Doane Perry's Diary - October 2001

OK, so it’s October…no need to work yourself up into a lather. There’s a lot of stuff going on and I’m a “bit” behind with the update on my activities. We’re going take a little journey in the Way Back Machine, so stop complaining about my tardiness and enjoy the ride!

First, let me say thank you for all the emails you have sent to me asking questions, passing along comments about the concerts, records, band members’ waist measurements or other personal observations. Please be assured I do read ALL of them but it is impossible for me to answer them all as I find I can only just about barely keep up with my own personal email and other correspondence. I wish I could answer every one but if I tried doing that there would probably not be enough time for me to go out and play every night. Please don’t feel disheartened if you do not get a personal reply and don’t let that discourage you from writing to me in the future. I read it all and write back to those that I can.

Israel-November, 2000

This is really very strange. I am sitting in my hotel room in Tel Aviv overlooking the beach promenade below and the Mediterranean beyond. Inside my room I have CNN purring quietly on the television with a foreign correspondent updating me about the latest Israeli-Palestinian conflict in Jerusalem, the Gaza Strip and the West Bank. This has resulted in some small explosives being detonated, the inevitable human casualties and much rock throwing. Jerusalem officials are on high alert while Yasser Arafat is in Washington seeking support from the USA.

Warnings about the escalating violence and potential for further problems in the area are surrealistically counter balanced by the unfolding scene below me on the promenade. Outside my window are thousands of young and not so young people dancing, hugging, walking, milling around or just sitting watching the human spectacle, while festively decorated flatbed trucks float by with outrageously dressed and colorfully painted, undressed people dancing wildly atop them. A DJ on top of each truck loudly spins hip-hop, trip-hop, trance, techno, jungle and drum and bass music. It looks like a combination of Mardi Gras in New Orleans and a late 60’s hippie love-in.

Floating above the proceedings are individually piloted, multi-colored, motorized hand gliders resembling something out of a James Bond movie, flying up and down the beach throwing condoms and candy bars on little parachutes to the crowd below. Just beyond that are swimmers, some private yachts, a few small boats and one or two military vessels keeping a watch on things, presumably so the revelers don’t get out of hand. Ironically, I do not see a single policeman on the street. On the other hand I don’t see a single person causing any trouble. After all, this is Tel Aviv’s annual “Love Parade”. Welcome to Israel.

The day before as we were flying in from Barcelona I noticed, on approach to Tel Aviv airport, that we appeared to be accompanied by two helicopters flying close behind us on either side of the aircraft. Were we being routinely and politely escorted as we neared the Holy Land or was this supposed to be a discreet deterrent in the event of any unwanted aerial activity nearby? Errant SCUD missiles perhaps? I couldn’t help but wonder as I watched from my hotel window that other aircraft apparently en route to the same airport seemed to be mysteriously unaccompanied. Kind of spooky and I’m not sure I want to know the answer to that one.

The fish soup on the other hand is not quite so benign. It is a hard won affair where you have to really sweet talk, coax and ultimately wrestle with the whole fish, crab, shrimp, squid, mussel or clam to reveal it’s inner beauty. Unfortunately in Ian’s case it’s inner beauty turned out to be somewhat more sinister than expected, as the rather unwanted after effects held him hostage for several unpleasant hours.
Oh, by the way, the gigs are going pretty good too.

I was astonished to discover that the bottom diameter of the Hubbell Telescope is only marginally larger than one of my big Paiste concert gongs, which is also made from considerably sturdier looking metal than the outside of the Hubbell, which looks to be primarily constructed out of Reynolds Wrap. Possibly designed in one of those phases where NASA was facing nasty budget cuts. Could this have anything to do with the constant maintenance that this fantastic telescope seems to enjoy?
Apollo-Soyuz Project- this joint venture was linked together in space with a 12 ft plastic inner tube like you would find in a children’s playground. No wonder U.S.-Russian relations were shaky for so long with this sort of connective tissue.

