Bill Nelson's Diary - May
2004
May 9
Friday, 9th May 2004 -- 6:30 PM
Returned from Italy on Wednesday, one day earlier than originally
planned. My pal Hal's notion of there being 'no such thing as a bad trip to
Italy' unfortunately didn't hold water (though the clouds certainly did...). All
in all, it was a trip to hell and back, 'though no fault of Italy
itself...
The main problem was that I became ill just two hours prior to
leaving home. Things got very much worse when I arrived in Soave, constant
stomach discomfort, six days of terrible diarrhea and an evening of
Olympic-class projectile vomiting. I was too ill to play. And as if that wasn't
enough, most of the time it rained, some days absolutely bucketing it down. Glad
to be home, although my health still isn't 100%. It's been the worst
sickness I've had to endure for some years. The trip was a pain in the ass in
more ways than those mentioned above... but that's another story. I won't go
into it in too much detail here (for reasons of 'diplomacy') but, suffice
to say, illness wasn't the only discomfort I endured.
I'd originally been
led to believe that I'd be playing three separate half-hour sets, one set for
each night of the three day event. As noted previously in these diary pages, I
had put a lot of effort into preparing these performances. This involved me
making two new tunes especially for the Soave show, plus a couple of week's work
sorting them (and the set) out, plus the expense and time of mastering the
backing tracks over at Fairview in Hull. Despite my usual pre-performance
nerves, I was genuinely looking forward to presenting my music to the Soave
audience. Perhaps something different from the other things on offer there.
Anyway, it wasn't to be...
Upon our arrival (Thursday night) I discovered
that the event's organiser was under the impression that I was only to perform
as part of Brendan Croker's 'backing band' on the Friday evening only. As
Brendon didn't have a backing band, this came as a surprise to all
concerned. Maybe a misunderstanding, a lost-in-translation moment? Anyway, it
seemed that there was neither space nor time for me to perform as part of the
Friday show so they said they'd try to fit me in on the Saturday or
Sunday instead. As I wasn't feeling too well, I thought this might not be
a bad thing....at least I'd have time to recover from whatever it was that ailed
me. Saturday came and I actually felt worse, so much so that Emiko asked
the hotel to call a doctor. I personally never call doctors or visit them
unless there's absolutely no alternative... The result of a life-long phobia of
all things medical. (See my autobiography as to why.) Nevertheless, feeling
so ill, I accepted that I would have to seek medical attention. After an
hour or so, a young Palestinian man arrived with his medical bag...I explained
my problem and he diagnosed 'intestinal influenza'. He cheerfully took a syringe
and phial out of his bag and asked me if I'd got any alcohol. I was
puzzled...Surely a doctor would carry alcohol in his bag to sterilize needles in
such situations? I told him I hadn't got any of the hard stuff so he called
down to the Hotel's reception and asked them if they could oblige. A few minutes
later, an attractive, red-haired, smiling hotel receptionist entered my room,
carrying a bottle of what looked like a bottle of pure alcohol. She hung around
for a few moments as I bared my beautiful, smooth as a baby's bum backside in
preparation for the jab. Just before the needle struck, she left the room,
grinning. A Sadist, thought I.
After my injection, the doctor wrote out a
prescription for some tablets which he assured me would have me feeling better
in double quick time. Emi went to find a pharmacy but it turned out that none
were open in Soave as there was some sort of local holiday in operation. Apart
from the guitar show and a couple of bar/restaurants, the town was closed. The
hotel receptionist said she'd arrange for a member of staff to drive over to
Verona to pick up the medicine, provided we'd pay for the trip. Emi said OK
and
returned to our room to tell me what was happening. Meanwhile, I'd pondered
the mystery of the doctor with no alcohol, wondering if it was because he was a
Muslim and was forbidden to carry alcohol about his person. The Palestinian
doctor and I had exchanged small talk about the troubles in the middle east. I'd
assured him I was neither American nor a supporter of Blair's pro-Bush policies.
When a man is about to stick a needle in your ass, you don't want to risk any
political misunderstandings. Eventually, my medicine arrived. I took the
prescribed dose and waited. No sign of improvement...my stomach still behaved
like a washing machine stuck on its spin cycle. I waited some more, praying, to
whatever Catholic Saints and Holy Martyrs were hovering in the local ether, that
the medication would cure my ills...
After a while, I thought that I might
feel better if I crawled out of my sick bed and attempted to join the Music
Ground entourage. Emi helped me to dress and we ambled weakly along to the venue
where the guitar show was being held. I had a quick look around... The usual
endless displays of vintage Stratocasters and Les Pauls were being offered for
sale at crazy prices. There were a couple of beautiful custom-built archtops
that were almost stunning but the rest was predictable and not very
exciting commercial fodder. Hardly anything to tempt a real oddball guitar
aficionado such as myself. Whatever there had been along these lines was
already snapped up by my friend Rick Harrison whose Music Ground shop is stuffed
full of strange old guitars. I found some members of our touring party
(mostly various guitar trader's wives) sitting outside a cafe-bar across the
road from the venue, busily intent on drinking Soave dry of it's wonderful white
wine. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately, considering the cartoon-like
inebriation on display), I was not only forbidden from the partaking of alcohol
(on the doctor's instructions), but physically felt far too sick to even
contemplate such a thing. Instead, I was left to sit and observe the gradual
onset of alcoholic decay amongst our companions. Some handled it lightly with a
kind of noisy charm and clumsy grace, whilst others were less kindly disposed.
By such unfortunate means do devils reveal themselves. Amazing how much anger
and vitriol some people bottle up inside themselves, allowing its release only
via the vulgar lever of drink.
