ONE SPRING A few years ago, our relationship with some Danish promoters and managers paid off and GBS was offered the support slot for the well-weathered but newly reinvented Scottish Celtic rock band Runrig. A decade or so previous, Runrig was a top draw in several countries in Europe with their big 1980s rock meets traditional Celtic sound. Cape Breton native and old friend of ours, Bruce Guthro, had recently been hired to replace the band’s original singer, and though he’s too humble to admit it, I’m sure he put in a good word for us to open the tour.
His collaboration with the Scottish icons was working out really well. They had recently released the CD The Stamping Ground and would have their first charting hit in Europe in years. The tour was to start in April on the Isle of Skye in Portree, Scotland, and roll in two legs through the UK and across the sea into Denmark and Germany, two of the band’s biggest support bases on the mainland.
We would get to play a thirty-minute opening set each night and then blast to the merch table to sign and sell as many CDs as possible since our fee for the set was zero. This was and probably still is quite common in European touring, where the support act does the tour for merch sales and promotion alone. Runrig actually stepped up to the plate heartily and offered us catered suppers each night from their travelling chefs and a hearty backstage rider, which was quite unusual at the time. They remain some of the kindest people we’ve ever met on the road.
It would be a long tour for us, as we did not have enough money to fly everyone home for the ten-day break in the middle of the tour, so we’d be on the road for almost eight weeks straight. We planned to occupy the ten-day downtime with our own pub gigs while waiting for the big tour to kick back in. (If memory serves me correctly, those gigs never really materialized, so some of us did the responsible thing any travelling band guys in their youth would do: we went to Amsterdam for four days. Very productive.)
Financing the Runrig tour would prove very tricky. We would be a touring party of six people, and since we’d recently made the jump of staying in separate hotel rooms, there was no looking back. So we needed six hotel rooms, as well as transport for six people and equipment. I believe we trashed the idea of a per diem of any kind, our justification being that the hotels provided a breakfast that we’d make sure to eat as much of as we could, while Runrig were providing dinner.
As another cost-saving measure, we struck up a deal with a hotel chain in the UK, the Red Roof Inn. They had locations in many of the cities we were to play, and they’d offer us a reduced rate if we booked as many room nights as possible with them. We agreed and were pleasantly surprised upon arrival at the first one in Scotland that the hotel was a brand-new, clean, Euro-Ikea-ish styled place, the sort with lots of metal-legged furniture and laminated birchy wood tops and seats.
In through the automatic sliding door I walked and found a reception desk staffed by a lovely grinning fella with fiery red hair set off by a blue golf shirt bearing the hotel name and a plastic name tag that read “Duncan.”
“You must be the Canadian Rock Stars,” Duncan said in a dialect that I can only describe as near indecipherable and awesome at the same time. His pronunciation was tricky to understand, as was the speed at which Duncan and many of the other locals in Northern Scotland spoke. However, I would soon learn that the hardest part about understanding the Scots was that they used the same words that I used, but they did not mean the same things I meant. You know, “jumper” was a sweater, “birds” were girls, and so on. Add a few curse words and you could hear a sentence like:
“Ooh aye f—k like, Alan. I cannae take the piss out of your jumper when the birds so clearly fancy it, you right c—t.”
But during this first meeting, Duncan was much more polite.
“Welcome, welcome indeed. From Newfoundland, I see. My uncle worked the oil rigs there. Always good to have folks in town that find our weather pleasant.” Scots could be the best laughers in the world. I still love any chance to go there and be amongst such wonderful people.
He asked a few questions about Runrig and what the guys were like, and after some polite exchanges he pointed me to a set of elevators that would take me to my room. On the way to the elevator I spotted a combination breakfast/bar area. With great fondness and joy, we later discovered the bar would be open 24/7 for hotel guests. I have always envied this in European hotels, and cursed the thousands of times I have walked into a North American Hotel at eleven thirty to find the bar closed for the night.
All you needed to get a drink at the Red Roof Inn was a room key. A single brass key that looked more like a school classroom key than any new-fangled high-tech key or key card. Attached to each key was an oval-shaped piece of blue plastic bearing the name RED ROOF INN on one side, and on the other side, a simple three-digit room number. Mine was 206.