Skylab-went inside, got some great ideas about how to reorganize our kitchen.
Early cosmonaut engineer’s space suit-talk about cutting costs in the wrong places-gray wool suit with huge holes, presumably from giant space moths-would not have looked out of place in “Plan 9 from Outer Space”. Which came first, I wonder? No silly pressurized space suits for these rough tough Ruskies… Nooooo. Space suits were for babies and Americans anyway. A nice gray woolen number was just the thing to keep them toasty warm in that cold, nasty 0 gravity. Just be careful about those giant space moths, boys. To complete the ensemble was a fairly sharp looking, double edged 4” knife, hanging from one sleeve, always at the ready, that bore an uncanny resemblance to a New York City stiletto, circa 1960, presumably to fight off space aliens and other unwanted intruders. By comparison
John Glenn’s 1962 space suit seemed like Luke Skywalker’s.

Growing up I thought, as did many young boys in the 60’s, that being an astronaut would be a pretty fantastic job and in a way I still do, however if you have any issues with claustrophobia you might want to reappraise that as a viable career option.

Inexplicably, in one room that I wandered into, thinking I was going to be seeing some documentary on space exploration, I instead saw a roomful of people watching a hockey game. I did not stay long enough to see what connection this had with the space program, if indeed it had any at all. It was entirely possible I wandered into a wormhole which had instantly transported me to a parallel dimension or possibly a Boston sports bar and delivered me back again with all my molecular structure fully intact.

Here is a listing of some of the astronaut’s personal space accessories:
-Lactona toothbrush
-Old Spice aftershave-who the hell are they having to smell so nice for in outer space anyway? Hmm….
-The urine transfer tube looked remarkably like what is commonly known in truck stops across America as “The Truckers Friend” used by those long haul drivers. Wonder where NASA got that idea?
-Money belts-now there is a truly useless item in space.
-Nail trimmers! Where in the hell do those clippings go? You don’t want one of those floating around in your hard disk drive. “Ahh, Houston, we have a problem”.

Command module for Apollo II -makes those new Japanese hotel rooms that resemble coffins with televisions seem like a room at The Four Seasons.

Remarkably, there was an entire exhibit dedicated to the exploration for extraterrestrial life, which I thought was quite forward thinking of our government. Considering how much time, money and resources that have been and will continue to be squandered in an effort to completely discredit anyone, regardless of rank or credibility who claims to have seen a UFO, it was a noble, empty gesture. But very entertaining!

All in all a truly fascinating museum with loads I didn’t get to see this time due to the fact that I had to meet Heather to go gaze at antique Asian vases. But for anyone interested in the history of Aviation and the evolving history of our space program this is a must see. Get there early and plan to spend the whole day there. Next time I will. Emperor Ming and all his stuff will just have to wait.
Vietnam Vets Memorial- This was by far the most intense exhibit we saw - 58,000 useless deaths. An unhinging experience, especially for Heather, who as a singer, did two tours of Vietnam and was the first woman to go to remote combat outposts to entertain the troops with the USO.

The Lincoln Memorial-Beautiful, and I will NEVER EVER let anyone give me a hard time about run on sentences again. Abe Lincoln, unparalleled run on sentence meister supreme and wonderful they were too, Abe!

The White House tour- Once every 38 years, like clockwork, I like to take this tour. Heather insisted we take it before Bill left office and George Jr. took over, so in the interest of continued domestic tranquility, I acquiesced. It wasn’t so much the two and a half hours we had to wait in below freezing temperatures that bothered me (although that was pretty irritating,) as much as having to endure with polite indifference the seemingly endless inane prattle that the two women in front of me mistook for conversation. I cannot believe anyone could find the discussion of the merits of various Posture Pedic sofa beds so endlessly fascinating as these two donuts did, and for the better part of two hours no less.

