The last gig of the tour before the festival, was at Nantes, and as the penultimate show, there was a certain impatience within the band to get it over with, and back to their new, up scale lodgings.

Cancelling their hotel, and staying at Les Moulins had worked out well. Tonight would be the same. Nantes was under two hours drive from Isabella's house, and so for once, Len, Roger and Nash, were assisted by the rest of the band in packing up their equipment, and making their get away, only half an hour after leaving the stage.

This suited Tanner perfectly, as it allowed him to evade any press, and focus his attention on Cecile, who'd trained in that afternoon. Ren, unusually, was keen to get away too. Perhaps he thought he could come up with another song. He'd found Gil easy to work with, and could get his ideas down quickly. He also liked the fact that he could smoke, drink, and avail himself of Gil's cocaine during the creative process. It was exactly his kind of studio.

By one in the afternoon the next day, everybody had surfaced, with the exception of Ren and Gil. They'd had a particularly late night. Not only had they written, and demoed a new song, but Ren, at five in the morning, had decided it would be an ideal time to go and film an accompanying video.

It was a madcap idea, but Gil, riding the wave of scotch and good coke, thought it made total sense. So, off they set in Gil's car, careering through the winding Breton lanes, and somehow, making it to Dinan, twenty odd kilometres away.

The wet, medieval streets were, of course, deserted. It had become a film set, and Ren pranced around playing directors, whilst their song blared out of the car stereo. Gil, hardly able to walk straight, staggered along, dutifully filming wherever he was pointed. Finally, at seven am, they made their way back to Les Moulins unseen, and amazingly, without incident.

The track they'd created, was called Sortir ce Soir, and had come about almost by accident. Ren, after fruitlessly trying to come up with something musically as catchy as his previous effort, had finally given up, and turned his attention to Gil's whisky. Gil though, in an effort not to lose the moment, had picked up a guitar, and started to jam.

After a few minutes, he'd settled on a slow, bluesy, two chord sequence. It fitted the moment perfectly, and Ren, feeling the muse, began to sing, improvising as he went. He sang exactly about how he felt in that moment. He wanted to go out, he wanted to get lashed, and damn the consequences. It sounded good. Gil joined in, but this time, repeating each line in French.

“Je vais encore sortir ce soir........et m'attirer un tas d'histoires

Voler les gens, sans meme les voir......pour etre social, faut que j'sois noir

Quais ca c'est le mien, tu m'en remet un.....Quais, ca c'est le mien...je te le paye demain”

Ren quickly grabbed a pen and scribbled down Gil's louche translation, as best he could.

“That's how I am, give me another...that's how I am, and I'll pay you tomorrow... …....that's it, dear boy…...You know ? It sounds even better in French”

After ten minutes they'd got down two verses and a chorus. Gil quickly recorded a backing track, adding a harmonica, while Ren wrestled with the French. He'd always wanted to sing in French, and now here it was, his own song. The style suited his voice, and together with Gil's distinctive harp, gave the song a unique flavour. The next afternoon, Ren had got up, splashed his sagging features, taken some sustenance, and was soon hassling Gil to get up, and replay the track to the band.

“Come on lad, let's crack on, and get this track finished......” 

He stood there, apparently unaffected by last night's excess, beaming, clean and fresh, proffering a tray, with a large coffee, a line of coke, and a pain au chocolat on a grubby plate. Gil dragged himself up. Everything felt heavy, but finally, after two more coffees, he made it back to the studio.

Even in his hung over state, he was sure they had something worthy, and when the others heard it, they knew too. Within an hour, Damon, Cliff and Neil, had set up in the live room, and begun to fill out the bones of the track from the night before. Despite its simplicity, it eventually took several hours to adorn the drunken meanderings, which had previously only taken minutes. By midnight, Gil had got what he wanted, and The Belleville Riders had a second, original song. During the tour, Ren's voice had definitely got closer to the snarl of Marrat, and together with Damon and Cliff's singular sound, one would be hard pushed to suggest that the songs weren't by The Belleville Riders of old. It had been a cool way to spend their day off, and it gave them belief that, perhaps, there might be a future for the band.