I proceeded up to the second floor in the small four-person, polished-metal elevator and strolled down a blue-carpeted hall lined with birchy-wood doors until I reached my small room. I slid the key into the door and smiled upon entering the small but spanking-new, clean-as-a-whistle room. Two steps to the right was a small but sparking bathroom, and two more steps to the right was a double bed just the right size for one person to sleep in quite comfortably or two people jammed together. It was neatly made with white sheets, and blue pillows that matched the carpet and comforter, and a headboard the same birchy wood as the door. Two more steps and you could lay your bag on a small table with metal legs and a birchy wood top. Two small chairs with the same metal legs and birchy wood as the table were pressed against a window that overlooked the small car park.
You are probably getting the picture that the room was small. I sat in one of the chairs, and my knees almost touched the bed’s headboard. Yes, the room was small, but more than I needed, and I was delighted with our hotel choice, especially considering we had the better part of a month to go in a couple dozen locations. I could not wait to see what the next one looked like.
Twenty-four hours or so later, we pulled into the second hotel, and the bump of the curb woke me from yet another awesome van nap. I rubbed my eyes and puzzled at the sight before me.
“Did we forget something?” I asked Bob. “Why are we back at the same hotel?”
“Wake up, b’y. We’ve been driving for two hours.”
“This is a different hotel than yesterday?” I looked behind me to see that we were indeed in another new and cool Scottish town with a character of its own. I could not wait to explore it. I looked back at the hotel.
“Yeah, pretty similar, isn’t it?” Bob said.
Similar? It was identical. Like, spooky identical. Walking through the automatic sliding door and seeing the reception desk was as Groundhog Day an experience as I’ve ever had. The furniture in the lobby was not only the same style and colour as the day before, but each piece, each table and chair leg, seemed to be in exactly the same place. Was I still drunk? I wondered as I turned to the reception desk and stifled a yelp of surprise.
“You must be the Rock Stars from Canada. Do you think the Runrig guys will be by for a drink later?” The words came from a fiery red-haired fella wearing a blue golf shirt with a nearly indecipherable but awesome accent. My eyes bulged and darted to his nametag. It read “David.”
He handed me a key with a plastic blue tag that read “407” and pointed us to the polished-metal elevator that took me to the blue-carpeted hallway of the fourth floor. I pushed open my room’s birchy door and took two steps past the bathroom, two steps past the bed and two more steps to the table and sat in the birchy seated chair, my knees brushing against the birchy headboard.
It turned out I was not losing my mind at all. I discovered that the Red Roof Inn’s mother company had bought or leased lots in a few dozen towns in the UK and set out to modernize the accommodations industry by providing consistency across the board. You’d no longer have to wonder what the B&B in Falkirk was like, or if the Mom and Pop hotel in Stirling had a car park, because the Red Roof Inns were all the same. All the locations were built and opened within months of each other a few years before, and they were very intentionally laid out, furnished and operated identically.
It became a routine for the next two or three weeks. A new and interesting town in Scotland or Northern England with the Groundhog Day hotel right in the middle of it. We’d wake as late as possible and eat as big a breakfast at the buffet as we could shovel into us since the next meal was not coming till 6 or 7 p.m. I learned to maximize these meals by taking a Tupperware container to breakfast. I’d eat breakfast from the British hot section of the buffet, then sneak back to the cold or continental section and jam a bunch of cold cuts, cheeses and a couple of rolls into my container. The boys mocked me for this, but not a day went by when someone did not avail themselves of my Tupperware collection around lunchtime.
We’d check out, and a Duncan or David would say thanks and not to forget to leave our keys and wonder one more time if the Runrig guys would be coming back to town soon. We’d often just nod and smile in that polite kind of Canadian way without giving much thought. Then we’d drive to the next town, through beautiful Scottish landscapes, almost all of which I missed because I’d be asleep five minutes after we hit the motorway, and I’d be awakened again by the van turning into another carbon-copy Red Roof Inn. We’d walk through the automatic sliding door, say hello to a Duncan or David, speculate that yes indeed the Runrig guys could be here any moment, walk to the polished-metal elevator, down the blue-carpeted hall, through the birchy door and I’d two-step two-step two-step my way to the metal-legged chair.
