On their sometimes mind-bending odyssey through Ukraine, Hardwicke Circus gained a unique and compelling insight not just into the brutality of the Russian war machine, but also the Ukrainian people’s extraordinary and enormously inspiring courage and resilience.

Here, drummer, songwriter and singer Tom Foster gives us the full lowdown on a rock ’n’ roll trip like no other.

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Part 1: Subterranean Dronesick Blues

Peter Sellers once took poppers at the point of climax, attempting to achieve the world’s ultimate orgasm – he had a stroke. Seems to me he should’ve just come to Ukraine.

I write this in Baby Blue, our Renault Master 2007 Van, as we drive out of sweltering Kyiv.

No air con.

No space.

A hole in the door and a window that doesn’t close.

The smell of fumes doesn’t bother me like it used to. 120km down the road to Lviv, I have my feet resting on the spare wheel, slouching resplendent as Jacob Rees-Mogg, but with more grime and less slime. I know we’re here, I’m not sure where here is.

I’ll now attempt, for the readers of Hot Press, to put the Songs of Freedom tour of Ukraine into words. Truth is, I’m not sure I can.

My brother, Hardwicke Circus vocalist and guitarist Jon Foster, and our manager Dave Robinson, were men possessed during the genesis of this project. They understood straight away that this was as much hopefulness and solidarity as charity.

I believe music should be taken to where it needs to be, and a band of brothers – or a baannnnd – should work within their norms, not anybody else’s.

Against all governmental advice and protocol, Hardwicke Circus, with the help of the Carlisle community (Armstrong Watson, Fred Story, Julie, Duke of Cumberland) and security extraordinaire Adrian Simpson, made this happen because it had to. Safety was not what we were seeking and none of us were going to let the danger of the situation outshine the significance of it.

Lastly, preempting accusations of our embarking down the yawn-inducing path of absolute self-righteousness, every penny, or hryvnia, of this tour has gone to Adrian’s Mission Aid for Ukraine. They kit out and deliver vehicles right to the front, local battalions, and various charities specifically helping the Ukrainian war effort.

I encourage anybody reading this to send as much money as they can spare, and I don’t want coins – we’re not making a fucking phone call. “Money talks, people mumble.”

This is the subterranean tour: bunkers, corridors, bombs and drones. Love, joy, peace and tranquility. We wanted to take a look. Have a deeeeek about. And by hook or by crook – we’ll be back.

One thing is for certain – this tour changed my life, like it did for everybody else sitting in Baby Blue.

Hunka’ Hunka’ Burning Tom

Before we begin, approaching the border. 70km away, and a further hour on to Lviv, Ukraine. I’m aware I’ve never felt this way before. My emotions are stretched, ideas I’ve never touched and possibilities I’ve never considered loiter outside the offies of my brain, clouding my vision.

In hindsight, that was pretentious overkill. I was only in fucking Poland. My stomach was churning slightly, probably two weeks of Czech cuisine. I started to feel a pain shooting up my back.

Mile by mile, it was getting worse – I realised my seat was locked in with a bolt that had come loose and was waving a pleasant hello to my colon. As well as the literal arse pain, I was hewn with an emotional one.

It’s Monday lunchtime and we’re held up at the eastern Polish border, where some of the Ukrainians have spent the weekend with families in Europe. The Polish border patrol are on their lunch break (it’s 14:30 – get a move on).

“It’s like a heatwave
burning in my heart
I can’t keep from burning
It’s tearing me apart...”

My flamingo-pink shirt, which I bought in Ostrava for £4 (you’d pay 8), is off. I’ve had terrible allergies since I was a child. My skin flares up – red raw – I scratch myself until I bleed. I’m afraid they won’t let me in the country for looking like I use skeg.

I opt for “looking like I use but respectably, in an honourable pink shirt.” Sweat stains make me look more mere than man. Tex-Mex new wave legend, Joe ‘King’ Carrasco, gave me his Stetson after showing me what the kids from his recent tour of Botswana had drawn on it and told me, “Tommmmy, you may look real bad, but you’re a killer drummer, mannn” – the third time he alleged so that hour. So, for a few hours, I put my feet up, fidget spinner spinning, and pondered.

