I don’t call it a girl’s name or anything silly like that….

So.. it’s 1:08 am. I’ve been out gigging and acting the horse’s arse most of this week. I have had a very small amount of sleep and have felt absolutely knackered all day. Unfortunately, I fell asleep around 8:30 and slept for an hour or so. We’ve all been here before. It’s the middle of the night, and I’m wide awake. Rubbish. Blog time.

Last week I went to Jerusalem to play a bunch of gigs with Judy Lewis. I had a wonderful week there, met some great people, ate some wonderful food and had such a blast playing with Judy and Motti Cohen (dr). It was a wonderful chance for me to flex some slightly neglected musical muscles. I haven’t been playing much in the way of improvised music / jazz / soloing etc. for a while as I’ve either been pumping out low slung 8th notes with a pick or working as a producer / player  in the studio on all instruments and on the computer.

Judy and I had a great time working through the arrangements of the songs (12/8!!) and discussing plans to make a recording happen later on this year (!!!) I have to say, it was a pure pleasure and I’m hard pushed to think of a single thing that I did during that week that wasn’t either immensely fun or very relaxing. I think the point has been made that I had a good time in Israel.

It was all fun, until I had to come home. I got a special cab at 2:15 am, which got me to the airport for 3:15. It was the Sabbath and also a religious holiday that weekend to boot, so cabs were few and far between and the one company that were operating could only come at 2:15. Religious people do confuse me sometimes… but anyway – I digress.

My plane wasn’t until 6:30, so I was a little miffed…. nothing worse than missing sleep to just sit around in an airport with nothing to do. As it turned out, boredom was to be the least of my worries.

In Tel Aviv airport, you go through security checks before you can get your tickets and check in your baggage. Terrorism is a very real threat in the modern world and Israel has seen it’s fair share of shit blowing up. I can dig (coming from a city where they used to love blowing shit up too..) that being super-vigilant is a good thing. You stand in a queue and an airport security person asks you some questions:

‘What was the purpose of your visit?’ – ‘Playing 3 gigs…. Judy Lewis….. Jazz….’

‘Have you been given anything to take on board? Letters? Cards? Gifts?’ – ‘No. Nothing like that. All my own stuff’

‘Where were you staying?’ – ‘Judy’s house – Hertzog Street’

Where were the gigs? Did you get paid? etc… ‘I couldn’t remember the name of the first gig – some festival in Jerusalem.. a hebrew word… also, the yellow submarine club and the Milestone Jazz club.’

‘Is this your first time in Israel?’ – ‘Yes’

‘Have you been given anything to take on board? Letters? Cards? Gifts?’ – ‘No….. Just my own stuff’ (I didn’t like being asked the same question twice like that. Made me feel as though I looked suspicious and thick. Anyone caught out by the same question twice in the space of a minute needs to go to dimwit school and grab a seat in the class ‘Getting your story straight 101′.)

I was directed to an X-ray machine and dutifully started loading on my gear. (I was careful not to delay in this process – if there’s one thing Israelis aren’t good at, it’s chilling out in a queue. If you need proof, just go to anywhere with traffic lights and watch what happens when you don’t take off on the split second green shows up.) Load the machine: Bass in soft case. EBS luggage bag. Laptop. Laptop bag. They send it through and then put barcodes on everything. Fine. Fair enough.

I walk to another department where they scan your items, look at the X-ray read outs and ask you questions. Fine. I expected this. I have some EBS pedals, a couple of leads, a power supply. The usual stuff. They usually ask about it. They usually swab it for explosives. They usually don’t find jack shit, reload my luggage and off I go.

Usually.

Tonight was to be different. They informed me that my bass and pedals had to be taken away to a private room for ‘additional security testing’. I’m cool with that. It’s a formality. I know my gear and I love my gear, so it’s all expolsive free. They return.

‘Sir…. what was the purpose of your visit?’ (Here we go again..)

‘Have you ever been to Israel before?’ ‘No…..etc….’

‘Could I see your passport again please?’

Off they go.

Back again.

‘Your face looks familiar. Are sure you’ve never been here before?’ (I loved that question. The middle East is culturaly about as far from Belfast as it’s possible to be. For a start, it’s hot. Also, people speak Hebrew or Arabic. They are predominantly Jewish or Muslim. You must catch planes to get there from where I live and you get the third degree in the airports ((evidently)) It’s not the kind of place a person from Belfast would visit and then forget that they went to.)

‘Do you have a CD or documentation from the concerts that show you with the artist or give proof that you played?’ ‘No.’ (thinking in my head: Oh Shit.)

I offered to show them stuff if they could get me onto the internet. They will take me to a computer soon.

They leave.

Back again.

‘Sir, there is a problem with your instrument.’

(again, internally: Oh Shit.)

‘We need to keep it here for additional security testing.’ This is, in my opinion, very not good. They explained that putting instruments through the X-ray machine causes some sort of problem and now offical protocol is that they have to hold onto it and they will send it over on the next plane  they can. Probably in a few days. At this point, I am not happy. I appeal to the lady dealing with me. ‘I have gigs!! I can’t show up without my instrument!?!’ She disappears and comes back. ‘We can put it on a flight tonight at 7pm’ It will get to London around 10:30pm. This is total bullshit, but is live-with-able.

She disappears again. I begin to contemplate what all of this means. Hang on. My bass is in a soft case. I carry it onboard. I put it in overhead lockers. She returns. ‘Will my bass be carried on by someone or go in the hold?’

‘The hold’

Fuck.

Brilliantly, she interjects – ‘Don’t worry, we’ll bubble wrap it very well.’

