Words: Stee Duda
Just before tea, about 3:30 in the afternoon, it’s a balmy 39 degrees and hailing—another gorgeous August afternoon in the Scottish highlands. We’ve been driving since early morning. The roadie (me) wants to choke the life out of the guitar player. The singer is pouting and taking a vow of silence. We are hungry, thirsty and tired, and no one knows the exact location of the night’s gig. At this moment, as we pass over another bustling, trout-packed stream etched into the hills somewhere near Dalwhinnie, I realize I’m truly screwed. How did I end up in the far-flung northern wilds, probably lost, certainly hungover and utterly devoid of any sort of angling implements?
To be honest, the decision involved more than a few pints. There was that adorable singer chick who looked like an angel and sounded like Loretta Lynn with her hair on fire, and the band was shit-hot and could play both country and western. Promises were allegedly made between the driver, soundman, guitar carrier, T-shirt seller and tour manager for a three-month, 50-date Euro tour. Hey, no problemo, baby. Where do I sign?
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