Eventually, I’m here. No checks, no questions. I’m in Ukraine. I felt optimistic. We’re on the road again. Truckin’ till my chips cashed in. Truckin’ like the doo-dah man. Baby Blue hits 60 for the first time in her life, as if my energy were flowing directly into her and boy, we got there.

Unfortunately… amazingly… disastrously… a few miles in, we had to come to a stop. Lo and behold beloved readers, the tragedy that must befall all weary travellers.

Fucking roadworks!

Potholes left, right, and centre, uproarious diggers and riotous traffic controllers are unmoved by the po-faced complaints of our well intentioned gang. Ooo weeee ride me high, you ain’t going nowhere!!

Usually, I listen to road music on tour – ‘Highway Of Regret’, or ‘Me And My Chauffeur, Stuck Inside Of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again’.

All I needed this time was me, myself and I, a window, and the bomb alert app on my burner phone.

Part 2: A Who’s Who of Human Excellence

So, who makes up this motley crew? Well Tex-Mex royalty Joe ‘King’ Carrasco, of course!

Jon calls Joe – no response. He leaves a text – no reply. Two days later, Joe texts back a photo of a giraffe in the Kalahari Desert saying, “I’ll be there man with my geeeetar!!”

My love for Joe is well established – getting to fan the eternal bromantic flame between us is always a pleasure. Endless inspiration, material, and musical room to manoeuvre. He drew the map to the endless night. They say don’t meet your heroes, but I’m happy I met Joe.

Old Ben Ridley Wilde is joining us too. We grew up together, learnt to play together. When I turn a corner, I usually find he’s already there and brought snacks. When he went his own way, I had to try and take up his high harmony, and I’ll tell you, I can’t wait to give it back.

The man either has special powers, or decided to give puberty a miss. Some people you just feel comfortable around without trying. So if I’m gonna be locked in a bunker, it may as well be with him.

We had been looking for a piano player to join us in Ukraine for some time. When time is tight, call Rusty Egan. Long story short – Conor Morrissey, from Melbourne, is joining us on keys. We went for hotdogs. He told me Jon and I were much straighter than we looked. It reminded me of Robbie Robertson holding up his guitar to the camera in The Last Waltz and asking, “Does she shoot straight?”

Last night, in Room 629, we ran the set – and he plays great. Music aside, I just respected that four days in advance. Conor agreed to the following: no money, sleeping in bunkers, and quite a few bombs. All with a bunch of people he’s never met before. We talked about Australian history and swapped books. He’s got balls – big, massive, swinging balls. So far, so good!

Ukraine’s own Roman Korchevskyi asks us if it’s okay that he bring Esmeralda. Room in the van is tight, and although we’re open to compromise, we aren’t sure how we can fit in another body. Turns out Esmerelda is Roman’s sax. They’re close.

Jazzman. Vagabond. A swinger. A bopper. A song and dance man, and this tour was his drifter’s escape. He likes tartan and Byron. He’s a beautiful man, and a better sax player. He plays with heart, simultaneously sweet and fierce. There’s always a place for Roman in Hardwicke Circus if he wants it.

Devon’s Adrian Simpson: paratrooper, risk manager, security something, route planner, bar hopper, hotel-with-a-spa lover, networker, secret photographer. An all-rounder. For me, he was a presence of reassurance. I’m forever grateful he kept us safe, but more so that he made sure I lived in the fear.

Sure, you’re scared. When I heard my first siren, I was petrified. By the end, when the alarms screamed, I’d be considering whether I could order some breakfast before the Russians arrived.

Queens of Kharkiv

Anyway, I haven’t really caught a wink, but I’m living in it. And that’s down to Adrian, and the gorgeous girls, queens of Kharkiv: Okazia.

Correct me if I’m wrong, I believe it translates to something like “a strange situation.” (I did ask them, but I forgot to listen.)

