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Messages from Roger Glover

I RAISE A GLASS

Firstly, thank you for all the kind words you sent. I’ve been knocked sideways by the great reaction to Now What?! I kind of knew it was good but you never really know until people get to hear it and are interested enough to send feedback. I raise a glass to you.

I’m now back home after a memorable festival tour with DP in Morocco, Bulgaria, Georgia and Romania, where yet again I’m reminded of the power of music and how it connects all of us.

 

Memories Of Claude Nobs

Memories Of Claude Nobs

The day of the fire at the Montreux Casino was a day that changed all of our lives.  A day or so earlier, we had arrived in Montreux to be met by a charming gentleman by the name of Claude Nobs.  We’d been aware of him previously as the promoter when we played a couple of gigs in Montreux before.  Arriving in our hotel rooms we found welcome gifts from him – a couple of bottles of Swiss wine and a yellow tee shirt with the word Montreux on it.  

 

A Bittersweet Year

From winter in Canada to another winter in France.  In all, three months of touring, several hot months spent recording a new album, get the laundry done and that’s it; a year slips by.  A bittersweet year.

It was in the studio in Nashville that we heard about Jon.  It was a real blow to the body, even though we expected it.  

 

The Road To Nashville pt.2

The Road To Nashville pt.2

As I stated in the last missive, after five weeks the band left Nashville with fourteen tracks all but complete.  The only thing missing was the vocals.  IG had several ideas floating around but only one or two were considered complete.  So a few weeks later, at his invitation I flew to Portugal, where he regularly hangs out, and spent a week with him working on the lyrics and tunes.  

 

The Road To Nashville – A Potted History

The Road To Nashville – A Potted History

Part 1

March 2011 – The quest starts at a mountaintop retreat in the south of Spain – a hidden studio in a house called El Cortijo, ruled by a veteran skin-beater by the name of Trevor Morais.   There, as the rain and wind pound on the windows, they capture a couple of handfuls of rough-hewn seeds of songs harnessed from the bittersweet (mostly sweet) fruit of their experience over the preceding five hard-working, post-rapture years, visiting countless corners of the known and unknown world.