A MESSAGE FROM IAN GILLAN
It was late March in 2019, when I
found myself in Nashville TN, renting an Airbnb delight called ‘Rose
River Cottage’, on one bank of the
Cumberland River, almost directly opposite the Grand Ole Opry, from
where the quaint music would drift across the water into the wee small
hours.
It was springtime, and – along with the woodchucks – I was emerging from hibernation.
Across town, other members of Deep Purple were staying in more urbane
accommodation. This was a shock, as we are famous for our lack of
planning and we all wondered what had drawn us together in this place
and time.
An even greater surprise was to follow; each member
(arms and legs I’m talking about) arrived at a rehearsal studio and then
a recording studio at roughly the same time on roughly the same day
with roughly no idea of what we were doing.
It was a total
coincidence, the like of which has probably never been witnessed since –
unbelievably – exactly the same thing happened a few years earlier when
we spawned some In-Finite ideas.
Then – blow me down – Bob Ezrin turned up and said ‘Let’s have dinner on Monday’
Someone enquired ‘What’s the big occasion?’
Bob replied ‘To celebrate the fact that we are all still alive…’
‘In which case’ continued the world-weary muso, ‘We’d better make it Sunday’
But we survived the weekend and had dinner on Monday.
Tuesday, we made another album and Wednesday we went to the pub….
Something like that anyway (it was all a blur) and now we gird our
lions (yes, I know, but I’m in Africa) for a year of febrile activity
into which a rare amount of planning has been invested; obviously not by
us.
I sense the grinding of campaign wheels, the oiling of
creaky roadies, rumours of itineraries and ripples of creativity in
Hamburg. Quite plainly something is in the air; but I have no idea what
it could be.
Perhaps, after another brief hibernation, all will become clear, in the spring of 2020.
ig
It was late March in 2019, when I
found myself in Nashville TN, renting an Airbnb delight called ‘Rose
River Cottage’, on one bank of the
Cumberland River, almost directly opposite the Grand Ole Opry, from
where the quaint music would drift across the water into the wee small
hours.
It was springtime, and – along with the woodchucks – I was emerging from hibernation.
Across town, other members of Deep Purple were staying in more urbane
accommodation. This was a shock, as we are famous for our lack of
planning and we all wondered what had drawn us together in this place
and time.
An even greater surprise was to follow; each member
(arms and legs I’m talking about) arrived at a rehearsal studio and then
a recording studio at roughly the same time on roughly the same day
with roughly no idea of what we were doing.
It was a total
coincidence, the like of which has probably never been witnessed since –
unbelievably – exactly the same thing happened a few years earlier when
we spawned some In-Finite ideas.
Then – blow me down – Bob Ezrin turned up and said ‘Let’s have dinner on Monday’
Someone enquired ‘What’s the big occasion?’
Bob replied ‘To celebrate the fact that we are all still alive…’
‘In which case’ continued the world-weary muso, ‘We’d better make it Sunday’
But we survived the weekend and had dinner on Monday.
Tuesday, we made another album and Wednesday we went to the pub….
Something like that anyway (it was all a blur) and now we gird our
lions (yes, I know, but I’m in Africa) for a year of febrile activity
into which a rare amount of planning has been invested; obviously not by
us.
I sense the grinding of campaign wheels, the oiling of
creaky roadies, rumours of itineraries and ripples of creativity in
Hamburg. Quite plainly something is in the air; but I have no idea what
it could be.
Perhaps, after another brief hibernation, all will become clear, in the spring of 2020.
ig