Not long after midnight, Tanner made an appearance. He'd been out all day, and was surprised to find that everybody looked lucid, sitting around the mixing desk, listening to Gil's final mixes. Ren, astonishingly, looked as if he hadn't had a drink all day. That wasn't true, but for once, it was late and he was still in control.

“I think we've got something special 'ere. What about a single, Tan ?” Neil looked at Tanner.

Tanner was impressed, but nodded cautiously.“If we can pull it off tomorrow, I'd imagine there'll be some serious interest. A single is a start, I suppose........Let's see.”

It was a positive end to a perfect day. With the band busy in the studio, Tanner, Cecile, Isabella and Nixon, had taken a trip out to the little port of Cancale. It was famed for its oysters, and two centuries ago, Napoleon himself had insisted on Cancale oysters to be transported all the way to the Russian front, so fine were their reputation, and by the present day, there must have been at least, thirty seafood restaurants lining the compact seafront.

Seated at Isabella's favourite haunt, at the end of the strip overlooking the beach, the day passed in a beautiful blur of fine food, wine and conversation, with fabulous oysters setting the tone. Nixon had never tried them before. A rugged, rock like exterior, giving way to a pearl textured interior, pristine white, with hues of blue, purple and pink. The flesh varied from a slate grey rim, to a creamy, sometimes chestnut orb. Adorned with finely chopped sea weed, lemon, a garnish of red wine vinegar, and shallots, they tasted of clear, clean sea ….and sex... moist, salt and flesh. It was impossible not to eat one without giving oneself over. Rough hunks of heavily buttered bread, damped off every dive into the messy pleasure. Juice dribbled down chins, and wet fingers glistened, against a picture book sunset.

Isabella and Cecile had hit it off immediately. If Isabella had stayed in Paris, all those years ago, then this was very probably, exactly the sort of person she would have befriended for life. Now, years later, it felt as if there was much catching up to do. Since meeting Tanner, Cecile's world had suddenly come alive. After years of denial, and then the final, cathartic, revealing of her past to Tanner, it felt as if she'd been rewarded for her courage. She'd at last found a partner she could love, and now, it appeared she had gained a friend, too. For Isabella, however, life was still complicated.

Since Nixon's arrival, she'd sensed something was about to change. It had underlined her situation with Gil. The wheel had turned, but as yet, in an unknown way, and the arrival of Tanner and Cecile had only reinforced that feeling. She found Nixon difficult to read, and despite the hours spent in conversation, she was still unsure of how he felt towards her. Something was holding him back. Perhaps it was the presence of Gil, or the alien surroundings. She didn't know, but for now, in the restaurant with her congenial companions and their sumptuous, sensual feast, she was happy.

Tanner and Nixon got on well, too. After two weeks on the road, Tanner found his calm, easy manner, a refreshing change to the banter of Ren and the band. In turn, Nixon admired Tanner's style, and particular aura of sensitivity and strength. He'd spoken eloquently on Isabella's paintings, handled the band with a firm confidence, and used a ruthless response in dealing with Gil, which now resulted in him practically eating from his hand. It was a rare skill, but Tanner Francis had read the signs of each situation, and responded accordingly. Nixon mused on that fateful first encounter between Tanner and Gil at the warm up show. In hindsight, it was now only a minor blip, on what had been a near perfect tour. Tanner could afford to smile.

“Well it looks like we all won in the end, doesn't it ?....Gil's been a big help, getting the boys recording. I'm looking forward to hearing what they come up with today......” 

Nixon wondered where it might leave him, if something came of it. Would he still be needed? He had no idea, but he decided to live in the moment, and make the most of his weekend.

Saturday, 1st September, 2001

September continued where August left off, and the sun shone. Everybody was in high spirits......all except Nash, who, since the Nantes show, had become strangely subdued. Yesterday, he'd scarcely shown his face, preferring to stay in the gite, drinking and watching television, and today, he'd only appeared not long before departure, and barely speaking.

