Tunis

So Anathema finally make good on their promise and return to play a gig that should have happened well over a year ago, the venue this time being an old prison rather than an important and culturally sensitive national landmark. I guess they thought it would be handy to have cells close to hand in case a spot of impromptu cat sacrificing broke out mid-gig (government officials were present just in case, scrutinising events from an elevated row of patio chairs, and a couple of not very secret agents were reportedly seen shadowing band members as they enjoyed a drink in a local bar later that night). As he's currently lounging around in Majorca, John's drum stool was filled on this occasion by Portuguese stand-in Daniel Cardoso who did an incredible job considering he'd had just one and a half rehearsals. Great drummer though he is, he does have some work to do before he reaches the standard of the legendary John Douglas. For example, I imagine it would be quite some time before he's seen baring his arse at Danny from the side of the stage during a heartfelt and tender acoustic number. You've either got it or you haven't.

The Tunisians now hold the gold medal in the "hotel furthest from venue" sub-category of international pro-celebrity gig sorting, making the Russians look like rank amateurs and leaving them smarting in humiliation. I honestly don't know what the Tunisians were thinking (a common notion, I found). It's like playing a gig in Manchester and staying in Birmingham, it being a tortuous slog down the motorway (a game which involves driving very slowly while keeping the white line separating the lanes as close to the centre of your bonnet as possible) to and from our annoying beach resort hotel where they served tasteless beer that doesn't get you pissed and where I felt like a tit dressed as a roadie among all the vacationing families. Who's bright idea was it to dump a rock band and their crew in a place where all the entertainment and facilities are designed to please ten-year-olds anyway? The person whose uncle runs the bloody place, that's who. God knows what the rest of the guests thought of us, though I have a good idea what some of the staff were thinking. As Mark and I ate our dinner one evening the waiter insisted on putting a floral spray on our table (replacing it after I moved it), asking us in that particular way if we were enjoying our stay. And then there was the Tunisian Bruno who it seems would have been prepared to do anything to get one of us to have a game of ping pong with him. Jay finally obliged (and beat him), but the only thing Bruno bummed that day was a couple of cigarettes off Les.

Anyway, after the gig (more on that later) we got back to the hotel at three-am, and deciding not to visit a nearby bar with everyone else as I was bloody knackered, I went straight to my room where I found all my belongings were missing - clean clothes, shampoo, the lot. It turns out the maid had somehow misinterpreted my reply of "no thanks" when she'd asked earlier if I wanted my room cleaned as "yes, and not only that, can you remove all my possessions and put them in your office, apart from any toiletries which you should put in a carrier bag and hide it under the bed." Seriously, the mind boggles. Anyway, after remonstrating with the front desk I was eventually told my things were in safe hands and would be brought to me in the morning, though they would wait for me to call so I wouldn't be disturbed. Unsurprisingly, I was woken up at eight-thirty by the maid hammering on the door. I was not happy. I tried to get back to sleep but conceded defeat a couple of hours later and went for some food and a couple of beers in an effort to feel sleepy again. It did the trick and I went back to bed. An hour or so later the phone rang, and like an idiot I answered it. I was to immediately vacate the room - they needed it for new arrivals. So instead of slumbering in air-conditioned loveliness I found myself seething and drinking vodka in the insane heat while watching masochistic nutters doing aerobics to bad techno music. I really was not happy. I put my stuff in Les's room (he'd forgotten to put his "coldener" on so it was mafting in there), returning a little while later for a much needed nap, only to turfed out of there after half an hour as they needed that room as well. What the hell was going on? It felt as if there was some insane conspiracy to make my stay in Tunisia as miserable and frustrating as possible. Our flight back to the UK wasn't until two-thitrty in the morning (why??) but that didn't stop our hosts from then deciding we'd be picked up at seven to go to a bar in Tunis until it was time to go to the airport. What? Are you insane?

LEAVE ME ALONE! ALL I WANT IS SOME SLEEP!

We refused to go along with their stupid plans anymore and I went and sat in a corner with my headphones on and listened to some Cardiacs to calm myself down. We were finally picked up at ten and I don't think I've ever been more relieved to get the hell out of anywhere in my life.