Once inside and defrosted I had to admit it was pretty impressive. This was the once a year candlelight tour which happens for 3 evenings only over the Christmas holidays. 90 decorators working for 3 days straight, if that’s the right term. Imagine the cat fights breaking out there! Still, fairly breathtaking, and the decorations too. We behaved like complete tourists and then hobbled back to our hotel.

Europe and America-Summer 2001

We had a fantastic European tour taking in sights and places, old and new in Western and Eastern Europe. This time we had the colorful and charismatic Young Dubliners with us, introducing them to a new Euro audience who seemed to take to them as instantly as they took to the local beer. I had the dubious distinction of being the official Young Dubs tour photographer by default, as all their cameras seemed to break as soon as they got to Europe. Must be the voltage. Never mind, that gave me a good excuse to break in my new digital camera and turn into a really intrusive nuisance to one and all. In the process I got some really good shots and some truly awful ones which you can probably find displayed on the Dubs and our website. Still, it’s a lot of fun and I snapped with impunity although quite often the local security would try to turf me out when I snuck in front of the crash barrier to snap the Dubs, live in action, from the front of the stage. Despite showing them my All Access Pass and trying to convince them that I was actually a member of J.T., which they thought was complete baloney, I found I had much better luck when I told them I was the official Young Dubs tour photographer, sent out on the road by the record company and employed by the band. They found this much more plausible until the moment when some over-refreshed bozo in the front row would recognize me and start hassling me to take his picture, share his beer, his wife, his bratwurst or just start breathing heavily on me until I gave HIM some attention. Rarely was this ever a “her” and the few times that it was tended to be the female version of suspect #1. One thing I have noticed is that some European women appear to have an aversion to shaving under their arms. What’s this all about? Anyway, there is a possible second career waiting for me as a rock photographer-Oh, I can hardly wait!

Things seemed to be going along nicely on our scenic tour of spatzle houses, pasta palaces and curry depots until I started feeling like I was developing a sensitive Martin Barre like gut. Now if there is one thing that anyone who knows me can attest to, it is this; I have a cast iron gut and very little ever troubles me food-wise, anywhere in the world. There has got to be something seriously off before my stomach reacts. Perhaps this is a result of years and years of very spicy food, killing off all normal sensitivity to the average bacteria. But something was starting to go really very wrong. I got food poisoning once, not in India, Bolivia, Brazil, Mexico, Malaysia, South Africa, Turkey or Eastern Europe but in Anaheim, California at a Pizza Hut! Well, this was about the worst pain I had ever felt and this felt eerily similar, except this pain would mysteriously come and go with no particular pattern apart from the increasing frequency. Ian had convinced himself and much of the audience, as he was starting to integrate this malaise into his onstage patter, that there was some kind of Alien Love Child, or the ALC as he liked to refer to it, to which I was about to give birth. By the end of the European tour I was starting to think he might be right. I was getting seriously ill and only narrowly made it home to the USA between attacks. Fortunately, it never happened onstage because if it had, it would have been a definite show ender for me.

I limped home and immediately went to the doctors, followed by several hospital visits for various tests before it was determined that I had a fairly sizeable kidney stone. I’m glad it was not something more sinister but this news was bad enough. I have enjoyed pretty good health most of my adult life and this is the first serious health problem I have had in a very long time. As we only had about 10 days between the European and American legs I had no choice but to opt for immediate surgery. This was not what I had in mind but there was very little choice. Without going into all the unpleasant little details, I underwent the surgery with the understanding that there was no guarantee that they could get the stone although they felt that this procedure offered the best opportunity.

I hated my first encounter with anesthetics the first time at age 9, when I had a tonsillectomy and this new encounter offered me no good reason to revise that opinion. Anesthetics are scary and unpredictable. Afterwards, in the recovery room, I was informed that the surgery was a failure and that they were unable to get the stone and I now had no choice but to go out on the road with it still a part of me. This filled me with absolute dread, as I knew how unpredictable it could be. I don’t think of myself as particularly squeamish but I can safely say I have never felt discomfort quite like this. However, once that morphine drip kicked in I frankly didn’t really care. I suddenly understood how junkies get started and strung out. You just simply trade it all in for that one primal need and when that is taken care of nothing else matters. Of course, all good things come to an end and I got unceremoniously booted out of the hospital and back to reality.