‘I’m not worried that it’s going to come out with a dent. I’m worried it’s going to show up in 2 pieces!! Is there any way to sort this or speed up the scanning so that I can take it with???’

By now, I’m starting to feel rather sick in my stomach. All of the chilling and the fun and joy I have experienced all week is being squeezed out of me. However much my personal spring had started to uncoil, it is now fully primed, wound up and ready to go.

Then she asks me the best question of the whole night:

‘How much is the instrument worth?’

Jackpot. That’s the kind of question you ask when you know there is a very real possiblity that insurance people are going to have to get involved. That’s the kind of question you ask when you know that basses get killed in airports. That’s the kind of question that makes me feel about 10 times worse than I felt before… and I wasn’t doing too well before.

I sign a bunch of papers. i get given reference numbers and phone numbers to call and departments that I should call if I need to sue the airport. Brilliant. Here’s an idea: That just sounds like a whole load of hassle. Why don’t you just give me my bass, we won’t go through this whole painful and unnecessary dance, but if anyone asks, we’ll say that we did and that it was awesome, very worthwhile and that we all learned a lot about ourselves in the process….?

It’s been almost an hour. I am exhausted and distraught. Off I go. Get tickets. Go through security. Passport control. To the lounge. The first thing I see as I walk into the shopping area? Two guys, with 4 guitars in cases between them. A woman walks past with an acoustic on her back. I walk on. Another guy with a guitar. Were it not for that fact that he’s dead, I’d have been looking for a little policeman with a fake beard, ready to lamp the little Beadle bastard. But he never showed.

I go to get on my plane.

I hang at the gate, buy water, wait to board. As a last act of cosmic bear-poking, a guy getting on my plane pulls a Les Paul out of it’s little travel case and starts loosening all of the strings.  This is balls.

I flew home…. got back to the house. Spent a shit day feeling totally wound up, worrying about my bass. Went to see ‘Drag Me To Hell’ that evening to take my mind off it all. Drove to the airport to get the bass. The Tel Aviv flight landed 1 hour ago. Everyone is gone. Staff are gone. 1 security guy tells me: ‘No one here that can help you. Go home’

I am incensed. Outraged. Livid. Furious.

Every sentence has fuck in it. Unnecessarily so. I go home and sleep a second night of anxious, fitful sleep.

I awake in the morning and call the number for delayed baggage. It didn’t come on last night’s flight.

Furious. Raging. Seething. Fight-worthily angry.

They will put an urgent call in to the Bmi desk at heathrow. Someone will call me imminently. No one does. An hour passes.

I call again. The bass is definitely here. No one will call me. No contact. There is no direct number I can call. My gig starts at 2. It’s now 11. I’m getting very, very, very irate. Fuck this. I drive straight to the airport. i speak to Bmi. They tell me to wait next to the staff entrance. Someone will bring me in.

I wait.

10 mins.

15 mins. I call again. Now, no answer.

20 mins.

25 mins. I call several times. no one answers. I am ready to punch a stranger. This is not a good frame of mind.

(I am also very aware that being angry in an airport is not helpful. It is a sure fire way of getting thrown out, detained or having your cavities inspected. I need to get to my gig. I am now late. They have made me late. They are making me later with every minute that passes. This is unacceptable. I want to see my bass. I want it to be safe. I want to punch someone.)

After 40 minutes I am told to come through security. The guy is standing 5 feet in front of me with the bubble wrapped bass. Can’t he just pass it to me? Nope. Check the passport. Shoes off. belt off. Change out of the pockets. Phone, keys, the whole deal. I walk forward 5 feet and the guy gives me the bass. It has bubble wrap and parcel tape all over it. Loads. They have nothing sharp to cut it with. It takes ages to clumsily remove all of the wrapping and in my current state of mind I’m employing brute force and pig ignorance. That’s just not helpful.

The wrapping is off. The bass is safe. No dents. No dinks. Still in tune. Awesome. I run out of the airport. I get to the car park. Pay for my parking. Jump in the car. Drive to the exit. This exit is closed. Follow diversion signs (which go round in fkg circles..) Get to the exit. Ticket doesn’t work. You have got to be shitting me. BEADLE!!!

I have to go back up 2 floors, cross the footbridge. Find a guy get my ticket validated. Pay another £4.50 becasue their machine is shitty. Rush out. Drive back like a madman. Get a call from John Wheatcroft.

You’re late (we already knew this… I told him as it was happening) . The manager got the hump. The gig is off.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuccccccccccccccccccckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

After such an upsetting weekend, the only saving grace was the knowledge that John Wheatcroft, Darren Ashford and I were going to have a ripping play together all afternoon. I’ve just had that taken off me. I go home. I calm down. I hit the studio for a few hours. Let’s make something good happen this weekend…

Interestingly, the next day, during class, my bass stopped working. I was looking for a bridge to jump from.

I replaced the batteries and fixed it myself. (some loose connections in the circuitry…)

All of this got me thinking about musicians and their instruments…..

I love my basses. I have played my Sei 6 for nine years now and I love it. It’s a beautiful instrument and although I haven’t been playing it that much in the last few months, it is my instrument. That place where I feel most at home, where my music just comes spilling out. When someone takes that away from you and you know it may never come back intact… that shit is scary.

As musicians, we can have a very intimate, personal, hard-to-explain-to-non-musicians relationship with our instrument.

I love my bass.

Although I don’t call it a girl’s name or anything silly like that….

Tagged as: airport, bass, ben gurion, guitar, israel, jazz, judy lewis, Motti Cohen