Anyway, the gig, allowed to go ahead despite more accusations of satanism, was good though the PA lacked oomph. The crowd had a great time, though sadly absent was the lovely Myriam who'd made such an effort to make our stay pleasant last time we visited, refused entry by some dick head among the promoter's entourage who'd been "wronged" in some way. Grow up idiot. Support act Carthogods were entertaining, having brought Fabio Lione over from Italy for a spot of stunt singing. Universal was played with an interesting twist and the mayor of Tunis was sufficiently impressed to allow more rock at the venue in the future. Good though this news is, I really don't know how long it'll be before I'll feel like making a return visit.

Best quote of the trip?

"I can say this now, my rival has a nuclear weapon on the darkness of his anus" - Ahmed Chebil on the shit-stirring, letter-writing, satanism-accusing rival promoter.

And the moral to this tale? Never suggest a Tunisian man's wife is a donkey.

Pistoia Blues Festival

More baking heat, this time in Tuscany - a beautiful part of the planet and a world away from the bits of Italy I've found myself in previously. All was going well until we found we'd been delivered to the wrong hotel - suddenly whisked from air conditioned luxury to a town centre three-star with faulty plumbing and a decidedly rickety elevator. Still, we were close to bars and restaurants and suchlike so it was a fair trade-off as the other one was in the middle of nowhere. We ventured out for a production feed (cheers lads) in the evening and found a little place which seemed nice, nestling at the edge of an elegant square in the town of Prato. If only we'd known about the service before we sat down. What remnants of our order that survived the journey from waiter's notepad to kitchen and back to our table arrived in such a random fashion we may as well have just asked for one big plate of chips between us. Matt's burger arrived before most of the starters, these accompanied by vegetables meant for other absent main courses. A mysterious bowl of what looked like vegetable soup appeared and had us all perplexed. I then had to remind the bloke that I'd ordered some onion soup, though he decided to treat this as a brand new request which meant more agonising minutes looking on as others ate half of their dinners. Eventually I got a completely different steak to what I ordered (where was the red wine sauce?) with no roast potatoes, but tucked right in as I'd lost the will to complain. Won't be eating there again.

Pistoia is a beautiful town. The gig was in the magnificent medieval square overshadowed by a cathedral and museum on two sides, grand old buildings on the others. Porcupine Tree (headliners) were setting up when we arrived, my introduction to them amounting to being told in no uncertain terms that if anything happened to their precious stage carpet the plug would be pulled on our show. Fair enough. I'm Darryl by the way, pleased to meet you. I built a couple of pedal boards as usual (nice multi-level one for Dan this time) and watched the first two support acts from the side of the stage. North Atlantic Oscillation caught my ear - great harmonies and dynamics. Anathema played a good set and then it was time for PT to take the stage. I have to say I was intrigued by their setup. At the front were a couple of pedal boards, racks of guitars and a lovely looking old wooden keyboard. Right in the middle though, was a vacuum cleaner. I remember thinking, "Wow, that's interesting. Maybe they mic it up and put it through some effects or something". Sadly not. One of their roadies hoovered the bloody carpet with it.

I headed back to the hotel pretty early after all was done, missing the spectacle of PT's tour manager thumping a member of Astra for nicking booze and behaving like a twat, allegedly. Matt and I took advantage of the late night roast pork sandwich shop across the road from our lodgings - a bit salty but nice all the same. Les slept in the hotel corridor as Jamie couldn't hear his increasingly desperate attempts to get into the room they were sharing. Hey ho.

I have to say a big thank you to our drivers who really looked after us while we were there - top blokes the pair of them. The photo shows Porcupine Tree's crew setting up in Pistoia. (They did help us out by the way, lending us a couple of essential bits of kit, so cheers fellas.)

Hey, guess what. We're in Tunisia again on Wednesday. Watch this space.

Sonisphere Madrid

Another day, another Sonisphere. This one was going to be nuts from the start as ever-thrifty Les had us flying home the moment we cleared the stage in a worthy effort to save money on flights. Of course this would mean a pretty tight schedule, one exacerbated by hour after tedious hour of delays caused by, among other things, adverse weather and dumb passengers. We were delayed (thankfully) by thunderstorms on the way to Madrid; our flight was bumpy, Dan's and Vincent's from Paris choppier still, though the one carrying Porcupine Tree's crew was reportedly a terrifying journey into hell. The reason for the thunderstorms was the insane Spanish heat. Anathema played in blazing mid-afternoon sunshine on a baking stage (106 Fahrenheit if the thermometer was to be believed), John no doubt regretting not bringing a sombrero with him. I on the other hand could really have done with some oven gloves to aid the removal of pedals after the show. It was a speedy pack down and then straight to the airport and back to Bristol on a plane full of very well behaved though quite staggeringly talkative school children. All in a day(and a half)s work for your trusty crew. Italy and the Pistoia Blues festival on Wednesday.