Trying to find the good, or at least the acceptable in all of this has strengthened my resolve to change some things in my day to day life. This damned stone means there are certain foods that I really like that I just have to cut out or severely curtail. A stricter diet and regime of exercise is necessary, although I don’t really mind that as long as I don’t have to go to a gym and do it with a group of lunatic gym rats gyrating to annoying disco music. Due to this delightful little episode I managed to shed 14 pounds, which was not a bad thing, although not quite the way I envisioned doing it and considerably more expensive to boot.

I managed to get through, at times a bit delicately, both legs of the American tour without further incident and I must say the band was great about the whole thing and very understanding. I was very, very worried initially about whether or not I was going to be able to cope with playing at all, particularly when I first came out of the hospital and only had a few days before the opening concert. At that point I just couldn’t imagine having to go back on tour with that kind of postoperative discomfort. However, once I got to Cleveland for the first U.S. date and got through the gig without serious incident, I felt enormously relieved and saw that with care and pacing, I could manage the shows. The thought of having to cancel was far too distressing because of the inevitable domino effect it would have on band, crew, promoters and people who had bought tickets and so I spoke to a few friends, who are very good drummers, who agreed to step in if necessary. That would have been a highly pressurized situation for them, to say the least, as well as the band to have to deal with on such short notice, and so I am very grateful to them for standing by me in the event of an unfortunate downturn. I am going to be going in soon for another procedure to try to break this thing up and rid myself once and for all of it. I hope before too long this will only be a distant, if unpleasant memory that remains just that. On to better days.

From a Stretch Limo to a Tijuana Taxi

Oh, the changing fortunes of traveling musicians. One minute Donald Trump’s white stretch limo is shuttling you silently into New York City in garish and slightly embarrassing style with a full refrigerator of drinks and hors d’oeuvres and the next moment you’re in a tin can of a taxi, held together with bungee cords, wire ties and superglue, hurtling through the streets of Tijuana in one gut wrenching swerve after another. I’m not sure if sitting in the business class section of the Sea Cat ferry from Tallin to Helsinki getting tossed from side to side by the rough waters of the Baltic Sea are any better however. It’s just a more European version. The sea hostesses were considerately handing out sick bags to any needy passengers while kindly informing them that it was “going to get a bit worse”. Typical European understatement. This is a bit like the doctor informing you that ”this is going to hurt us a little bit”. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The long, slightly perilous and at times even comical journey from Los Angeles to Oslo was an adventure worthy of an S.J. Perelman travelogue. I am not being dismissive of or minimizing the incredibly sad events that necessitated such a journey as it certainly was not one I would have freely elected to undertake in less stressful times. But we had a tour that we were committed to doing.

My drum tech, Jay Rubin, and I left around midnight on Thursday Sept 13th just 2 days after the hideous U.S. terrorist attacks in an effort to avail ourselves of one of the last possible opportunities to get out of the US and to Europe before all borders were completely closed. Canada’s border was completely shut and Mexico’s border crossing was erratically going up and down like Jay’s trousers in an East European “hospitality bar”. Leaving L.A. like spies in the night and driving ourselves down to San Clemente, where we picked up Tony X, our driver for the remainder of the trip and returner of our rental vehicle, which was not permitted inside Mexico, we contemplated the journey ahead.

Arriving at Tony the Shark’s home in the middle of the night we awakened him from peaceful sleep. We noted a very odd phenomenon occurring however as we approached his house. In this quiet suburban neighborhood there were women, on their own and in groups of two’s and three’s, jogging or power walking. Young to very old and no men whatsoever. Now if this were 6 or 7am you could explain this away as America waking up and getting fit and ready for the day, but it was the middle of the night! The Stepford Wives weren’t any stranger than this although they were much better dressed. Leaving the surreal suburbia of San Clemente for the even more surreal climate of Tijuana, we continued southwards.

