As anyone who travels to far off places knows, comfort in the air is all in the detail and barring the lottery win experience of getting upgraded (high in the long list of things that always happen to others) emergency exit seats are the next best thing and the holy grail of long haul flights. I have stood on tiptoes at the check in desk to exaggerate length of leg, feigned knee and back problems, put on the sweetest of smiles, turned on the works but all to no avail apart from bouts of occasional fortune usually on shorter flights.

The worst seat in the house is the middle seat, but even worse than that are the middle seats in front of the toilets. You're sandwiched between people, to your left, the window seat guy that needs to pee every half hour as he desperately downs another half litre of water to avoid his inevitable jet lag and to your right, the aisle seat man who falls asleep as you take off, begins snoring at 20,000 feet and then commences the feared neck roll, wobbling and lurching, saliva at the corner of the mouth, towards your shoulder. All this takes place within close range of the chemical perfume of air-plane toilet.

Needles to say, I had hours to mull over the different logistics of air travel on the way to Australia. Sometimes it doesn't matter how early you line up in the check in queue, how long your legs are, how stiff your lower back is and how charming your smile because your seat number clearly says B, that's a B between the window A and the aisle C. So breathe deeply,enjoy the flight, time is in the mind and the hours will pass like minutes as the in flight entertainment relaxes and entertains the weary traveller. It may have stood a passable chance of doing so had my screen been working. Two hours in, I gave up asking the grumpy flight attendant to reboot my screen, the flight being jammed with people, no more seats were available. There would be no movies for me on this the mother of all flights.
I was obviously missing out as the guy in seat C, having awoken from his slumber, laughed heartily through a series of classic comedies. It's a glamorous life sailing above the clouds..

airport securityWhile we're on the subject of airports, I have discovered that the essential job skill required for all airport staff around the world regardless of nationality or race is a profound and deep seated permanent state of grumpiness. In short, when you come across anyone working in a terminal, be it for baggage handling, an airline company, security check or customs who resembles what you knew and cherished of the human race, it can become a true cause for celebration. With tiredness kicking in, pushing you towards the irrational, you long to give them a hug of gratitude for preserving their goodness in these cold heartless places but that kind of behaviour would doubtless land you in grave trouble.

There's a guy who works in a station in Paris called Gare de lyon checking your ticket as you get on the train, who's the cheeriest fellow I've ever come across, greeting everyone he checks with a huge smile, he finds names for people on the spot, teasing them, gently but always respectfully, making them laugh, sending them on their way with a smile. This guy should be training people all over the world with jobs in public spaces. He gets the work done, he's good at what he does but he brings warmth and laughter too to everyone that come across him.
I feel a rant coming..The jetlag's kicking in, tiredness'll do that for you, follow my rambling mind!

When you laugh or smile, your face changes, the hardness melts.
Robots or computers haven't learned to laugh yet because laughter is basically subversion, a flipping of the codes.
If you make a sketch of a guy slipping on a banana skin, people will laugh, dress him up as a policeman and the laughs double up.
The higher up you are the harder you fall.

So move into line, and don't ever smile, laugh or heaven forbid... joke.

and remember always be grateful because of course, it's for your own good.

But I have an alternative..

Here are some of my policies:
Free money until it runs out by which time we'll have found an alternative
Free food and housing
Politicians and criminals to be laughed at until they get the joke and join in
Laughter classes for those that still don't get it
Free morning massages for all
No more TV
Compulsory Gardening *
Less school more play
Less maths
Slowness over speed
Hugging
All government buildings and public spaces to be painted inside and out in bright primary colours
Doctors to be accompanied by clowns and stand up comics at all times
Abolishment of borders and passports
All research funds into warfare and weapons used instead to find new ways of sustaining biodiversity and the environment
More joy less anger
More love much less war
All military equipment neutralised and painted bright pink
Military zones turned into huge free yoga, meditation parks and festival sites

*Being a free world, none of this would be compulsory, except of course the gardening...Where was I again?

SydneyWith Ben HarperTearing sky was out in Australia and along with the usual promotional activities, we were to open for Ben Harper at his Sydney shows and to play some festivals in Perth, Point Nepean near Melbourne and Byron Bay. There were some big names attending the festivals and I had the luck of sharing a seat next to Taj Mahal on the flight to Melbourne. His growling deep voice and huge frame belied the friendliest of natures and in no time I made sure he got no rest on the flight by firing him with question after question from take off to landing.