One way of dealing with Spanish heat.

Sonisphere Bucharest

After a couple of hours kip in a bloody horrible Belgian hotel we got on a plane to Romania, ate a dreadful in-flight meal on the way then were dropped off at a proper big hotel in Bucharest, this one only ten minutes from the airport and right next to the festival site. Russians take note. In fact, as I constructed pedal boards in my room for the show the following day I could see Metallica playing their set. (Un?)fortunately I couldn't hear them as my window wouldn't open. According to Matt they were a bit ropey.

Despite the festival stage being enormous we ended up with an area about the size of a tea towel on which to work, the reason for this being Rammstein's stage-hogging monster of a set - all welded pipes, gas canisters and steel walkways, though I can forgive them as their concert was incredible - perfect sound, insane pyrotechnics and a wicked sense of humour. They definitely gained a few fans in the Anathema camp. We had a good titter with them at their after-show party as well, Les taking the time to engage in a bit of friendly keyboarder rivalry:

"Balls to your treadmill, I've got a mini trampoline and a unicycle!"

I look forward to the day he readies the act for stage. All in all a highly enjoyable weekend.

Graspop

A nice mellow voyage to Zebrugge on the North Sea ferry for the band to play a blinder in a packed marquee, opening with a mighty rendition of Led Zeppelin's Kashmir. Afterwards I met someone who is kind of partially responsible for my being there. The gentleman's name is Biff Byford and his band is Saxon. When I was fifteen my uncle took me to see them play at Sheffield city hall. It was the first gig I'd ever been to. Not too long after that I bought my first electric guitar, and now I make a living travelling the world tuning and re-stringing the things. So I shook Biff's hand and said thanks. All he had to say in response was "Who are you?" It meant something to me though. I also met a very knackered Lips, lead singer with Anvil. He's just as nice a bloke in the flesh as he is in the highly entertaining documentary, "Anvil: The Story of Anvil".

Jamie was rather keen to show everyone his very smart yet curiously branded sunglasses which apparently he found in his car. Here's a photo of him wearing them (click for larger view):

How they came up with that name I've no idea, but I reckon they should team up with the company that makes the television we saw in Turkey. I'd buy shares in Arcelik and Knobbout.

Cologne (continued)...

Not a good day football-wise for both Germany and England. It was embarrassing to watch our eleven idiots cluelessly chasing the ball around the pitch, our being in the company of many surprisingly cheerful though unsurprisingly crapulous locals. And what a bar we chose to watch it in - dimly lit, curiously decorated and full of weird Heath Robinson-style automated musical devices. "Tunnes & Schal", a deeply sinister robotic accordion/tuba combo relieved us of far too many of our euros, their repertoire being remarkably comprehensive and their renditions flawless. Who could possibly resist this?:

Tunnes & Schal play Kraftwerk

Luckily our ferry back to the UK was the not-too-shabby Pride of Dover, not its sister ship, the oddly depressing Pride (should be Shame) of Kent which carried us across the channel at the start of the trip.

Three days rest then it's Graspop in Belgium followed closely by Sonisphere in Bucharest.

Cologne

Just watched Germany lose to Serbia in a pleasant city square. The locals don't seem that bothered which is good as a lot them made the effort to doll themselves up for the occasion. So now we're down by the river watching USA v Slovenia, making sure we'll be in the right frame of mind for the England v Algeria game later this evening. A few Bitburgers should do the trick.

In Germany you can experience the disappointment of your team losing while waiting for your tram.

Frankfurt

A very hot and sweaty concert played to several hundred happy and excited Frankfurters. Danny rather aptly dedicated his performance of "Are You There?" to a chap in the audience called Amir. Most amusing.

Just arrived in Frankfurt and it's piddling down. Not much to report from Hamburg - good crowd, good local crew, nice take on the traditional ham and cheese load-in grub. All very efficient.