Emi and I are, (by nature), quiet,
easy-going creatures, deriving our pleasures in such situations from the
local culture: music, art, literature, history, landscape, etc, etc...the gentle
joys of two civilised, moderately intelligent, humanists. Perhaps people of a
different disposition might think such characteristics boring or even
weird. Hey ho...
Anyway, after a while, Emi and I decided to escape
the bacchanalian revels and took a walk up the road and out of the village. On
the edge of Soave, just where the fields of grape vines take over from the
villas, we found a small sanctuary devoted to the Madonna. (I think it
was called 'The Sanctuary Of The Madonna Of Bassenella', or something
similar...I should have written it down.) It was one of only two days when there
was any sunshine and the little sanctuary looked lovely in the warm light. Emi and
I went inside. We were the only people there and it was simply beautiful, the
ceiling being exquisitely painted. A moment of much needed sanity. We emerged
from the building and Emi took my photograph with the sanctuary in the
background. (Unfortunately, looking at the picture now, I am too horrified by my
own appearance to print it as part of this diary entry. All is vanity...) I took
a picture of Emi and some of the surrounding landscape and bid the little
sanctuary farewell. By now, I was feeling washed out and exhausted so we gently
strolled back into Soave and our hotel.
By Sunday evening, the final night
of the show, I had entered the projectile vomiting stage of my illness.
Incapable of playing, my only function in life centred around my new-found
ability to spray the walls of the hotel bathroom with a violent gush of bodily
fluids in the manner of a demonically possessed Linda Blair. As I'd hardly been
able to eat anything, this copious profusion of excreta constituted a kind of
miracle in itself. Where the hell was it all coming from?
So that was
it....one way or another, I couldn't perform on any of the three nights.
The medication seemed to have had no effect on my condition at all and the
unpleasant symptoms drearily continued. I longed to be back home in my own bed
where I might stand a better chance of recovery, away from the situation I found
myself in. Nevertheless, I tried to keep up a brave face, attempting to eat as
the doctor had instructed me to, although a few slow mouthfuls of anything was
all I could manage. I was getting through endless toilet rolls back at the hotel
and the poor chambermaids must have been mystified by my voracious consumption
of them.
|
Soave,
Italy by Bill Nelson
|
We were now supposed to be into the 'holiday' portion of our trip.
The less said about this the better. My long-wished-for visit to Venice never
materialised for reasons entirely separate from my illness (I would have
attempted to drag myself there regardless but other things conspired to nix the
opportunity, a train strike being just one of them). Thankfully, there was
one brief respite from the rambling disorganisation when we managed to
grab a few hours in the rain-drenched town of Mantua and were able to visit the
Ducal Palace there, which is now a museum. (Thanks to Rick Harrison for buying
us the tickets for this, even though he was on his mobile phone doing business
as we strolled through the many rooms. Poor Rick hardly seems to allow himself a
moment's respite from his buyings and sellings.) Even though I felt as sick as
the proverbial dog, I was determined to see something of Mantua and, for
a brief while, subsumed my physical discomfort in the heady glory of the old
Ducal Palace. The decorative art, frescos and paintings of the ancient
building were exquisite. One room had tremendous ceiling decorations depicting
the entire alchemical process in all its symbolic glory. Absolutely wonderful
stuff! I could have stayed for hours taking it all in, but certain members of
our entourage were intent on uncorking further reserves of the local wine and
were getting rather bad-tempered and jittery as their alcohol levels became
dangerously close to the 'sober' mark. We were rushed through the final rooms of
the palace and back onto the rainy streets of Mantua, in search of toilets and
more wine. I guess that I shouldn't have been so selfish with my art passions
and should have thought more about those of our party who were more attuned to
other, more worldly pursuits. In the midst of my enthusiasms, I tend to forget
that art and history are of little interest to certain people.
|
Bill
Nelson and Rick Harrison in Soave, Italy
|
Speaking of
art: Mantua's most famous son was the poet Virgil, and Aldous Huxley said that
Mantua was the most romantic city he'd ever visited. Well...definitely worth
braving the rain for in my opinion. Emi and I, though wet and windblown,
explored a wonderful circular church whilst our friends refreshed themselves in
a nearby cafe-bar. I would dearly love to return to Mantua when things are more
conducive to a relaxed exploration of its treasures. I missed out on so much but
the little taste I had of Italian history and culture made me long to
return. Due to the ongoing bad weather, it was decided to go back to England
a day earlier than planned. This suited me perfectly as I was still far from
well in the stomach/ bowel department and felt increasingly frustrated by the
situation I found myself caught up in. But...as I said, Emiko and I will
definitely be returning to Italy at some time in the future to allow
ourselves a more leisurely, calm appreciation of the country's cultural
richness. Just the two of us. No pressure, no arguments, no sickness,
physically or otherwise.
More uncomfortable situations at the airport on our
departure for England but, once again, I won't go into them here for fear of my
own frustrations rising to the surface and destroying my hard won Buddhist calm.
It's not worth the grief of re-living it. Just good to be home, even though
there are endless work duties awaiting my attention. A big thank you to the
long-suffering Rick Harrison though...A man destined for sainthood if ever there
was one, a golden rooster among hen-pecked chickens. He did his very best to
show us a good time, 'though the fates were against it. Thanks also to
Brendan Croker for understanding my plight and for lending me his magnificent
custom built 'harp-guitar' which sits next to me here in my studio as I type
these words. I will devise a piece of music to record with it this coming week
and then return it.
Right now, I'm attending to my recovery and a boatload of
other things. Not completely well yet, but much better than I was.
on to June 2004
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