The Belleville Riders were scheduled to play at six o'clock. They'd play for forty minutes, after Vanessa Paradis, and preceding Pulp. There'd be two bands after them, and then Iggy Pop to headline. It was not a bad line up. The previous night had seen The Cure headline, and The Riders were only too happy, to be rubbing shoulders with such well known names.

The tour bus approached the Chateau at four pm, and slowly made its way through a sea of festival goers, then finally to the rear gates of the artists entrance. Isabella, Gil, Nixon and Cecile, had all joined the entourage, and the excitement in the bus rose, as they finally entered the back stage area. There were a few trailers for the bands around the periphery, and a marquee for a bar. There must have been about a hundred and fifty people in there. Musicians and guests, technical crews, press and photographers all mingled, and it was hard to make out who was in a band, or who was there for the ride.

Ren was sporting his now customary, bug eye shades, and in addition, had borrowed Roger's long peaked baseball cap, in an effort to remain anonymous. It didn't matter though, as it was soon obvious that there were much bigger names here than The Belleville Riders. Gil, suddenly caught sight of The Cure's singer, who must have stayed over from yesterday. He tugged at Nixon's sleeve.

“Look Nikki, it's.....” he was suddenly interrupted by a pixie haired girl in a plain, summer dress and plimsolls, asking for a light. Nixon recognised the famous British model instantly, but Gil clearly hadn't noticed, still busy scouring the crowd for faces. Nixon didn't bother to tell him. The whole scene took him back to his Hollywood nightmare, and he began to feel strangely disturbed.

The group took a table in the bar, then after an hour, Tanner signalled to the band to make their way to their trailer, and prepare for the show. Gil had already made his way up backstage, keen to see Vanessa Paradis at close quarters, who was about to start. Nixon, still ill at ease, looked at Isabella.

“I'm bored......Anyone fancy coming out front, and watching the show ?”

Nash had already wandered off, uninterested in anything. Len and Roger said they should stay with the band, and Cecile wanted to stay with Tanner. Isabella hesitated an instant, then got up.

“Okay, I'll come” 

Inside the main arena, the majority of twenty thousand music fans crammed around the huge, domed, main stage. By the time Nixon and Isabella had walked around the site to the public entrance, then squeezed through the crush, Vanessa Paradis was already well into her set. The Belleville Riders would be on stage in less than half an hour.

They began by walking around the periphery, browsing the kaleidoscope of stalls. Soon, a loud cheer greeted the intro of Mrs Johnny Depp's last song, Lou Reed's Waiting for the Man. It was a favourite of Nixon's, and in fact, The Bellevilles had played it for an encore, a few days before, in Caen. Vanessa Paradis had a large band with a jazzy slant, and Nixon couldn't help but think how her version seemed to soften the whole, urgent intent of the song. Upright bass and a brass section was all very nice, but it didn't hold a candle to The Rider's no nonsense, relentless groove.

The changeover time between bands was scheduled for about fifteen minutes, Isabella suddenly grabbed Nixon's hand, and pulled him forward into the crowd.

“Come on !....Let's watch them from the front”

She lead him through the mass of bodies, and then, not far from the front, stopped and turned. The crowd was particularly dense here, bordering claustrophobic. Then, a sudden crush pushed their bodies together. Isabella thrust her arm around his waist, and Nixon grasped her shoulders. It was the crowd's movement that had caused it, and an automatic, mutual attempt to remain stable, but as the pressure eased, neither of them let go. It felt good. The touch, caress, scent, irresistibly sensual. The throng pressed in again, but this time it was welcome, and amidst the mass of anonymous forms, an intimate space was created. They were lost in a crowd, more private than they'd ever felt before, and as the MC introduced the now legendary Belleville Riders to the stage, to an enormous cheer, Nixon Tyme finally lowered his guard.