Germany

Well on our way to Dover and we find ourselves on the bus that took us to Scandinavia and back last autumn, though it's had a lick of paint and a new bog since then. I wonder if that's anything to do with the fact it's also the bus that followed Davina McCall and David Walliams (among others) on their recent charity bike ride for sport relief. Apparently we're much nicer to have on board. With the bus comes top driver and all-round good (dirty-minded) bloke Tim, who never fails to inspire confidence whenever we entrust our lives to him. Among the improvements to the bus, I've noticed the kettle has been replaced, or "upgraded" as some might put it. I wouldn't. The new one glows blue, and when it's ready it spits out exactly one mug's worth of boiling water (note to self: remember to put a mug there). It's not so much a tea's made, more a "water's poured". Now call me old fashioned, but sometimes I want more, or less, than exactly one mug of boiling water. What about my noodles? What about John's "Vesta" ready meals (which I haven't come across since the 1980s)? What if I want tea in a small china cup? The possibilities of being annoyed by this thing are probably endless, though I can't think of any more potential grievances right now. Why re-invent the bloody wheel though?

Download 2010..

..or "Heavy Metal Holidays" as Les so aptly puts it. Anathema played a blinding half hour set and then after a frantic pack down I found my old mate Darren who'd been parked up, patiently waiting until I could get his ticket to him. What followed was booze, food and a stunning set by AC/DC who I expected would be entertaining but not nearly as good as this. Later poor Darren had to wander the campsite and eventually curl up on the grass as an inebriated Jamie had nicked his sleeping quarters, though in his defence Jay had erected two tents and got to sleep in neither.

Shame I didn't get to have a beer with Emily (who I hadn't seen since she was five years old) and her Das Bunk sign - sorry, mobile phone trouble meant I didn't get the message until I was back home. There'll be another time.

Germany on Tuesday and back to the world of bunk.

Matt Rowley is Monitor Man

London

The near demise of a crow and a motorcyclist were nothing compared to the greenfly genocide on the windscreen of Les's trusty van on our eventful trip down to the capital. An atmospheric show at the Islington Academy was almost cut short due to a baffling technical issue affecting Danny's amp and pedals.  It turns out John's china crash had fallen from the drum riser, hitting the switch on the power outlet supplying Dan's side of the stage on its way down. Now what are the chances of that happening? An impromptu acoustic "Are You There?" filled the gap nicely and we were on our way again. It was an excellent gig, and I think everyone's now enjoying a well-earned chill out before Germany in a few weeks.

Ekaterinburg

(I think I have this figured out - from left to right: Margaret Thatcher, Michaela Strachan, an Anathema pick for whoever correctly guesses the bloke in the glasses. A young Billy Crystal?)

Ekaterinburg was bleak compared to Moscow and St. Petersburg, though nowhere looks particularly appealing when the weather's drab. A sizeable portion of the city's population appear to make their homes in ramshackle tin roofed huts which I imagine would be quite cozy in the winter months when the fire's going. It was odd to find such a well specified venue in the midst of all of this, and I'm still struggling to figure out the meaning of the giant silver blob hanging from a knackered crane at the building's rear.

The food during our visit to Russia was uniformly excellent, goulash soup being a particular highlight for me. I got to try proper Borscht for the first time as well. The meal on the Ural Airlines flight back to Moscow was such a vast improvement on the one served coming in that I can only assume they read what I said about them in my previous post and gave the catering company a massive kick up the backside. So, do fly with them if you wish, they're alright. The BA flight back to Heathrow was great, only a third full and staffed by stewardesses whose sole purpose seemed to be to keep us in food and perfectly chilled booze. To top it all we were chasing a beautiful sunset for much of our journey west, and the view of London as we came in to land was quite simply incredible.

I like Russia a lot. Everyone we met, be they fans, local crew, hotel staff or whoever were friendly and helpful, and the country itself frequently impressed with its sheer scale and rough edged beauty. I find it hard to believe that I spent so much of my early teens terrified the USSR would blow the crap out of us with no more than four minutes notice, though I feel I may have the BBC to blame for that with their gritty apocalyptic dramas of the time. I'm already looking forward to a return visit.

Ronnie James Dio 1942-2010. Much respect.

