From virtual outcast, to genial host, Gil Riot, in just a couple of days, had turned it around. The Belleville Riders found Les Moulins much to their liking......It was hard not to. The Riders entourage were easily accommodated within three, well appointed gites. Nash joined Ren and Neil, whilst Damon and Clifford moved in with Nixon, and now Gil, who was quick to make sure that Tanner got the best place, a spacious cottage, situated farther away, with its own private garden. Gil didn't know of Cecile yet, but it would make a perfect place for her planned weekend visit to Brittany. Tanner congratulated himself on how his astute judgement had paid off.

It was true, that his initial plan to keep Gil at a distance, had been altered by Ren and Damon, but he now recognised how the thaw in relations could keep him on side, and unlikely to rock any boats. Here at Les Moulins, he'd saved money on hotels, they'd have somewhere to spend their day off on Friday, and.....he'd have a nice, congenial place to entertain Cecile. After Saturday's festival, the band were scheduled to leave for the UK the following day. Tanner wanted to stay on a little longer however, and had wondered where they could go. Now he had an answer.

Things had mapped out well for Gil, too. He'd got the gigs he wanted, and made full use of the opportunity. Now, he had the attention of The Riders, a proper band, and here they were, staying at his studio. At Rennes, Tanner, always keen to ward off any press contact with his boys, had suggested that Gil give an interview. He could talk about his band, and a little of The Riders if he wanted. Nothing on Marrat, of course, and to make sure, he insisted that he conduct it all in English.

“Nash here, can go along, and keep an ear'ole on what you're on about, okay ? You'll get your publicity, and hopefully, they'll leave us alone.......”

And so, Gil made the most of it this unexpected opportunity. Whilst Nixon and the drummer made themselves scarce at the back of the bar, Gil flanked by the token presence of keyboard player Leo, and the ever silent, but looming presence of Nash, regaled the tale of his intimate connection with the band that didn't speak. 

He recounted the anecdote of the legendary show at The 100 Club, and his positive impressions of how he saw the present incarnation. He was, of course in a unique position to make the comparison, and it made good copy. Then finally, someone asked about his own band, and there was no stopping him. Following Nixon's express wishes that he wanted to remain uncredited, Gil went on to explain how he'd written and recorded all the songs.

“It's a concept album. For years I'd been searching for a story, then at last, I had something which gave me these songs”

Gil talked about how he'd been having a secret affair, with someone in an unhappy relationship.

“This was a woman who lived in fear of a violent husband. Our meetings were the islands of pleasure, amidst the pain. It's powerful material for song writing. Truth, lies, deceit....the longing for something unattainable, and of course, unrestrained passion. She was a loner in a foreign land, and so for me, it only heightened the emotions that she felt.....so it was only natural, that I should write about it, from her perspective.” 

He went on to talk about how they had one track already released, and an album available soon.

“Its called 'How We Love The Sea'......We might tour it with The Riders, on their next tour.”

Gil spoke well, and felt confident that his borrowed tale would certainly create an unusual story, and hopefully, fill a few column inches. The journalists seemed satisfied, and the interview wrapped up. Gil, then moved towards the bar to reward himself with a celebratory glass. Just then, one of the leaving group paused to ask a last question.

“By the way..........What became of the woman ?”

Gil hesitated, thought for a moment, then smiled. “I helped her escape to a better place........” 

The whole entourage made a fairly early exit from Rennes that night, and by two am, everyone had been allocated their quarters, and were now sat in the live room of Gil's impressive studio. Gil stuck on a Ray Charles record. The lights were lowered, and drinks found. This beat the hotel option, hands down. Ren hadn't had time to bring back any special friends, but for once, it didn't matter, as he appeared to be particularly taken with Gil's studio. 

“You know, if there's time, dear boy, I wouldn't mind a bash at recording in a place like this.”

“Some songs'd 'elp” Damon, not for the first time, had pointed out what everyone was thinking.

As the tour progressed, the subject had been raised several times. If they could come up with some new material, then perhaps The Belleville Riders could build on their success. The problem was, nobody being a writer. Back in the old days, it was Marrat that had come up with everything. Ren, after the demise of his punk band, had never tried again, and his tribute band, never had the need.