Great songs and melody, darling Julles is sending me their lyrics in English. Snishka is really fucking cool on lead vocals. She’s a mystery. Maria and Alina on the rhythm section will give every Leeds College of Music wanker a run for their money, and when they eventually end up victorious in the musical duel, they’ll move on like nothing’s happened, and offer to iron your suit or present you with moisturiser for your callused hands.

Anyway, as we ride, Adrian has his belt off, shades on, cap up, arm over the back of his chair, talking about local girls, folklore, hot dogs, and ice cream. Lots of laughing, seemingly no real recognition that Baby Blue is riding right through a battlefield. Missiles above.

It’s important to note: this is down to experience, not blasé.

Dave’s behind the wheel screaming “Yeaaah baby!” as we come around the bend and reach an adventurous speed, or as we like to minimise it, “going with the flow of traffic.” We’re thrilled we took the governor off the vehicle. No speed limit now, baby.

Adrian wasn’t impressed when we told him it was a Russian who had disabled the ECU.

And, as always, I’m with my brother and band leader Jon, and manager Dave.

The three amigos.

Morning comes. On the square. Adrian smells the coffee.

“Arabica beans. Kenya, Colombia, high altitude… mmmmm,” he says, smelling the air.

I order a round of black coffee. Joe insists on cream and sugar.

The barista shook her head, pointed to the square and said, “You wait five minutes now.”

What I was about to see hit me like a tonne of bricks.

The summer morning, the day-to-day came to a sudden stop. Like a live action movie turned into a Lowry painting in one stroke.

Silence and stillness breaks, two women fall to their knees, sobbing, men salute.

Even the skaters in ripped jeans – the type the English would identify as "greb" and vape in the Debenhams car park – paid their total respects.

A melancholy tune drifted across the square as five busloads of lads, my age, in uniform drove by, looking out the windows.

No smiling, no crying either, only grim resolution.

Right then, I realised those women on their knees were mothers. It was only later I noticed my tears.

Time didn’t exist, only the moment.

And then it was over.

Lost For Words

I turned back to the stall and the young barista gently asked, in the diction and inflections of a service industry pro: “Four black coffees, sir?”

I nodded, completely and utterly lost for words.

Looking back, it was Day 2, and the line in our upcoming single ‘Hollow’ comes to mind:

“Whom I gonna lead?
Whom I gonna follow?
Will it ring true?
Will it ring hollow?”

It had never been more clear that I had to be here.

We pull up to the show. A day early.

Graffiti-ridden, barbed-wire gate around a Soviet-esque compound.

Looks like a former municipality with a bohemian hint of Passing Clouds, just off Dalston High Street.

Oleski – the owner of the first venue – greeted us in Hawaiian swim shorts, a vest, and tattoos right down his legs.

He was on his bicycle, with a makeshift bandage and a bit of wood tied to his foot.

“How did you hurt your ankle?”

“Whilst climbing a homemade lighting rig,” he replied in broken English.

“My foot,” he added, "it’s a half blown off. Feckinngggg Russians!”

The Ukrainians project so much joy.

They’re helpful – great big sound systems with reliable sound men (some with better English than English sound men).

And they wear belts.

The main thing English sound men project is arse crack.

Most of the Ukrainian crew seem willing to actually listen to what we want.

They’ve got spirit.

They’re proud of their culture, in touch with it, and they’ll keep defending it.

They are loving, but also ferocious and relentless.

They have to be.

We asked Oleski, “What will you do with the money we raise tonight?”

In good spirits, but with absolute seriousness, he replied: “Kill more Russians, of course.”

The show was rocking.

Rough around the edges. No bass.

Ben was stuck on a bus in the Polish countryside for 19 hours next to a recently divorced man who probably needed therapy.

Ben diplomatically mentioned his neighbour should have “probably bought two seats.”

I’d known Conor for less than 24 hours and Roman for less than two, but we made it happen.

All smiles from my drum set.

The songs resonated with the crowd, and the crowd resonated with me.

Cash was paid and sent straight to the front.

It’s all go!

Part 3: Next Stop Ternopil, Ukraine

We were holding a workshop for some kids in a music school.

Nobody was wearing shoes or socks.

