The last gig of the year, and of all places, Bangalore, India. Of all places? What does that mean? Anywhere could be ‘of all places’. When asked, “ What are you doing here?” my reply is invariably, “Well, everyone’s got to be somewhere!” So, Bangalore – now it all makes sense.

We have traveled a year’s worth of gigs to get here and what a diverse and wonderful twelve months. It seems an age since we were rehearsing in Hanger Lane, or maybe Park Royal, for our only London gig at the Astoria. Although we’d played songs from Rapture Of The Deep the previous year, notably at the Hard Rock in London and some dates in South America, the Astoria show felt like the real start of the Rapture tour.

I won’t list all the places we’ve been, there are others who do that (thank you), but it is a constant source of amazement that not only have we been able to do what we do but that audiences everywhere have attended in increasing numbers and with seemingly decreasing ages. The downside of all this touring however is that we have to get there. No one thinks about that when they see us up on the stage, nor should they, but I thought I might illustrate how difficult/fantastic it can sometimes be.

Take Bangalore for instance. The other group members were due arrive from different directions because we live all over the place. Steve traveled up from Florida to Newark, New Jersey to catch the Air India flight to Mumbai. I met him in Newark having driven down from Connecticut.

For those of you who have never had the dubious pleasure of driving in New Jersey, it is the single worst place in the States for finding anything, even something as big as an airport; the road signs, if you can spot them, are deliberately designed to confuse. Even my driver, a man of much experience, got lost. Anyway, I eventually got there, met Steve and we boarded the plane and settled down for the long journey. Our flight went fairly well, no complaints there, and we had a quick turnaround in Paris before the next, long flight to Mumbai.

So, after losing a day, we find ourselves in the early hours of the morning in a deserted Mumbai airport – and there is a delay, we are not told why. By now, my mouth feels like the inside of a tram-driver’s glove and I need to find some water. The lounge is offered to us – a dark, dimly lit room with some drab overstuffed chairs dotted around. No bar, coffee machine, snacks, newspapers, in fact nothing that one would normally find in a lounge. Even so, it has seating and we settle down to wait, not really knowing what time of day or night we might be inhabiting, our bodies tired and our minds tangled (don’t ever get those two confused).

After some hours we gather that something is happening and get to the gate to face the inevitable security check. The security staff is wearing khaki uniforms and have guns. I have a carry-on roller containing my computer, and a light shoulder bag, Steve has his ubiquitous guitar and a canvas carryall. After going through the scanning machine we are summoned to a table behind which a uniform stands. He has that dead, uninterested look that bored security people adopt, along with a surly, provocative lack of interest. He points to our bags, shakes his head as if we were wayward school kids (although he looks like he only left school a few months ago) and says simply, “One bag.” We gather from this lengthy sentence that we are allowed only one carry-on item each. We patiently explain that we have traveled everywhere around the world with these two items each and there has never been a problem up until now. His bored expression remains unchanged. “You cannot take two bags on the plane.” I ask him what he suggests we do and he replies, “One bag.” Again we remonstrate that we can’t do that. We stare at each other for a long moment – complete impasse.

Again I ask him what choice do we have and he shrugs, telling us that we have to go back to the desk and check it in. I doubt that there is an operational check-in desk anywhere in this deserted airport and in any case, there is no time. Again we get the blank look. We point out that boarding time is imminent; in fact we are late because since there was no announcement in the lounge, we didn’t know. He just stands there impassively. I say, “Look, we’ve done this a lot, it’ll be OK, really.” “Yes, we’ll talk to the crew, they’ll sort it out,” Steve continues hopefully. The dead unseeing eyes gaze back at us for a moment before he says, “The crew is not security, I am security. One bag.”

This is ridiculous. Frustration and anger rise rapidly to the surface but somehow we keep it suppressed. Despite my reluctance to play the Purple card, I explain to him that we are in a famous band and we have a concert to get to in front of thousands of his countrymen and it is imperative that we get on this plane. He is too young to have much knowledge of life, let alone who Deep Purple is, so it doesn’t work. He shrugs again and repeats his mantra.