A conversation between our Russian promoters:

"Right, we've got an English rock band coming to play a concert tomorrow, they're going to need a hotel for the night."
"Okay, how about this one?"
"How far is it from the venue?"
"Fecking miles away."
"That sounds perfect. Ah, hang on a minute, it's quite close to the airport."
"You're right, I didn't notice that. There is another one that's sodding well hours away from both the airport and the venue."
"That sounds good, we'll stick them in that one."
"They're going to want to eat tomorrow lunchtime. We should find a restaurant that takes so long to get to they'll feel they might starve to death by the roadside before they get even halfway there."
"Yes, and it should have seventies funk-disco music playing continuously while they eat."
"I know of a place which satisfies both criteria."
"Good. Then let me ask you a question. For the drive there, how bumpy will the roads be?"
"Incredibly so."
"Excellent, book it immediately."

 "It seems our arrangements for the band are complete. Lets have some vodka."
"Cheers."

Moscow

More post-gig drunken shenanigans at the Tochka Club last night after a well attended and entertaining show. Lord knows what time everyone got back to the hotel but it took a major feat of people-management (and white knuckle driving) to get everybody up and to the airport in time for the flight to Ekaterinburg, upon which was cheerlessly served the worst meal in the history of air travel, unless of course greasy pressed ham and horrible cake are your kind of thing. The stewardess burned me twice with her kettle, the dimwit, and this was while she was apologising to another passenger for spilling water over him. Don't fly Ural Airlines, even if they advertise on this page. Russia seems to be caught up in a bumpiest roads contest with Turkey, and I tell you, if I were a betting man I'd have trouble deciding who to put my well-earned fiver on right now. We're starting to wonder if we'll get back to the UK on schedule, what with that pesky volcano and the looming BA strike.

St. Petersburg

It was a jolly good gig enjoyed by many in the worryingly crumbling city of St. Petersburg where I can honestly say I've never seen such filthy cars - all of them covered in a thick layer of light brown dust. Come to think of it, I don't think we passed a single car wash on our excessively long journey from the hotel to the venue so perhaps the two phenomena are related. After the show we boarded the overnight train to Moscow, a most agreeable mode of transport unless you're the poor sods in the compartment next to the vodka-fuelled big sweaty man's singing competition which regretably I missed by retiring to my cabin early like a good guitar tech. Les has been taking full advantage of the legendary Russian hospitality by having Kellog's Vodka Flakes for breakfast (part of your five a day over here) making for some incredibly artful swearing at all sorts of odd hours, though I must say there have been far too many utterances regarding "hairy arses" and suchlike for my sensitive ears. He also has a new and novel means of finding his way home should he become lost.

About to have dinner in the excellent Tochka club in Moscow. Might go for the ribeye steak.

Thank You Sporty Much!

Russia

Another flight at bollocks o'clock (or bollocks-hundred hours if you've done military service) in the morning from Heathrow meaning a through-the-night slog down the M6 from Heckmondwike via Liverpool. Basically you miss a night's sleep doing it this way, one you'll never get a chance to catch up on. I bet I missed some great dreams. The fatigue does make for quite a pleasant floaty feeling on the plane after a couple of ales though, and conveniently helps one overlook the rude behaviour of French fellow passengers (you know who you are Madame avec le gros cul). Mark (from Cornwall) quite sensibly booked himself a hotel room near the airport for the night so he's nice and fresh, the bastard. Now why didn't I think of that? Les was most impressed with Terminal 5, particularly the thoughtful inclusion of a bar right next to our boarding gate. I don't know how but we managed to shrink our check-in baggage tally to nine items from nineteen - a miracle of downsizing if ever I saw one, though Dan still carries with him a suitcase the size of a chest freezer. First time flying with British Airways for me - might as well have been EasyJet. Most unremarkable. Our Russian hosts met us at the airport. They are called Igor and Dmitri. It's like arriving in Scotland and being met by Jimmy McSporran. Perfect.

Only with this band...

...would you find yourself printing Russian visa applications in the back of a van in the car park of the Staines branch of PC World having just got off a flight from Istanbul after an insane bus ride through perilous terrain at the end of six days hard slog with little sleep and sporadic feasts and an absolute ton of laughs. Beats working in an office.

See you in St Petersburg on Thursday morning.

Today's workplace...

...and I take it all back. The local crew in Izmir (a company called Diva) have been superb. They even keep the cables tidy.