Freaked me out a little bit.

We talked music, played music, and the class introduced us to a song that translates to ‘The Bus’.

Later that day, the class joined us on stage and we played ‘The Bus’.

It was a hell of a lot of fun.

Good voices too.

A girl asked me about fame and fortune.

I told her I had neither, but Hot Press might publish my writing.

She had no fucking idea what that meant and politely moved on to someone with higher prestige.

What I enjoy about touring is the progress.

Every day we get closer to the perfect shape – until we fall off a cliff.

Brilliance comes into reach – and then you lose sight of it again.

After the show, I sang ‘Garden Party’ to Roman and I guarantee you he’s still singing that right now.

Vinnytsia Ukraine, and it’s Snishka’s birthday.

Another workshop in the day.

Another show at night.

The crowd went wild – but Joe ‘King’ Carrasco went wilder.

The setlist was:

'Man of the Town'
'It’s Not Over Till It’s Over'
'Night Train to London'
'Kicks On You'
'Hey Joe’
‘Lockdown'
‘Highway'
'Ballad of Alexander Usyk'
'96 Tears'
‘Gloria'
'Walking on Broken Glass'
(The crowd wanted more)
'Woolly Bully'
(And even more)
'Little Queenie'

Straight To The Shelter

It was 45 minutes until curfew.

We were relying on a 26-minute pack.

It’s martial law or something here – you can’t be out at night or the police can get you.

Not to mention: the ballistic missiles and drones come out at night.

So the clock strikes 00:00 and hip hop hooorayyyy!!

We had Kyiv cake and tequila.

And for the non-drinkers – kvas.

(Personally, I wouldn’t wash the wheels of my car with that piss – but it’s better than the alternative, I guess.)

After a brief chat and a few toasts to the birthday girl, I lost my missile-siren virginity.

We calmly but quickly went straight to the shelter, while Maria brought some food.

Roman and Jon brought tequila.

The nine of us played cards and a few games of Up Jenkins.

An hour or so later, we heard some shuffling upstairs.

We’d run out of kvas and celery sticks with tomatoes.

So we ventured upstairs.

It was Joe ‘King’ Carrasco pottering around.

“Joe! What are you doing? Can’t you hear the siren?”

“All I’ve heard since the ’80s is a crash cymbal. Why – what’s happening?”

We told him it was an air raid alert.

So he said he’d go get Dave and join us for a game of Up Jenkins.

When Joe told Dave about the sirens, Dave’s response was:

“Let me sleep. Fuck off.”

I think he was speaking for many Ukrainians in saying this.

So Joe sang a swampy 12-bar blues version of ‘Happy Birthday’ to Snishka and wished us goodnight. Connor brought out his tin whistle.

The night went on, and on.

And out of nowhere – it was day.

After breakfast, an hour of shooting was organised.

Nobody shoots clay like Dave.

Joe’s from Texas but he rejects the whole thing.

Dave and Adrian wanted to beat the traffic.

I was easy – I was just taking everything in all at once.

Strangely enough – I was happy.

Part 4: Heroes of the Revolution

Picture the scene. Ben Wilde reaches a bus station in a nondescript Kyiv suburb. He hadn’t downloaded his map – because it’s Ben, and that would be far too safe and conventional. He had no way of contacting our burner phones.

Ben has a successful track record of pulling things off against self-inflicted odds. He told the taxi driver, who lived in Kyiv and didn’t speak English, to “head towards the art district, and we’ll take it from there.”

Two hours later, 20 minutes till stage time, Ben sees a rusty blue van with a hole in the door parked in a bus lane. He puts his hand up to signal a halt to the taxi driver. “Stop!” he says. “I’ve arrived.”

You see, we’d entered the “art scene.”

Imagine the Shacklewell Arms, but every band has a saxophone.

In classic Ben fashion, he walks in, sticking out like a sore thumb: pink shorts, socks up to mid-knee, running shoes. No bass. No idea what the set is. And an unusual aura that was, in fact, more punk than the self-declared anarchists lingering around, judging him.

He didn’t care.

