“I got really into the idea, it’s about the monotony and complete helplessness of being on a bus, travelling through the UK or Europe. It’s about bouts of collective madness really, without being too wacky about it.”
Describing what to expect, he said: “We’ve always been a tight unit and people don’t always get to see that. I tried to write about that as unfiltered as I could. The way we speak, I didn’t try to correct the dialect or anything. I tried not to change anything, the 3AM conversations which are just insane – you just talk about things to get yourself to the next hotel.
“That was the gravy for me. Things that people don’t ever see.”
As well as the above interview, you can check out an excerpt of the book below – which sees Power describing touring life with Kings of Leon.
“In 2003, we spent two weeks driving across the Bible Belt with the Kings Of Leon trailing us in another bus. It was early days for them, and they’d go on stage before us, believe it or not. The Kings were all southern manners and polite applause at soundchecks.
“They were fun to be around for the most part, and you could tell that they were tough kids, but raised well. Their Oklahoma City style was worlds apart from our Northwest England bowlheads and corduroy jeans, though. They thought we looked like The Monkees.They used to have this minder, a lad around the same age as them called Nacho.
“Nacho wore flares and cowboy boots, and had one of those haircuts where the back is outgrown and the sideburns look like they’ve been lopped off with Concorde wings. I hadn’t seen a mullet like it since Billy-Ray Cyrus had done Achy BreakyHeart on The Chart Show.They were obsessed with sex, too. They’d talk about it constantly.
“One time I walked past their bus to see them all sitting around smoking weed and casually watching a porno. I left them to it. A few of the gigs were completely empty, the most notable being in Salt Lake City, Utah, which is a predominantly Mormon and Christian town. We wandered around for a short while, wondering where everyone was, until somebody pointed out that the place was deserted, “because it’s fucking Sunday and everyone’s in church”.
In the rented chalets that circled around a swimming pool of green, stagnant water, we passed the post-gig witching hours stretched out in bed watching American TV. It was funny how many adverts you’d see for depression pills over there. There’d be this sad, dramatic thirty-second film, and then the short disclaimer at the end would say “side effects: may cause depression.”
We sat in Caleb, the singer’s, room for a while. They had this wooden homemade bong that was being passed around. It looked like something from the Civil-War era. Somebody changed the channel, and an old western came on, The Searchers, I think.
“Caleb piped up: “Ah luurve John Wayne,” he said. “I can put any John Wayne movie on and jus’ sit there blubberin’.” He went on: “Fuck it man, I’m a crier.”
And then he’d load up the top of the homemade bong, and take another lungful.”