Here was someone who had bridged the generations from the legendary likes of skip James and Reverend Gary Davis to the present day singers and players. A living link in a line of legends. Naturally I asked him about Skip James, the greatest and most idiosyncratic of all the bluesmen. Taj had met him when he was a young man and his descriptive portrait of him confirmed the one I'd built up of him over the years listening again and again to songs like Devil got my woman, Washington DC Hospital blues or I'm so glad. Strange how without knowing anything about him, somehow his music had already made me familiar with him. We spoke about many things, about guitar tunings and National guitars, the Kora and Ngoni and about Mali and the great Ballake Sissoko who we've both played and recorded with. I gave Taj a copy of 'Tearing Sky' feeling like one of those kids who wait after shows to give me their cds, not knowing whether it will be listened to or not. I always listen to what I'm given, I guess I have a bit more time than he does, who knows, maybe he'll give it a play and the great Taj might nod his head approvingly as he listens. I'll never know but it doesn't really matter, I met the man.

Taj MahalTaj Mahal's performance at Byron Bay Blues Festival was a great highlight of the trip but Ben Harper and the Innocent Criminals take some beating when it comes to whipping up a crowd into a frenzy, I was honoured to be a part of their gig at the end of the show playing 'Masters of War' with them, singing alternate verses with Jack Johnson and Ben Harper.


Byron BayWith Jose and AdamWith Ben Harper


Photographs of Ben Harper and Australia by evil vince. to see more great photos check out www.evilvince.com

(Milano, Torino, Firenze down to Napoli and Roma and then Toulouse, Nantes, Trebry and Strasbourg via La Cigale in Paris)

One thing I love about playing in France is the quality of listening that can settle over a crowd here. Its a joy to play with that energy nestling between the notes. However silence, as iI have discovered, is not to everyone's taste so at one of the shows while playing 'Talk to her' on my own and to a seemingly appreciative and hushed audience , a voice from the back angrily called out, 'Piers Faccini, you're too sad, stop, stop at once, you're too sad.' immediately, a collective hhhh from the crowd rang out with a ' If you don't like it, leave' coming from the other side of the room. 'You're too sad, you're way too sad, I can't take it' he carried on, his record stuck resolutely into the groove.
Just as i was wondering how I should best deal with the man, a burly security man accompanied the prostester out of the club. I thought of my dear friend Francesca Beard from our first band Charley Marlowe, who is the undisputed queen of putting down hecklers. Like a lioness sensing danger to her pride, hands on hips, she would bring on the danger and go straight for the jugular. This guy would have stood no chance with her.
When your tongue's been metaphorically ripped out of your throat, the green exit sign looms large, beckoning escape from ridicule.

Being attacked for being too sad has been a recurring theme in gigs since the beginning of my playing days and back in the day when I'd find myself on stage without Francesca I'd feel like a cat without a bite, more whiskas than big game.
Francesca has the gift of word, only fools do battle with her, she's the empress of the put down.

Going back to my resident heckler, I wondered what it was that had trriggered this reaction, talk to her is after all not a sad song, at a stretch you could even say its celebratory, albeit in a very quiet way, more Indian raga than kool and the gang. But for some of us any let up from the noise, any small crack through which silence peeks through is enough to run screaming from. I took it as a compliment, beats apathy anyday.

Maybe I've learnt something over the years,. I was once heckled at the 12bar club in Denmark street many years ago as i launched into yet another fragile finger plucked ballad. " Haven't you got any happy songs mate?" a voice drunkenly called out. I paused, an awkward silence descending on the small crowd. The pause grew uncomfortably, yawning open like a black hole that i longed to dive into. I looked out. ' No,' I said, 'I don't .. sorry." I resumed the song resigned to my reputation, the sad young balladeer.

So some things shift over the years, the masks change and sadness lifts off you like a winter coat and the gloom is despatched off to another more receptive, introspective intense 22 year old soul . Melancholy is just one of many beautiful colours, after a while you learn to vary your palette.

Some one at a gig in France recently told me that the song ' Come the harvest' was the most joyful love song she'd ever heard. I asked her if she could heckle me from the crowd next time just to balance the picture, " Piers Faccini, don't stop you're too happy!' now that would be something, 12 bar club, if you could see me now...