We hugged. I said, “So what are you doing here?” We hadn’t spoken in a little while.

He told me, “Fulham is treating me fine, but I have yummy mummy malaise”.

We played well.

Things are looking up.

A British trooper, Ben “Budgie” Burgess, passed away doing what he believed in, defending Ukraine. His brother John, along with Azreal and Odin, came along to the show. We dedicated ‘Ballad Of Alexander Usyk’ to Budgie, and we played our hearts out. I was deeply moved to have played for them and I truly appreciated them coming down.

Back in Lviv, I was introduced to a prisoner of war. I never got his name, but the stories were real.

Too real to pass on.

These Russian fighters are evil.

But our man didn’t crack, he said he’d die before giving in.

 

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After hearing both of these stories, from Budgie’s mates and from a man who’d endured real horror, hopefully you understand what I mean when I say: I felt like an imposter.

They were thanking me.

And for what?

Music?

Art?

I wanted to be there.

I wanted to do the one thing I can do.

It isn’t much, but it’s what I’ve got, like the widow’s offering in the Gospel of Luke.

But it didn’t sit right with me.

I kept thanking them, for protecting me, my family and all the innocents of Europe. After a few back-and-forths, we settled on a respectful handshake.

Meeting such incredible people has reminded me why I want to be a musician.

Also, why am I so uptight in England?

A lad around my age spoke to me after the show.

We chatted about my love for Brill Building pop and how I prefer Tim Buckley to Jeff. He called me “contrarian”, I called him a “simp”.

As we hugged goodbye, I said I’d see him when I come back.

He told me they’d lowered the draft age, and they’ll be coming for him next.

Saved By The Weather

Back in the Kyiv hotel, you couldn’t access the bunker (the locals always laughed and said BUNKA in a fake Northern accent, they call it a “shelter”), until a siren went off.

I waited up for as long as I could. I was told it was going to be a heavy night but I accidentally drifted off.

It rained all night. Misty and cloudy.

We were saved by the weather.

Not a single alert. A full seven hours.

The good old shit Cumbrian weather, everywhere you go.

Christ, I love maple syrup and pecan pie.

On route to Kharkiv Ukraine, the home of Okazia, we made a pit stop at a WOG service station. I bought hot dogs, engine coolant, black coffee, nuts, water, and a maple syrup pecan pie.

Despite high-precision missiles above, every bite was heaven.

I finished every crumb and bought another, ready for what was to be my most dangerous journey since Shap’s snow blizzard of 2018.

Five hours later, I’d be in Kharkiv, drone central, 14 miles from Russia and the North Korean porno addicts.

Arguably one of the most dangerous places on Earth.

Especially if you’re a pornstar.

Fast forward to the show: Taco Loco.

A basement Mexican restaurant with two stages and a massive, fuck-off PA system.

Joe King felt at home.

“Hey you! Get off my quesadilla!”

SOPRANOS SPOILER ALERT: David Chase once explained how he came up with the ending. He said he had to leave it open, it’s impossible to see Tony die.

What, was his head gonna fall into a bowl of spaghetti?

You can’t pull it off. You can’t do it justice.

Similarly, I can’t fully express how strange the feeling was: eating Mexican food with Joe ‘King’ Carrasco before we played to a hundred people, talking about the idiosyncrasies of Buddy Holly and Waylon Jennings, while bombs went off upstairs and drones hovered over the street.

Inside, it was peaceful.

The gig was literally a safe space.

It was electric.

A moment to remember, an idea to take back to England: Stop waiting around for somebody else to dance or stomp their feet or scream.

Do it like the Ukrainians, get real. If you wanna do something, do it. Just don’t be a wanker.

It was a group effort (including crowd members) to pack the van before curfew.

Suddenly another alert goes off and half the gear is still in the street.

Someone told me to leave it for a while.

But in a moment of madness, we decided the van must be packed now, or we’d miss curfew.

So, alarms blaring and all sorts looming, we packed away.

As if I was gonna leave my Ludwig Supraphonic 1965 snare drum out in the street – I’m not an idiot!

Largest Air Attack

After the show, it was straight to the bunker.

