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Gig day rolled around and we all met up at the venue, The Velveeta Room, which is a beautiful old place, usually used for hosting comedy evenings and open mic nights. There were red curtains and ornate lamp shades above the stage. That gig was the first time everything had really come together, we were relaxed and the songs sang. The audience were lovely and suddenly being at the festival made sense.

After the show we met Jake from The Black Angels, and his girlfriend Jessica. They were heading to a bar called 13th Floor. We followed, and proceeded to indulge in yet another heady night of tequila and whiskey. It was after a couple of hours of this that Jake asked Freya and I if we’d like to play to the people in the bar. Of course we obliged, and played a stripped back set with Jeremy on bass. I love playing like that, with just an electric guitar, bass and vocals. All pangs of anxiety and homesickness had gone.

After the bar closed, there was talk of an after party at someone’s house. It’s all a bit blurry, but the next thing I remember was sitting on someone’s doorstep as it started to rain, contemplating whether or not to knock on the door. Jeremy had been there before us, and told us that someone had already come out and threatened him with violence if he didn’t get off the porch. Feeling slightly over confident I decided to knock on the window. This was a stupid idea. I had forgotten that we were in Texas, on a stranger’s property, and that whoever’s it was was well within their rights to use whatever means necessary to remove us. Anyway, after about half an hour, the guy eventually opened the door, and told us that there was no party. We got off lightly, called a taxi and headed back to the ranch.

The next day was the Panache Booking ‘Hangover Party’ at Beerland, one of the oldest and well renowned venues in Austin. I saw two amazing bands that day. One was called Baywaves, who’s bass player moved around the stage in a way I’d never seen before, and Surfbort. I can’t describe in words what Surfbort were, you’ll have to look them up, but their singer, Dani, was one of the most exciting musicians at the whole festival. They play old school LA punk rock – total chaos held together by a rawness and lust for life that was unrivalled by any of the other bands I saw that week.

We played our slot and got out of there. It was our last night, and I wanted to go out. John Dale (Dave’s brother) was there and suggested we check out this locals bar called the White Horse. that’s where things started to get weird…

Imagine every bar scene in every American movie you’ve ever seen. This was that place. Over in the corner on a slightly raised stage, dimly lit, were a country band playing to couples dancing the two step. Amongst these cowboy hatted aficionados was Bill Murray and a young girl. Freya and I danced for a song and then headed to the bar, where Jeremy, Sam, and Janine (a photographer who had been at the gig) and her friend were drinking.

I’d heard earlier on in the week about a bar called Justine’s, my friend Marie worked there, and had invited us but we had not been able to go. I had a good feeling about it. Marie and her friends were the most eclectic and interesting of all the people I met in Texas – they belonged to a separate world, a sort of Space Cowboy universe, full of acid and big boots, laced with that Texan politeness, a “thank you ma’am” type of thing.

We walked through a big green door hidden in a hedge on a rather unassuming street. A little corridor led us into a seated area where people were eating and drinking wine. It was one of those indoor/outdoor spaces that felt more like somewhere in Europe than the Lone Star state. There were fairy lights and candles everywhere. Inside a band was playing, full of the most incredible musicians, they were playing covers that nobody I know would even dare think about attempting. I felt like I had been transported back in time. It was just like a scene from one of those jazz clubs in On the Road.

This was it, the final night of our trip, America existed here in full technicolour glory. Every cliché you can think of bounced off the walls and landed at the bar. A trumpeter tore through the electric atmosphere as people from every corner of the world were talking loudly and dancing with each other.

As the evening went on, colours and faces started to blur into one another, the walls pulsated and I suddenly found myself able to understand the writing on the French film posters that were hanging up. Freya and I were happy, and totally lost. We had let go. When we came back inside, Bushwick Bill (from Geto Boys fame) was on stage. He had the most expansive vocabulary of insults I’ve ever heard. We turned around and there was Bill Murray again. Sam appeared and told us that he had just been given the finger by the man himself.

So, at 6am, suddenly realising we had a plane to catch, bags to pack, and a giant SUV to return to the rental company, we piled into the back of a taxi and high tailed it out of East Austin and onto the freeway. I felt like I was in the Millennium Falcon, the lights of cars and street lamps were beautiful. When we got back to the house, John was just waking up and was in the kitchen feeding the cat. As he lifted the fifteen kilogram bag of food to pour it into the cat bowl, the bottom gave way and hundred of thousands of pieces of cat food poured out and formed a pyramid on the linoleum. It was too much, Freya and I burst into laughter and fell, hopeless, to the floor.

Upon our recovery we headed upstairs and began frantically trying to get our stuff together. We had to get the guitars back to Gibson, pack, drop the car off and catch a flight. Simple enough, but the fact that we had had no sleep (and had left our minds at Justine’s) made it seem as if the task ahead was monumental, and totally unachievable. By some miracle I managed to arrange for the car to be picked up by the rental people, and spoke to Gibson to make sure that it was OK for Sam to drop the guitars off on his way to the airport two hours later. We were safe. We said our goodbyes and left in a hurry, without much of a goodbye.

We made it through security and into the gate, where we had Bloody Mary’s and chips at a conveniently placed bar where a man was playing gentle country music on an acoustic guitar… The flight from Austin to LA was surprisingly comfortable, I slept the whole trip. We found ourselves back in the dry heat of Los Angeles, and the comfort of LAX. Freya told me that she’d loved airports since she was a child, and that this was her favourite.

Meeting us there were Jeremy’s step mother, father and aunt. The Reynolds are lovely people from San Diego, this trip was the first time Jeremy had been able to get back to the States to see them since relocating to Whitstable from Brooklyn three years ago. We went to a Mexican restaurant near the airport and I ordered the fish enchiladas, Freya had a ‘veggie’ burrito. Each plate of food was enormous, and graciously received. Halfway through a bite it suddenly dawned on me that we were on our way back home. To Margate, through London, via East Kent where my parents live. England, that distant land of greenery and familiarity. Normality and memory. Family and friends…

After lunch, we boarded the American Airlines flight to London. We were surrounded by high school students who were taking a trip to Europe, they were loud and aggressive, and big. I was uncomfortable, but so tired that I managed to sleep a bit, waking up at regular intervals with pins and needles and a strange taste in my mouth. I had stuff to think about, I was playing a gig with Phobophobes in Guildford the next day and had to work out how I was going to get there, and whether it might be a good idea to stay in London after we arrived.

24 hours with the uber-model. Eating suspect chinese food and gobbing in the street.

Malthe Lund Madsen’s day off

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