I slip behind a barricade, the security guard nodding me through as I hold up my credential laden wrist.
It all seems so familiar, the cozy backstage space behind the Empress.
The jolly little bar, the food stations serving up lunch, the tables assorted like at a wedding reception, inviting strangers to sit down with their plates and join in on the conversation.

I walk down the dressing room hall and find our assigned room, then back step a few feet to once again read the adjoining room’s door.
Oh nothing, we’re camped next door to The Sweet, that’s all!
I take photos of the door, hoping Andy Scott might emerge and grant a photo as well, but no such luck.

I enter our room and find Kimm in there alone, strumming his guitar in the corner.
He looks relaxed, as if he were sitting in a sunny spot in his backyard, and I take out my guitar to join him for a little warm up.

We share the moment of quiet, neither of us speaking, just communicating through steel guitar strings and tapping feet.
It is nice sanctuary between the shouted conversations of the halls, behind the roaring rooms where the bands cycle though endlessly, each claiming their 40 minutes of stage time with frenzied assault.
We could just be two friends sitting together on a park bench, old and growing older.
Feeding the rabid squirrels, complaining about the price of gasoline.

It is not lost on me, though, that we are decades beyond those first times we sat next to each other and strummed guitars.
In each other’s houses, out in the Cerritos garage.
And now sitting together, a few feet away from where The Sweet sits, behind a stage that once held The Beatles and Sinatra.

The fellas join us then, each of us taking turns telling of the bands we’ve just seen, the friends we’ve just caught up with.

There is a knock on the door, the stage manager letting us know there’s five to set time.
We file out separately, each of us on our own, hoping we will soon lock in as, well, a group.

There is a sea of people in the hall, though as is the nature of festival crowds, not all stay for more than a couple songs.
The fans wander the grounds clutching highlighter marked schedules, some just tasking themselves with catching as many bands as humanly possible.
Two songs, check another one off the list, and onto the next. Fair enough.

But there are other people, I can see them from up here, that we know.
Some loyal fans, grown into friends.
Some faces from back home as well, a few who have been with us from the very first days in the backyards of Cerritos.

We start out, and it feels a bit strange on this vast stage after the great pub shows we’ve enjoyed the last few nights.
The sweating clubs where the crowd knocks the microphone into your teeth once again, where hands reach out to strum the guitar with you.

There is a timer set in my periphery stage right, its numbers scrolling down like a terrorist bomb planted in a train station.
Time is now a puzzle to be solved, as we cut songs from the set, add some of the old favorites we think will go over.
We send the songs into a a black void, only the first few rows of faces illuminated, and those faces are still ten feet away and two meters down, beyond a barricade.

The green haired Finn Jukka, who you might remember popped up on stage with us back in Osaka, is here of course.
We bring him up on stage for the English/Finnish rendition of Mannequin (Mannekiini!!) for the fest truly is a global festival, putting those tacky Summer Olympics to shame!

_Mannekiini!!

It’s over all too soon of course, and we are back in the dressing room.
We pack up the guitars and peel off our sweat drenched shirts, hurry out to the merch booth to meet some of the people who have stayed after the set.
Hopefully we will sell the last of the tee shirts and check an empty suitcase home.

.In the morning we all say goodbye (early!) at the foggy seaside curbside.
Dave and Briony shuttling the kids back down to Heathrow with Kimm and Nick, while Ant takes the train up to Edinburgh to investigate the Fringe with his pal Chris.
I stay on in Europe with The Wife, and remain here even as I tap out these words, staring out a hotel window at the Amsterdam Centraal train station.

And to think it was nothing more, or less, than sitting together with my old friend and strumming those guitars that has brought me here.

_{Thanks Lorrie Smith photos}

Dave turns the van up Dickson road but it is no use.
Another roadblock ahead, another sea of yellow vested Police have blocked the side streets, surrounding us.
I watch as four cops gallop past on horseback, the clatter of hoof upon cobblestone conjuring up some bygone era of knights battling dragons or some such stuff of legend.

But it’s not knights or swordplay here today, brother, as those geniuses at The EDL (English Defence League, think of them as the UK version of the Proud Boys without the Fred Perry polos) have decided to throw a protest–yeah, you got it–on the very weekend fifteen thousand punk rockers gather in jolly Blackpool.
It would be like the Klan planning a rally outside the Kendrick Lamar Juneteenth pop out.