Conor, Roman, Ben, Jon and I talked for hours, with the occasional press-up competition in between.

At some ungodly hour, I wrote down these words:

"I’ve been down so many roads
How many, I don’t know
They just appear to me all the time
Why do some memories fade?
And others stick around for days?
Behind the clouds, the sun will shine
I’m still standing
Looking for a softer landing
But my feet are firmly on the ground
I’m still singing
Songs of freedom
Like they’re all I’ll ever have..."

I passed them along to Jon, and he finished the job.

So, the boys in the band, and a couple of strangers, tried to catch as much shut-eye as we could.

In the morning, we went upstairs to find out that night was the largest air attack on Ukraine since 2022.

The Romans called the Dnipro River Danapris, from the Varangians to the Greeks.

It’s enormously wide and wild.

A trading river. And the Russians want it.

So, when I found out we were playing in a theatre on the river, floating on stilts, I politely asked security extraordinaire Adrian if he’d undertaken any due diligence.

“Yes, it’s particularly bad,” he said.

I asked why. He hollered me over, knowing if the others heard, they’d freak.

He whispered in my ear: “The bunker is full to the brim with piss.”

Righteo. I’ll keep that to myself.

After soundcheck, Roman told us this town is where all the cold callers live.

Usually that would phase me, but considering the situation, cold callers weren’t really on my mind.

Only when he told us they were Russian cold callers did we all go, “BOOOOOOO!!”

The coffee was good.

Ben had a pastel de nata.

I had, yep, a maple syrup and pecan pie.

We discussed the randomness of the middle aisle in Lidl.

In total love with the taste, we broke out into a shuffling dance and that’s when today’s sirens started.

Absolute Privilege

We strolled to the bunker, discussing morality: should state-of-the-art precision missiles target a city full of cold callers?

After the show, we were presented with a flag, hand-signed by the X Battalion.

I offered it to Roman and Adrian, but they insisted it was an absolute privilege and would be disrespectful to give it to someone it wasn’t meant for.

That flag will forever be precious. An honour.

The Hardwickes and Okazia huddled right by the theatre on stilts on the Dnipro River.

We took a photo. I’ll frame it when I get home.

Back at the hotel, the BUNKAAA was declared ominously as “definitely not a strip club”.

Over the next few hours in the booth, I spoke to Adrian about Heart Of Darkness, the colour in its language, the danger in nature, the deep, winding river past the point of return, and the culture in war.

But Charlie Marlowe’s real battle is entirely in his head.

Adrian nodded pensively and sipped his drink.

Part 5: The Ukrainians

The shows have been wild. I’m full of energy. The thought of heading west made us sick. So we didn’t.

“Fuck this, back to Kharkiv – it’s Snishka’s birthday party!!”

Here we met artists our age, living 14 miles from the Russian border, and it was sobering. The party was at a theatre that produces projects for the local kids and community. Dave hijacked the speaker, turned it beyond full. New Boots And Panties was a hit.

We talked, danced, Conner hit it off with a local director of erotic plays, and I was headhunted to be a Ukrainian theatre promoter for the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. A successful night.

On the way back from the Hemingway Bar, in Julia’s car, she invited me for breakfast.

“Sure!”

The lads couldn’t order a Bolt, so they walked and heard mopeds all the way back. The problem is when you hear mopeds but don’t see them. The sound is not a 125cc Python scooter. It’s a drone.

It’s 8am. Connor and I rise from the bunker and walk half-an-hour to meet Julls and Maria. Clinging to the hotel Wi-Fi, the girls tell us we’re going for a three-course Italian meal.

It’s 8.30am for fuck’s sake.

We walk half-an-hour to the address and discuss whether we are currently engaged in a power struggle. The answer soon becomes irrelevant. The Russians block GPS. We are at the completely wrong end of town and have to find Wi-Fi, call the girls (the breakfast dates), and like the immature, wet-blanket simps we are, ask for a lift.

Anyway, we arrive at the Italian, and the air alarms go off. “Proceed to the nearest shelter.”

The girls are tough. They’re used to it.

