Most GBS fans remember when they first heard a particular song. Often it was connected with a particular point in their life; a song came along at just the right time, and caught the extreme emotion of the moment. It is understandable, really. A lot of GBS songs are about the moment, as it were.

I have a similar story, although it is not about one of our songs. A recent afternoon spent waiting around in Hamburg airport reminded us all of our first German tour, a fiasco of major proportions, (even by our European standards). In the middle of a very busy autumn of 1997, we were offered four shows supporting Del Amitri, a Scottish pop band who were attempting a mild comeback. One more show was added at the last minute, a club gig in Hamburg. At the time, our German label was headquartered there, and it was felt that we should make an appearance in their backyard - in theory they would be so excited that it would spur them into actually doing something.

Right off the bat, things did not go well. In those days you still had to fly into and out of the same European gateway (or spend a fortune), so after an all-night trans-Atlantic flight we were forced to fly into Hamburg and then drive like maniacs to our first gig, which was inconveniently located in Berlin. The Del Amitri crew were complete assholes, refusing to move so much as a mic-stand for us. We had to play in the middle of their gear, tripping over and bumping into their numerous mics, amps, etc. With the exception of a handful of fans (some of whom are, to our mutual surprise, still with us), we were greeted with bemused indifference.

Three more demoralizing gigs followed. Our trip to Koln was punctuated by us getting thoroughly lost in the backstreets on the way to soundcheck. At one point we were so tangled up in the medieval section that we had to unload the trailer and walk it back to the main road. Even Alan, ever the optimist, was finding it heavy going. The Del Amitri crew never got any better, and the band completely ignored us. Saturday morning saw us making a long drive from Koln to Frankfurt in a depressing grey mist. About halfway there we were racing down the Autobahn when we heard a suspicious sound from the engine. Within seconds, smoke was pouring out. Our tour manager Tony was driving, and he managed to steer the dying van to an exit. Then it was all hands out the door, and we pushed the very heavy rig the kilometer or so required to get it off the extremely dangerous highway. Tony set off to a distant farm in hopes of help, while we stood there smoking in the rain. Morale was low.

Eventually he returned, and joined us on the side of the road. Tony was not sure if his sign language had actually worked, and we were almost surprised when a guy in a yellow jumpsuit showed up in an 18-wheel flat-bed truck about a half-hour later. He took a 10 second look at the engine and then turned to us. He shrugged.

“Das van ist kaput.”

Everyone understood that. Quickly, he attached his winch, tipped up his bed, and hauled our van & trailer onto his truck.  We all looked at each other, and Tony, who by now was plainly in charge.

“Where are we going to ride?” was the foremost thought.

The repairman was not concerned.

“Gehen zie…” he commanded, waving us back into the van. With few other options, we all obediently climbed up onto the truck bed, and back into our van. He threw a few canvas straps over us, hopped into his own cab, and then off we went. The ride that followed is not one that anyone will ever forget. Almost two stories above the road bed, we careened through the countryside at high speed, tearing through tiny villages, close enough to the second floor balconies that we could snatch flowers from the window boxes. The van lurched and swayed like a carnival ride. At any moment we figured we would be rolling to our deaths, but it never happened. Instead, after a scenic and adventurous ride, we were dropped off at a sparkling new Honda dealership, literally in the middle of nowhere. The owner and his family were celebrating a poorly attended grand opening, or otherwise they would have been closed. In those days, as is the case still in much of Germany, Saturday afternoon is a serious holiday. The dealer and his family watched in amazement as we lounged around his new showroom, eating a cake laid on for the customers, and drinking their punch. We were starving, and it was the only food for miles. We were plainly a nuisance, but we were beyond caring. Morale had sunk to a new low.

After a lengthy conference, again in sign language, my rudimentary German being useless in this situation, someone found us two rental cars located in a village some distance away. Tony and Darrell went off to fetch them, while we waited around with the thoroughly mauled cake. Eventually they returned, and we now had to squeeze a van and trailer’s worth of gear into two hatchbacks, Euro hatchbacks at that. We abandoned the van, thanked the dealer and his family while pressing copies of Up into their hands, and raced back down the Autobahn. Amazingly, we made it to the gig with seconds to spare. The Amitri crew looked at us with distaste. We had not been missed. Again we had to play in the midst of a forest of gear. When we emerged backstage from our indifferently received show, we discovered that the band and crew had taken every single dressing-room available. We had to change and eat standing in the hallway, shoved and pushed around like high school frosh in their first day in the locker room. Morale disappeared altogether.

When we finally got to the hotel, inconveniently placed in the suburbs a confusing half hour drive from the gig, by mutual and unspoken consent, we booked six rooms. In those days a room to yourself was a huge luxury, a major extravagance. After that day we never shared rooms again. We couldn’t - spirits were so low, someone would have been killed over a reading light.

The next day it was back to Hamburg, three abreast in the front seat of for hours in the little hatchback, not even room to cross your arms. The Hamburg show was another debacle, with just 14 punters, a suicidal promoter and the scariest hotel I have ever stayed in. Our record company head turned out to be a strange hippie, who arrived on the sort of bicycle Lucy Pevensie might have ridden, wearing enormous corduroys and pant clips (a detail so absurd everyone later remembered it). He had never heard of us, and his label turned out to be a pamphlet and not much else. In fact, he was just our UK label’s local salesman. He had no budget, office, or even a car, and was thoroughly amused at our obvious disappointment.

That night I left Hotel Bizarre, and found a local beer hall down the street, on the dodgiest fringe of the Reeperbahn. I ordered a gaseous pint, and sat there by myself, trying to figure out what terrible miss-step had led me to this ridiculous point. Now it is all rather funny, but at the time I was ready to chuck the works. Out of the blue on the club stereo came this song - Bittersweet Symphony, by the Verve. It had not been released in North America yet, and it was the first time I had heard it. The hook was instantly killer, but more relevant were the lyrics, “It’s a bittersweet symphony, in my head…”.  Indeed, I thought. And then the refrain “I can change, I can change, I can change…”.

My sad-eyed and silent drinking companions stared at me resentfully, flexing their swollen knuckles, my interloper status obvious to all. Too late, the Verve had already imparted their ounce of magic. For a moment at least, I did not give a *** what they thought of me, nor did I care what new nightmare the next day would bring. Germany could not defeat us that easily. I loved that song then, and I love it now.