After a week or two it was getting monotonous to say the least, though in all honesty, I spent so few waking hours in those rooms that it did not bother me too much. I’d chuck my stuff in, explore the town for an hour or two, then arrive at the venue for our 6 p.m. sound check and 7:30 show. I did not carouse and get blind drunk every night, but I caroused and had a few sips almost every night on that tour. There were some memorable nights in the Red Roof Inn hotel bars drinking, chatting and singing songs for as long as the nightshift Duncan or David had the patience to serve us.
The most memorable night came on June 9, 2001, near the end of the Scottish leg of the tour. I can tell you exactly what night it was because the focus of our excitement that day was that the hotel bar/breakfast area had a TV with an international cable sports channel. I asked Duncan if it was at all possible for us to watch the Stanley Cup playoffs later that night. He said he’d check it out, and I strolled off to explore and do the show. There was much revelry that evening as we all had the next day off, and Duncan was thrilled to see the Runrig guys come back to the hotel bar with us sometime after midnight.
“I found your ice hockey for you!” Duncan was so excited, I felt bad to admit to him that I’d totally forgotten about the game. It was to be played in Denver that evening, and with the time difference, would start in about a half an hour.
What a night. We all sat drinking and telling stories and singing songs, but the best part was Bruce and the rest of the GBS Canadians explaining the ice hockey game to the Scots. Hearing them cheer for the fights and big hits in their local brogue was nothing short of amazing.
“Aye, wee f—ker with your caged mask and your lightning-quick glove. You’ll nae give us a goal tonight, will you, you stingy—”
All the while, I explained the rules to Duncan. He was so impressed with the goalie’s gear and agility, he’d regularly jump up and imitate the saves.
“You nae score in the five-hole here. Me shafts are jammed tighter together than the Queen’s Gates!”
All together, we watched Ray Bourque finally win a Stanley Cup with the Colorado Avalanche. We cheered when Joe Sakic handed him the Cup, and sang and laughed and eventually succumbed to the clock not far from when night turns back to day.
Somewhat bleary-eyed I walked, not without a stumble, to the polished-metal elevator, and the shiny door closed before me. I went to push the button but realized I had no memory of what room I had checked into earlier that day. I was just about to go to Duncan and ask the embarrassing question, when I stuck my hand in my jacket pocket and felt a plastic oval tag.
“RED ROOF INN” was all it read. “Shite.” But then I remembered to turn the key over. “Ha. You can’t fool me.”
203 was the key, and with the confidence that only comes with a night of drinking Scottish beer and whisky, I pressed the 2 button and made my way to my room. After all, I had the whole thing down to a science by now and could practically do it in my sleep. Which, in truth, was not far away. I slid the key into the lock and pushed the door with the swagger of a man who’d danced this dance dozens of times.
I nearly broke my nose on the birchy door when it did not open. I tried again, losing confidence and growing puzzled. Again and again I turned the key, but it would not budge in the lock. Hmm. Must be broken, I supposed. I turned and rode the elevator back down to the now all but empty lobby. Duncan looked surprised to see me coming.
“Sorry, man. My key is not working.”
“Oh dear, so sorry. What room number is it?”
I tossed the 203 key and he caught it in his left hand, windmilling it round in the air like I’d shown him Patrick Roy doing earlier in the game. He grabbed another 203 key and fake slapshot it my way, and I made a similar Roy-ean windmill and got back in the elevator before the doors closed.
As the elevator doors opened on the second floor, I felt the heavy weight of the evening press upon me and practically sleepwalked down the hall to my room. I slid the key in the slot, carefully this time, as I was too tired to walk back to the lobby a second time if the door failed to open again.
Right as rain, the birchy door opened and I slipped the key back in my jacket pocket. I two-stepped in the dark past the bathroom and bed towards the familiar birchy chair. I was directing my bum towards the seat just as a rustling caught my attention enough to rouse my closing eyes.