By the bar, Connor and I have a quick brief. The line I took was: we have time, we could still go to the bunka. I told him I was happy to be eternally worried little bitches in their eyes if he was.

I’ll be forever grateful for what Connor did in this moment. He shook me and said: “We need to order pizza, liver pâté, and tiramisu. The works, the full Monty, the whole shebang. We must re-establish the power dynamic.”

My reaction was like Jake and Elwood in The Blues Brothers when they find God and “see the light” in church.

So, there we were. Sirens going off. Dressed to the nines. 8am chatting about the ultimate viscosity of liver pâté, where my football career took a bad turn, and music, while drinking fresh orange juice with a double espresso shot in it.

Around 15 hours earlier, en route to Kharkiv, I think we may have collectively had the most human experience of our lives. We had the privilege to play at a military base rehabilitation centre.

These shows have been rough and rowdy, spiked edges, slightly on the faster side of on-tempo. We smacked the audience with energy, and they answered with uppercuts. Emotionally knocked out every night. The shows were busy, loud, manic and full of girls. A whirlwind.

All of a sudden, we’re on base, under trees and cargo nets. Everything is still. There's limited power, so it's an unplugged set.

Some of these guys are my age. Just like me, but with shaved hair. Others are older men who had served their whole lives. One guy had been at the front since 2014.

Seven of us. Ten of them. All around a table, singing songs.

I amn’t smiling because I rarely do. You know when you’re so overwhelmed with thoughts, that somewhere around the synapse gap, a decision is made to just go blank? That’s where I am, mid stare into space.

Joe saves me, like he usually does. He says: “You might think you need to be at Glastonbury today, but I know this is where you want to be.”

And he's right, some things are bigger than what’s big.

Anyway, with my allergies, this year’s pollen count, and my distaste for camping and alcohol, it takes me a lot of convincing.

I will be back to play for those lads. And next time we will bring a generator. Go electric. The pleasure was all ours. I salute the men.

Alternative Reality

When you listen to Schmalgauzen or watch some of their videos, you’d be surprised by their nature. They smile at you. They listen. Totally egoless, but their music will take you to an alternative reality if you let it.

Adrian linked us up back in Kyiv. Together with Vlad and the lads, gorgeous Anna, and Okazia, we played our final show of the Songs of Freedom tour.

Like every night on this tour, we really gave it our all. And everybody we’d met – from Oleski to Catarina, the kids at Sensie Academy Schools, Budgie, and the man who gave us free fuel in appreciation of our efforts – they were all there in spirit.

The crowd went wild for ‘Kicks On You’.

After the show, we packed and went to the after-party, an old 1930s cinema where, in the basement, Schmalgauzen have a studio. Progressively, the bar became a free one. In the studio, about 20 of us jammed.

Usually I hate a jam and avoid them at all costs. But this was special.

We sang ‘Little Ole Wine Drinker Me’, ‘Garden Party’, and ‘No Particular Place To Go’. Each song was dragged out to the nth degree, but there were no complaints.

Mid-shuffle, I looked to Dave who was sat by my hi-hat. He rolled his eyes, laughed, smiled, and said: “I’ve been here before.”

Then mega-swaggered back his tequila.

Bombing above us. The air defence system was on.

The question was whether we run for it and get back to the hotel in 12 minutes, or stay in the basement till 5am.

We dashed out, lifted up the barrier. Jon felt confident and let’s just say… he drove with it.

Adrian was on the map.

This evening, it was Dave’s turn to take on the leading role: hand out the window, screaming: “Humanitarian! Humanitarian!”

We got back to the hotel four minutes late. Business as usual.

We all chatted about nothing at all in the lobby until about 6am. Tomorrow was goodbye.

I’m sure I’ll see Roman and the girls again. Whether they believe me or not is none of my business, but I know the truth. I’ll be there, against all guidelines and advice.

Connor is coming back to London with us and has assured me he’ll join me on my hunt for maple syrup and pecan pies.

As for Ben, I’ve known him forever, but now I know we should talk more.

There is no beginning or end to Joe ‘King’ Carrasco. Only the show.