Back in time to Italy.

julesFor the Italian tour, I'd decided it was time to pluck up enough courage to brave potential ridicule and sing one of my favourite Neapolitan songs before an Italian audience and if all went well, I'd try it in the home of song, Napoli.
I sung it for the first time in Firenze as an encore and when I got to the end of the song and asked if there were any Neaopolitans in the crowd so that I could proudly have my pronounciation approved only Jules Bikoko who plays bass with me put up his hand. Jules is from Cameroun. I'd have to wait until we got to Napoli.

Taking a little moment outside that particular story, let's talk about pizza. I'm the unofficial ambassador for the universal recognition throughout the world and known galaxy that the best pizza is still to be found in its original birthplace, Napoli. Move over all pretenders, taste and be humbled. You never really stood a chance.
There is only one place where are all the skill, know how and ingredients combine and it's Napoli.

massimominchiate

When you eat the pizza here, it's as if you've never had pizza before, the perfect dough fired up in a wood oven, lightly crispy at the edge, soft in the middle under the weight of the tomato infused with a few leaves of basil and the prize in each morsel a perfectly melted piece of mozzarella di buffala. When pizza's as good as this, it's a crime to put anything more onto it.

Needless to say, as soon as we arrived in Napoli, our bellies were extremely well taken care of. My percussionist friend Bruno Senese came and played with us on a few songs that night, he plays the traditional frame drum of the south of Italy called la tamorra, his playing is wonderful and the song uncover my eyes sounded all the more mysterious and hypnotic with his touch. He also makes the drums himself and I'd ordered one off him a year or so ago, but the technique of playing is horribly difficult. I'm still a long ways off playing one live with anything approaching any skill.

I did sing ' Dicitencela Vuje' and as I launched into the first verse, there were gasps of surprise followed by waves of thunderous applause. Carried off on that stream of goodwill, the song played itself, the fingers strummed, the voice carressed. I made it to the end ok, I didn't mess up, I'd been working up to this for a while and when I finished there was more than one tearfull eye in the house. Its that kind of song for that kind of people.

After the Roma show at the Auditorium, we went off, con la famiglia, for a few days in Puglia. My brother had hooked us up with a place there near Lecce, nestled amongst the ancient olive groves. Some of my favourite music in the world comes from the Salento region of La Puglia, This traditional music based around the voice and the 'tammora' is called 'la Pizzica' and goes back in history further than can be remembered. The last remaining and greatest living exponent of this ancient form of song is called Uccio Aloisi and I've been a fan ever since I first heard his voice. Uccio is nearly 80 years old and is an olive farmer by living and although he doesn't know how to read or write, he knows all the songs by heart and has been singing longer than any one can remember. We were staying nearby to where Uccio comes from and my brother through some friends had organised a dinner where I could meet him.

UccioWhen I walked into the room, Uccio was already sitting at the table, his large gnarled hands resting before him, a flat cap resting on his sun lined face. His handshake was strong and his eyes piercing, directing the kind of look that comes only from someone who lives without everyday lies, in other words, without bullshit. A clear look, clean and simple like a good conscience.

eyes that say truth
eyes that know
eyes like windows
eyes for a clear day

Wine was uncorked and served and within a few minutes, Uccio began singing accompanied only by a younger man who is also in his group, these two voices filled all the room, brought everything to a halt and tears to my eyes. I wanted to sing something in return, something that I could sing out fully so I sang an old gospel song for the room and although Uccio didn't even know which language I was even singing in, he joined in with me, picking out the rythmns he wanted to hear or syllables that sounded familiar. We ate and drank more and Uccio and Domenico sang well into the night.
I love Uccio in the same way I love Ballake Cissoko who played on Tearing Sky, they represent something I have always had a great nostalgia for but will never be able to know myself. They're born into a tradition, Ballake comes from a line of kora players going back centuries, the songs Uccio sings have been sung even longer. I'm a mongrel, my blood comes from scattered corners of the globe, I have no tradition so I have no choice but to make my own, I invent it as I go along so that I too can taste the alchemy as they do and make it sing. I don't know if it works but it's ll i can do.
Riches come in endless ways, but sometimes the greatest treasures go undiscovered, I thank my lucky stars I heard and met this jewel called Uccio.
Somethings change with the years, the same songs are sung but the delivery is different. No one will ever be able to sing these songs with as much force or raw beauty again. No one who has grown up with TV and the web, world news and travel could ever grasp it in the same way as someone who was born into the land and times that he was.
In Salentino, the dialect of this part of Puglia, there are 12 words for earth, in Italian, there's only one. Only if you know the secret of all these words can you sing la Pizzica like Uccio.