Approaching the outskirts of the Mexican border we were confronted with an ungodly traffic backup which was not completely unexpected, as we knew many US citizens who absolutely had to travel might be considering this option as well. The first sign of things to come occurred as we approached the border driving in the left hand lane of traffic, whereupon we saw the first and only sign announcing that 200 feet ahead is the LAST EXIT for US citizens wishing to drop off people going into Mexico. Of course we missed it because we couldn’t get across 5 lanes of cars in 200 feet. Thinking there might be one more hidden opportunity before the border we were forced to continue. We finally managed to pull over to a customs section where there were Mexican policemen and other officials doing very little, which was disconcerting considering the volume of traffic and the events of the previous two days. They really didn’t seem at all interested in why we were traveling or what we were carrying in the car. Through a series of broken translations, pidgin English, appalling Spanish and hand gestures we managed to elicit enough information from them to irrefutably confirm the fact that we had indeed missed the last exit and Swiss Tony would now have to drive across the border and wait in line, which the policemen conservatively estimated at 3-4 hours, to get back into the USA. Tony Bones then became VERY PISSED OFF.

Obviously this was not part of our agreement and he turned beet red, started swearing profusely (fortunately in English) so much so I thought we might land in a Tijuana jail. As he was jumping up and down, kicking the tires and plotting how he might be able to back up the car on the soft shoulder to the US side, the convivial polizi was directing Jay and I to the nearest taxi stand. Calling the vehicle we stepped into a taxi would be like calling George Bush Jr. a grammarian. We rattled, banged and careened headlong through the streets of Tijuana with little regard for traffic, red lights or luckless pedestrians. Screeching into Tijuana airport we were met with an army of hustlers and “baggage” handlers. Once inside the terminal it became glaringly apparent that the events of the previous days might as well not have occurred, for the complete lack of security in evidence. Jay and I managed to get through Immigration without even producing our passports by virtue of the fact that there was no one there. Apparently it was time for Mr. Immigration Man’s coffee break as his desk was totally deserted and people were sailing right by and proceeding to the carry on baggage x-ray machine. Security might as well been having a coffee break too for the amount of attention that they were paying to people’s carry on items. But the most alarming was yet to come. After about 20 minutes of trying to place an overseas call to let the English side know that we had made it at least this far, I gave up. Telepathic communication or even string and a tin can would have been more effective. We finally sat down in the Tijuana International Airport Coffee Shop, which also seemed to double as some sort of gambling casino/ bookie joint where, throwing caution to the wind, I ordered some breakfast.

As we had been informed by the Aero Mexico check in personnel that there would be no meal service on the 3 ½ hour flight to Mexico City I thought it a good idea to have something now as we hadn’t eaten since the night before. Sometimes you tend to forget, living so close to the border, that Mexico is not just another country but an entirely different way of food preparation and handling. Wisely, Jay opted to fast, but I rather unwisely decided eggs and ham sounded nice. The consequence of that decision was rather long lasting and now fills me with dread whenever I see these two perishables living together on one plate. While

I was enjoying this Mexican delicacy Jay wandered off to have a look around the shops, or as it turned out, the shop. He came back in a highly agitated state demanding that I go over myself and have a look. Inside this quaint little gift shop was the usual tourist bric-a-brac, travel sundries and a lovely collection of knives, one or two of which would have done an excellent job of gutting fish. All duty free of course. Alarming as this was, much more worrying was the fact that we were beyond the last checkpoint. From here it was a mere 50 feet to the gate and straight on to the plane with your duty free purchases. Judging from the flimsiness of the cockpit door on our Aero Mexico flight, I think the average child would find it harder to get into our pantry through the slatted accordion divider than this poor excuse for security. Nevertheless we boarded the flight and I’m happy to report that nothing happened except Jay’s hunger pains and a general feeling of relief when we landed in Mexico City.