He’ll never be short of a drummer for as long as I’m here.

Part 6: The Circle Remains Unbroken

Back to Lviv.

On the way, we meet Vlod, who had supplied us our burner phones. Connected to garages far and wide around Ukraine, he helped keep Baby Blue on the road.

It was back in Lviv where Dave had told me Hot Press were interested in the journals. I walked back to the square where I’d seen the ceremony, the women pleading on their knees. I sat on a bench and started writing.

Here we are in real time.

Just after midnight, the air raid alarms started again.

I went back to the hotel and thought about Roman (in Kyiv) and Okazia (in Kharkiv).

I had a Basque cheesecake with Ben and we pondered for a time how one actually makes it.

Adrian insisted on eating Ben’s sorbet, but none of mine, one last boon for me.

Ben said it was fine, but everybody knew it wasn’t.

That night, the Russians blitzed Kyiv.

The character of Baby Blue juxtaposed the dignified, romantic cobbled streets and architecture of Lviv, so we crashed into it.

This encounter created a minor delay, so Adrian and Joe King arranged transportation to Krakow Airport at the crack of dawn to catch their flight.

VAMONOS! Ow, ow, ow.

Border Patrol

We leave bright and early. Calais only 19 hours away.

At the border by 12, it’s pouring down. Without forming a committee and voting on a plan, we all get out and order hot dogs at the final WOG service station.

We ate in silence as we edged closer to the man.

Getting out of Ukraine took a while, but that’s reasonable. They’re at war.

Here’s the thing: for the next 13-and-a-half-hours, we were in the in-between. Stateless. Back and forth between Ukraine and Poland.

Four times.

The Polish didn’t trust us. Especially customs officer T. Dvorak.

What a wanker.

On our way in, we (stupidly) followed the rules and protocol. Presented our carnet, both at Calais and when we stopped at the Polish border. Nobody wanted to sign it. We got the all-clear. A-OK.

Now, coming back through into Poland, T. Dvorak looks at the five of us, unshaved faces, unpolished boots with mustard stains down our pants, and thinks: smugglers!

He looks at our unsigned carnet and, guilty without trial, his mind’s made up.

“Ooooo weeeee ride me high… you ain’t going nowhere.”

Ben called Roman.

Then we listened to Fela Kuti.

Used the snare drum on top of the merch box as a table and played cards for five hours, eating dried mango and apricots.

We attempted to write a Hollywood blockbuster without writing anything down, involving Tom Waits’ battle with reality and truth while his daughter (Florence Pugh) is in a coma.

We fell out over creative differences. Apparently, “Clint Eastwood on a horse doesn’t contribute to the arc of the movie.”

We made up with the compromise: Willem Dafoe was the suspicious night porter.

We were sent to another border patrol a few miles away.

After another six hours, 2am, we were finally in Poland.

As we sped up to get out of there, the border called us back.

Just as Jon was about to consider slowing down, there was a communal: “Don’t you fucking dare!”

So we pegged it.

At around 3am, we pulled up to a rehab facility and book a room.

That was it. We came, we saw, we left.

“Astonishing! Amazing!”

I couldn’t work out if I was more impressed about what this group of guys just did, together, avoiding all rules and advice, ignoring all the naysayers along the way, or if it was that the windscreen wipers were still held together by gaffer tape. Money, arms, and troops will help defend Ukraine.

But it’s music that will help defend the Ukrainians.

The people, their culture, their identity, that’s pretty sacred.

If nobody else is gonna go there, Hardwicke Circus will.

“It’s alright now
I’ve learnt my lesson well
You can’t please everybody
You gotta please yourself.”

Adrian made it back to Devon.

He hadn’t been in touch with anybody, none of us had signal at the border.

He gets a call from the hotel saying: “Excuse me sir, there’s been a problem.”

He turns white like a ghost.

Thinks: “Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, tits, fart, turd, and twat… what’s wrong? What’s happened to the boys?”

The receptionist says: “Is this Adrian Simpson?”

In a panic, he says yes.

To his relief, he hears down the phone line: “It’s about your minibar bill…”