Sleep

Why is it so difficult to sleep on this bus? It's a nice bus, kitted out like a narrow boat on wheels - you can't look anywhere without seeing polished wood of some description. The bunks are comfortable and spacious (with a full window this time) and all the facilities one would expect are present and correct - playstation, dvd, well-stocked fridge, etc. Ooh, and wifi! Maybe it's the schedule we've been keeping? Once we're loaded up and ready to go it's generally gone two in the morning and that often heralds the first chance we've had to get something decent to eat all day. Or maybe it's the bumpiness of the Turkish roads? It seems you can't go more than two hundred yards in this country without feeling you've driven over a badly designed cattle grid. Or some cattle. You're continually being jolted awake from your shallow slumber, all the while fearing that if the driver takes the next corner too speedily you might find yourself in a heap among the socks in the aisle. Then again it could be the heat. The bus has excellent air conditioning, though unfortunately it's being rationed like food in a Dickensian workhouse. When asked to turn it on the driver cheerily obliges, as he should as the band are paying for it, but then works under the assumption that this will be the only occasion, ever, that we will require cool air. Surely it should have clicked by now, after the quadrillionth time of being asked? If it's hot (which it is, every day) turn the damn thing on. I can hear Bill Hicks' father now as he responds to his son's request for the blessed relief of air-con as they drive through the baking heat of Arizona.

"No son, it eats gas."

One generally wakes feeling mildly roughed up, coupled with the disconcerting feeling that someone's been trying to smother you with hot, damp smelly towels. Not ideal at all.

Didn't see much of Istanbul and Ankara unfortunately, partly due to the Turkish plague of half-arsed venue staff doubling or trebling the time it takes us to set up with their incompetence and lethargy. Moan, moan, moan.

On a lighter note, it's a lovely morning and we're heading to Izmir by the sea for the last show of the tour, and it's open-air. Should be a good day.

Why is this brand unavailable in the UK?

click on photo for larger view

Bursa, continued...

Bursa was just one of those gigs. It took hours and hours to set up as we were beset with so many problems (courtesy of the shittiness of the venue's equipment) that Matt almost resorted to a strike ballot within his one-man union, so miffed was he. The in-house sound guy was so lackadaisical in everything he set his mind to (or didn't) we may as well have asked the luxuriously moustached tea/popcorn dude to sort out the stage for us. The chaps who turned up with the front-of-house mixing desk suggested new tone-meister Mark Ellis position himself behind a solid pillar, lest the precious board get damaged, meaning he would neither see nor hear the band. Then to cap it all the on-stage monitoring system conked out almost before a note had been played, which merely made Matt more miffed. I also ended up doing the light show (actually two lights - must ask for a lampy bonus), this being one more thing the useless venue staff couldn't have cared less about.

"Welcome to Turkey," as our helpful local roadie Mustafa so aptly put it.

Looks like a hung parliament back home. I expect much impassioned political discourse on the bus today.

Bursa (apparently kebab capital of Turkey)

Day four (gig three) of our Turkish excursion and bunk flu has me firmly in its grip. Yesterday I felt dreadful and today I feel like shit, so thankfully there has been some measurable improvement. The germ-spreading capabilities of the onboard air conditioning system are of course to blame, the source of the outbreak almost certainly traceable to the bunk of monitor engineer Matt Rowley who's been coughing continually since we checked in at Heathrow.

The technical specs in the venues have been going steadily down hill since we started - today in Bursa we have equipment seemingly supplied by the Turkish equivalent of the Early Learning Centre. In Eskisehir last night we battled shoddy electrics, frankly bizarre mixing desk placement, a ragtag band of misfit mic stands that would not do as they were asked and a stage that, being honest, would have really benefited from a good hoovering. But, as is often the case in these situations, the gig sounded great. I guess it must fire the band up having to battle against the odds to put on a show.

Time for load in now, this time fuelled by a breakfast comprised of Les's delicious birthday cake and an ice lolly.

Antalya

A free concert in the beautiful Ataturk Culture Park where the audience were forced to share the area in front of the impossibly high stage with shrubs and hedgerows, presumably quite an inconvenience for some of them. As the show drew to a close the band were extremely honoured to accept a floral tribute from no less a notable than the minister for culture himself, graciously received by Vincent who proved himself a dignified and worthy ambassador, not only for Anathema, but for the UK music industry as a whole.