new stuff and it all sounded pretty groovy, no matter which version of the band you prefer.
A little later in the evening I saw Nick Parker and The False Alarms over on another stage. I can't say I'd heard of him/them before but they were really good. Something else to research when I get home.
Man, I was looking forward to playing.
The ska band that played in our tent directly before us had done a decent job getting a few numbers, despite the competition from the main stage, and I was hoping they would stick around. Unfortunately, they did not. The organisers shut the bar in our tent, which didn't do much to attract punters, and by the time we started we were playing to about 20 people, while hundreds of others drifted by outside, on their way to their tent, car or oblivion. A bit of a downer after such a good day, but we shone like diamonds in any case. We played our set, and my night ended chatting with Jo and Ian (The Filthy Spectacula), nice folks both of them.

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