Now though, almost at the end of the tour, with a room full of musicians, in the kind of studio he'd never been near before, Damon's jibe sparked a positive response.

“Well okay then, let's give it a go. Gil, do you have a keyboard I can use ?”

Normally, after shows, Ren's main preoccupations were booze, drugs and women, and the next day had never seen him in any fit state to do anything, but recover in time for the evening performance. The tour rolled on in one repetitive loop, and even the days off had been spent partying or travelling. Now, at Les Moulins, after tomorrow's show, they'd have a whole day to burn. Gil, ever eager to be involved, opened up the control room. Ren followed him in, and closed the door.

Meanwhile, back in the live room, Isabella had put in an appearance, and was in good spirits. Nixon was surprised, yet pleased to see her. He wondered whether Gil had come clean about his generosity, or perhaps she thought they were paying guests. Whatever the reason, he shrugged it off, and with Gil occupied, he introduced her to Tanner, and the rest of the band. Perhaps it was the company, but Nixon felt slightly put out that she evidently was happier to hear of The Riders' exploits, than talk to him. He realised he was feeling jealous, and when Tanner turned the attention to her, asking what she did, it was Nixon who leaned in, and revealed what he knew she wouldn't.

“She won't tell you herself, but she's no mean painter.....” she shot him a look of mock anger.

He was taking a liberty, revealing something that she kept private, but somehow he wanted to underline that he was privy to it, and by implication, had earned her trust. Isabella looked slightly embarrassed, but not resentful, and when Tanner naturally showed an interest, the connection was made. Soon, the three of them were up in her studio, and Tanner couldn't believe his eyes.

The conversation flowed easily. Tanner talked about his mother, her love for art, and her connections with the world of Francis Bacon and the Colony Club. Isabella talked freely about her influences and ideas, and how she'd arrived at her present vision. It was clear that Tanner had an educated eye for art, and saw immediately what Nixon had only just begun to.

The size of the canvasses was such that, Nixon on his first visit to the studio, hadn't noticed anything other than vast abstract images. Tanner instinctively, had stepped back. It still wasn't entirely obvious, but as each one was revealed, the subject matter centred around a familiar theme. Tanner was genuinely impressed, and was keen to have Isabella show him more and more.

Finally, after removing a dozen pictures from the pile, and placing them on full view, up against the studio walls, they were surrounded. Images of death, decay, disease and squalor, were portrayed in thick, colourful oil paint. They were painted at such an aspect, that the unpleasant subject matter contrasted with the intrinsic beauty of colour and detail. 

The blue-green gossamer of a blow fly's wing, laying its eggs, within the brilliant, vivid colours of rotting flesh. The silken, blue-black beak of a raven, as it pierced the skull of a rat, picking at the mustard yellow brain within. Gruesome, but compelling, each image challenging the viewer to look again, deep within the detail of unpleasantness. An hour later, they came back down to the studio. The others had sloped off to bed, but Gil, Ren and now, Damon were sat in the control room, listening to Ren's rough, spontaneous creation.

“Stupid little rich girrrrls........Riding white horses.....”

Ren couldn't play the guitar, but with a basic knowledge of the keyboard, had proceeded to play a one fingered melody, using an especially nasty synth sound. He then, manually tapped out a drum pattern on a machine, with an incessant cymbal crashing on every beat. It had a childlike quality, but was nonetheless mesmeric. Damon, apparently motivated, had picked up a guitar and fleshed out a couple of chords, which together with Ren's repetitive refrain, gave the tune a weird juxtaposition, somewhere between Iggy Pop and Kylie Minogue. It was a basic effort, and had taken no time to put down, but already.....it had something.

“Its catchy, you know ? There's something about that rawness, I actually quite like.” Tanner wasn't a musician, but he knew a tune when he heard one. Isabella thought it was hilarious, and instinctively turned to Nixon for an opinion.

“Yeah ….don't touch it...keep it raw. At this rate you'll have a triple album down by Friday”

They laughed, but as everyone finally retired to bed, both Ren and Gil were fired up enough to try again on Friday, when they had a full day to play with.