After navigating the delicate intricacies of the so-called Immigration Department and Customs we made our way to British Airways to check in for our evening overseas flight. Fortunately we had a few hours in between flights to straighten out the fairly substantial oversight of the Tijuana Immigration Dept, which as I said before, was on a donut break or something equally important. It turned out both Jay and I entered the country totally illegally, which is quite a reversal of fortunes for our Mexican neighbors! If they want to keep those Americans out of their country they are really going to have to try a little bit harder than this. We managed to get through three major security points without having to produce one shred of evidence as to why we were here or where we were going. As a result we were made to circumnavigate the convoluted intestinal track that comprises the rabbit warren like maze of administrative back offices inside the Mexico City Airport, trying to find the right one which would grant our late and unexpected immigration request without first sending us off to airport jail for review. With this at last accomplished we set off in search of a non toxic dinner for gringos, which proved, I’m happy to say, to be a much better experience than the Tijuana episode. Setting off for the gate we found, yet again, Mexican security for carry on luggage was minimal and largely disinterested, and once inside the departure terminal any evidence of the New York tragedy was largely overshadowed by a local soccer game dominating the televisions.

It was a tremendous relief to finally board the British Airways 747 Jumbo to London. Despite the heightened sense of tension, they displayed some of the nicest, most courteous and comfortable service I have ever experienced in the air, although I cannot compare it to that most illustrious of airborne clubs known as The Mile High Club. I am not a member, although I’ll bet Jay’s dues are fully paid up. The rest of the journey was reasonably peaceful and uneventful although we were required three times to change our flight course, once to avoid American airspace and twice to avoid a nasty hurricane off the coast of Cuba, which did produce some spectacular lightning and one phenomenal pressure drop. Still, it was good to reach Heathrow and the relative calm of England and I went to the cockpit to thank the captain and his crew, who were very gracious but also relieved to have reached home territory without incident.

It was great to see the band and crew the next day when we met at the airport to fly the final leg to Oslo. Just to regain that kind of day to day normalcy, such as it is on the road, is important and I think we all felt it immediately upon seeing one another.

Scandinavia-September, 2001

I am in my hotel room in Stockholm, feeling a very long way from home. Sometimes the road can be a lonely place even when you're traveling amongst friends and colleagues, but it feels particularly lonely right now. The sad, tragic events in America two weeks ago heighten the degree of homesickness that I am feeling. After growing up and living in New York City for 35 years it is heartening to see, amidst such devastating tragedy, the genuine empathetic concern and support that Americans and people the world over, with a few notable exceptions, have shown towards their fellow men and women. But watching the news still continues to be just overwhelmingly heartbreaking and fills me with an inexpressible sorrow. Knowing some of the people who perished high up in the South Tower, I find it still grips me with horror as I try to imagine what must have been going through their minds and the thousands of other poor souls in those final moments. I still seem to have very little control of when these thoughts will randomly grab and shake me down. The paralysis and powerlessness that many of us feel through our inability to change such an inexorable event is tempered, I suppose, by the knowledge, that to ultimately give in to those feelings would mean that we really have lost to those evil bastards. Most people are far too hurt and angry to allow those emotions to gain a permanent foothold, although the process of grieving and rebuilding is going to be a long, slow, painful one.

I’m one of the lucky ones who love my job and it’s a small comfort to think that maybe what we do helps some people get through their day. I know it helps me get through my day even when the traveling gets me down. At it's best, music can be a powerful antidote to chaos, confusion and grief and I would like to think that there is a measure of healing and peace that it will bring, to me and to others.

We still enjoy freedom here in the West and are likely to continue so despite these horrific attacks. I’m just wondering how Bin Laden is enjoying life in his cave right now? I trust our tour will continue to go uneventfully and that we can bring some light to people.

Peace to All,

D.P.