It’s been a leisurely Saturday drive up from Newport, just a stop to fuel and stock up on our beloved Cheese&Onion triangle sandwiches at the roadside WHSmith.
That old familiar exciitement grows as we near Blackpool, a palpable adrenaline rush akin to pulling off the 101 at Sunset or seeing the glow of marquee and sleaze as the 15 finally drops into Vegas.
We have a long van discussion of just how many Rebellion fests this makes. Maybe 7? 8?
(This is counting the Wasted festival when it was in Morecambe 2005, as well as that one wild offshoot fest in Amsterdam.)
Whatever, this is the big one, the jewel of the year.
Our very favorite international punk fest.

We return to Blackpool like birds pulled back to the nesting grounds by irresistible migratory pull.
We’ve hit the town a night early, and good thing as the B&B has emailed to cancel all the rooms.
Seems some naughty punker has left the tub running while he slept off his Buckfast breakfast, and now a whole floor is darkened by electrical short.
What’s he thinking anyway, bathing during a punk fest??

There are rumored rooms still vacant at the Best Western, but we remain at standstill between Police and protesters, punkers and the sea.
I slide open the door and jump out then, yell over my shoulder that I’ll check the situation and meet up with the lads at Wintergardens, and start running toward the hotel..

Now, I know riots, having seen my fair share of helmeted LAPD goons marching through the roller rinks of my youth, and I am frankly disappointed by this mild standoff on the streets.
I’m tempted to at least throw a bottle into the crowd of racist nutjobs, and get this pit going, but I realize I am just a guest in this country.
Best to keep moving. (Reports come in later that a group of punkers streamed out of the fest and confronted the EDL, effectively chasing the cowards out. And the heart just swells.)

The rooms are finally sorted, the band tucked into one of those corporate joints way South of the Tower.
Then we run into the Wintergardens like children let loose at recess, catching up with old pals, goofing off on this night off.

There’s just time to catch Lene Lovich with the family, and then some songs by the wonderful Bad Manners crew at the Casbah before hitting the chippy and then to bed.

It’s back to the Wintergardens early Sunday, as the Literary Fest has graciously invited me to chat about the book.
This is one of those things, along with the art gallery, acoustic hall and daily punk bingo (!!) that sets this festival apart.
I find the gentleman moderator Marc Jones backstage and we have a nice little pre-interview chat, and then it’s out to the darkened set.

We are seated comfortably (between two ferns!) for our chat, and I am relieved to find that quite a few folks have set aside a bit of time to come listen.
I am so grateful for everyone who came out and listen to the stories behind the story, and at the Crafts Hall afterwards we sell out every copy of the book that DiWulf had shipped over,

If this was it, if my short week of playing-literally playing-up the knobby spine of the United Kingdom was now over, I would be a happy man.
But we still have our set to play, so we say our goodbyes to the Literary crew and make our way down to the Empress back stage.

I take a quick duck out the doors to check on the village.
The clouds part, just for a moment, and the seagulls wheel about in the sunny skies.
The last of the misguided protesters pout along the seaside, licking their wounds as well as their rainbow candy floss.
The punk rockers mill about and take smiling selfies with the beautiful Police horses.

Order seems restored, and though there was always a real threat of violence on the streets of Blackpool, it is back to the holiday at hand.
And those cobblestones, they don’t run red with bloodshed, but are baptized only by the charming vomit and urine of the overserved revelers.
And all is right with the world.

You know us Yanks, we love to flaunt the old we’re number one! tag to the world with a giant foam finger aiming to the heavens, all the while shooting our precious revolvers into the sky.
(That we are the world leaders mainly in child illiteracy and used motor oil dumping be damned, we still are the best at something, motherfuckers!)

But surely, when it came to murderous creeps, I thought we had a lock.
I mean, John Wayne Gacy, Jeffrey Dahmer, Richard Ramirez, old Chuckles Manson, the list goes on.
We could proudly point to those loons and say, hey at least those are our own goddamn homegrown psychos, world.
What you got?

The UK responds: Hold my beer mate.