We’ve tried humour, we’ve tried pleading, we’ve tried logic, nothing seems to work and the door of the plane is about to close. I mumble to Steve that, as unlikely as it seems, maybe this guy wants a bribe. Reaching into my bag I find a band photograph, which I flourish in front of him. “See, that’s him and this is me,” I say, pointing. Finally he shows a flicker of interest. Taking this as encouragement we offer to even sign it for him and do so, rather ostentatiously. He asks again what the name of the band is so Steve writes it on the picture. It works. He waves us away, happy with his booty, and we hurry off to the plane.

The flight to Bangalore takes an hour and half or so and we are met by two of the promoter’s people and together we wait for the suitcases to appear on the creaking, complaining carousel. It is a long wait. By now we are like red-eyed, unshaven zombies, no, we are red-eyed, unshaven zombies, and my mouth feels like the bottom of a parrot’s cage. I get my suitcases but Steve’s suitcase does not appear. There are several people in the same situation so the missing luggage desk becomes a sea of pushing and shoving passengers. It is now about five in the morning and at last Steve gets that little piece of paper that is his remaining hope that he might see his belongings again. We fall into the van some kind of stupor and are driven through the pre-dawn city to our hotel, the Taj West.

Normally, we would get to reception, pick up our keys and go to the room but now the van stops in the middle of nowhere and our guides get out, telling us to wait. As we sit in the darkness, our physical and mental state now bordering on unconsciousness, I feel supremely irritated to have to wait when all I want is to sink into a bed and sleep for a week. After five minutes or so the door opens and we emerge to be greeted by a posse of smiling hotel staff who shower us with garlands of flowers, ritual shawls and special hats which we are obliged to wear so that they can have a photograph of the event. They are so nice that I am ashamed of my former irritability and thank them warmly. A glass of champagne lands in my hand along with a key and I am shown to my room where further surprises await.

Apart from the fact that it is a gorgeous suite, I find fruit, wine, snacks, a personalized purple robe and, most amazingly of all, an easel, canvas, paints and brushes. It is overwhelming and I stutter my thanks as the door closes behind the smiling welcome and I am finally alone. Imagine the effort that went into the preparations for our arrival. Despite my fatigue, I stand there in wonder at this reception and also at the extremes of experience that are part of the life of a traveling musician. After a journey lasting almost two days, sleep eventually overtakes me.

There are countless stories like this one, although none thus far have involved artist’s materials. Whatever the hardships there are many rewards, most of which are those precious hours on stage that make it all worthwhile. I am constantly surprised by the sea of enthusiasm that greets us at every gig, and very thankful for it. As IG always says, ‘we are lucky buggers,”

The Bangalore gig was super; a great wave of emotion coming from an ocean of smiling faces. Most of our hard working and indefatigable crew was at the bar later to celebrate with us, which was well timed, being the last show of the year and a chance for us to thank them. What would we do without them?

As for the rest of the year, the French tour was particularly gratifying as our profile there seems to have grown considerably over the last year or so, but to be fair, all the tours this year were great experiences and I am thankful to be able to look back on such success.

Finally, I have to pay my respect to a man called Mike Duvall who sadly passed away this year. He was one of the reasons that I am able to tell such a story of life on the road. When I was fifteen or so, my school friends and I started a band called The Madisons. Mike was initially our pianist but soon found that he had a good singing voice and so became our vocalist. You can see him on my website in a photograph taken in 1962. I am grateful to all the members of that early band, Mike Duvall, Tony Barham (aka Lander), Dave Collis and Harvey Shield, some of whom went on to other things whilst some accompanied me on to the next stage of my journey – The Lightnings and eventually Episode Six. Still, it was The Madisons that started it all. I regret that I have lost touch with some of them over the years but I hope to rectify that soon.

Sir Malcolm Arnold, a huge part of Deep Purple’s developing career, also died this year – a giant character indeed who left an indelible mark on music.

Anyway, thanks to my webmaster, Andreas Thul for his work on my behalf and especially to all of you for your critical support (and I mean that in every way).

I wish you a peaceful and healthy Christmas or whatever it is you celebrate. See you next year.

Good luck,

RG

England, of all places – December 2006