My sight adjusted to the dim light coming through the car park window as my bum continued its slow but sure decline onto the seat. The next four to five seconds felt like an hour, as my life and a few other things passed before me.
My eyes shot to the bed as my bum continued its descent. On the far side, a figure lay on the bed, and as it turned, a long lock of blond hair fell onto the pillow. A beautiful Scottish girl was in my bed? I looked to the table next to me and saw two bags, but not one of them mine. My bum was now millimetres from the target, which meant my knees were now millimetres from the face of the second person in the bed. A Giant. A Scottish Giant. He was big—Braveheart big—the smallish bed barely holding his torso and his massive arms and legs spilling out over the sides. I could see one fist as big as a ham resting on the blue-carpeted floor.
I froze. I don’t mean I was fairly motionless and quiet. I mean I froze. No movement—no breathing, no blinking, no heartbeat. I froze in a position so close to sitting yet just high enough from sitting that only a hair’s width of light separated my knees from the Giant’s nose. If they touched and woke the sleeping Giant, I was sure I would draw my last breath flying through the window and onto the roof of a car in the car park.
I glanced at the fair Maiden. To my horror, one of her eyes was opening. In her near sleep she whispered, “Love?”
Then again. “Love?”
“What?” the Giant responded. He did not open his eyes. If he had, I would not be telling this story today.
The Maiden looked at me with an unfocused, dream-state gaze.
“Love. There’s someone in the room.”
The Giant lifted his fist and rolled just enough to raise it to his face without bumping my knee. He rubbed his fist against a closed eye and said, “No, love. Go back to sleep.”
With that, he rolled back into place and was about to let his ham-fist slip towards the floor when I saw that my knee was now directly in its path.
I shot straight up in breathless silence as his fist plummeted to the floor, narrowly missing my legs by mere inches. Standing now, I saw my chance to escape. I turned and took two steps, two steps, two steps to the door, making no effort to walk quietly and no effort to open the door silently. I hurried. I had not taken a breath in over an hour, remember. I pulled the door open and let it close behind me, but I cannot tell you if it slammed because I ran as fast as I could to the elevator and hit the Down button so hard I nearly broke it. When the elevator finally arrived, I pushed the G button, and gasped my first breath as the doors opened onto the bright lobby, now empty, except for Duncan with a bucket and a mop.
I was going to kill him. He’d obviously given my room away and then sent me into the lion’s den. He had his back to me and did not see me coming. I reached into my pants pocket and yanked out the key for room 203. Holding it up in front of my face, I took a deep breath, about to yell as loud as I ever had.
The RED ROOF INN tag spun before my eyes as I drew my breath. I was just about to bawl like a man who had narrowly escaped death when the tag spun around and the three digits shone in the light.
307
What? I stopped. Duncan still did not see me. What was going on? I stuck my left hand into my jacket pocket and felt a second plastic tag. I pulled it out and three digits stared back at me.
203
Oh dear. I shook my head as I realized what I had done. I’d unknowingly left yesterday’s Red Roof Inn with the 203 key in my jacket pocket, and when I arrived at today’s Red Roof Inn, I got a new one for 307 and slipped it in my pants pocket.
I turned and walked back to the elevator.
“You all right, mate?” Duncan had finally seen me.
“Yeah, man, just had to get a drink of ahh…” I let the doors close before I trailed off.
I walked furtively down the hall of the third floor, fully expecting a Braveheart Giant to jump from the darkness and gut me.
I slid the key in 307 and two-stepped two-stepped two-stepped to the birchy chair and sat there as my knees hit the mattress. I was so relieved that I fell asleep in the chair. When the wake-up call from the lobby came, I was still sitting there. I got up, took my unopened bag and left the room without so much as taking a pee or lifting the bedsheets of that hotel room. I walked quickly though the lobby and laid two keys in front of a David, who must have relieved the Duncan from the night shift.
“Great night I hear! Are the Runrig guys still around?”
Rudely, I did not answer. I just shrugged and gave a final salute.
I ran to the van and closed the door behind me. I was drifting off to sleep as we pulled out of the driveway.
I stayed awake just long enough to see a large Scottish man and a beautiful blond lady companion complaining at the front desk.