Fred and Rose West, have you heard of these folk?
Those charming Brady/Hindley sweethearts? Yikes.
Seems the Brits prefer their murderous nuts as icky suburban couples, not content to feed their dark needs with the usual monthly swingers meet up at the local Embassy Suites.
No, with a body count of about twenty poor souls tortured and killed between them, they put our own murderers to shame, all the while knitting cat eared teapot cosies and professing their love of the Queen

You’ll find them and more—so much more!–in the wacky Crimes Through Time museum at the LittledDean jail, right there in the Forest of Dean, West Gloucestershire.

TourMan Davey has insisted on a 10:30 lobby call, no time to stop off at the steaming lobby breakfast spread.
We are up and out, and rolling through the emerald countryside once again.
I refer to the daysheet and see that it is a rather short ride from Cambridge to Newport today, no rush. I mean, it’s not like we’re gonna get there early enough to soundcheck or any of that real band nonsense, eh?
When I question Dave as to why the fuck we aren’t back there at the HI, sweating over a plate of beans and bacon, he only turns from his (right side) driver’s perch and gives me a leering wink.
Announces he has a special stop planned, then goes back to blasting his George Formby playlist of demented seaside carnival music.
Should’ve tipped me off right there.

At the end of a lovely country road looms an abandoned jail, its weathered stones mum to the past and present horrors held within.
Soon we wandering a dizzying labyrinth of mayhem, ranging from ghastly Nazi tableau to endless tabloid posters, highlighting the equally brutal regime of the British press.
The serial murdering couples, the dashing gangsters of the Krays era, the disgraced members of Parliament, they are all here. There is a tentative thematic sense to the place, although in the end it resembles nothing as much as an eccentric Aunt’s attic, the one who hoards specifically horrific artifact.

At one point Dave comes and finds us standing before an exhibit of sham mermaids and fur bearing trout, his face white and sheened with sweat.
He tells us he has just left a room featuring a video exhibit of beheadings and begs us not to go in there.
Of course, we demand he lead us back to the room immediately.
He was right; no one needs to see that shit.
Merch manager Briony becomes quiet and eventually leaves the exhibit, as we all do as well in turn.
It is all a bit much.

Out back, there is a baffling exhibit of Mod culture with some of the kitted out scooters used in the Quadraphenia movie.
What this has to do with the sickening display inside, I have no idea.
But the brief dive into the world of soul music and needless sideview mirrors is a welcome respite.

Back in the van, all us are silent, each of us considering the absolute horror of the human species.
Not even Dave’s loopy circus music can lift us out of our quiet reverie.
He switches playlists, and XTC’s Dear God comes on, a far more suitable soundtrack.

Though no one has much of an appetite, lunch is called at one of those Toby Carvery joints you see dotting the country, a perpetual Sunday Roast restaurant chain that would have Morrissey screaming into the night.

And soon we are each seated before smoking piles of gravy and bone, surely reminded of the dismemberment we have just witnessed.
But you know us, and we soon fall upon our platters of disjointed meats, suddenly crazed with the bloodlust it seems we all have the capacity for.

The Cab in Newport turns out to be a charming storefront space, with living quarters above and basement rumpus room below.
It is loud and cramped, sweaty and slippery, just the way we like it!

The whole thing seems another old school DIY affair, and we are pleased to see our stateside pals Potbelly on the bill as well as old friend Chris Redman’s band Bad Blood.

It’s another great gig, that’s 3 for 3 on the road to Rebellion so far.
The real highlight of the night is catching up with friends, and finally meeting more of those digital acquaintances finally rendered in flesh and blood.
I get a chance to finally meet up with the accomplished local writer Tim Cundle as well as @RusselTaysom, an artist who supplied San Francisco’s Thee Parkside club with those wicked psychedelic flyers all those years ago.

Local Welshman Dave can’t get 4 feet before greeting some old chum and introducing us all around.

We leave the gear in the club and have a late night wander around Newport after the gig, finally ducking out of the rain into a noisy pub.

Newport’s youngsters are here, are drinking their way into rightful oblivion while yelling along to their oldies, Blink 182 and Fallout Boy.
Who are we to judge? Put on some Prince or Cheap Trick, and we’d be singing along as well.

It is Friday night and the crew here is cutting loose.
And I remember those days.
Not a care beyond who pays for the next round.
What girl here has the worst taste in men and may take a chance on bringing home a stranger at the closing bell?

But out there, outside in the dark streets, we know what lurks, for we have seen Crimes Through Time.
And that shudder that shakes me involuntarily wards off not only the early morning chill, but a black cold that lurks within as well.