Wednesday, September 11, 2002. London

Nixon Tyme downed his whisky, said goodbye to Eugene, and made his way out of The Jug. The unsettled autumn weather had turned mild and pleasant, and the walk back home could wait for a while. He made his way south, up the hill and across, towards Brockwell Park. It was late afternoon, and children were coming out of school. The rush hour was just beginning on another, ordinary day.

La Plage, Plerin

Isabella Lake, at thirty years of age, had already learnt much in the ways of the world, and its workings. She'd never had a career in the conventional sense, wasn't as widely travelled as most, but nevertheless, her parents and then subsequently, she herself, had nurtured a wide base of skills and knowledge that few could match. One area where she was bereft, however, was relationships.

Saturday, 2^nd September, 2001

The enormous sound system of Chateau de Bonnefontaine gave a fresh dimension to the unearthly rumble of the The Belleville's intro soundtrack, and Nixon wondered about apocryphal tales of low frequency sound weapons. Here was some sort of evidence, as the thunderous, trance like rhythm quelled the boisterous crowd into submission. Despite being the work of a completely different band, the track had become synonymous with The Riders.

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.

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.

I

Sitting in a quiet bar, just off Place de Clichy, along with Franck Blanchard, four journalists, and a couple of photographers, Tanner was well prepared for the inevitable question.

I

Rock Francais sucked. Lennon was right. Nixon had long suspected it, but here was proof. Three days of rehearsals wasn't much, but enough to reveal a marked difference in the way that French musicians went about their business. It wasn't about ability, but more specifically, an attitude.

I

Friday, August 17th, 1 pm.

After a few calls, Tanner had managed to free up the possibility for three support slots at the back end of the tour, in a week's time. Then, he called Gil, who, rather contrary to his manner in Rennes, seemed genuinely grateful and excited that it was going ahead.

“That's wonderful, thank you....Listen.....I'm sorry about last night, I was just desperate to have my band play with The Riders...... You won't regret it.”

“Well, we'll see, won't we ? Perhaps you could tell me the name of this amazing band....”

I

The rear kitchen window was the easiest place to access. Nixon removed his jacket, placed it over the small pane, and tapped it with a rock. The glass tinkled loudly onto the bare floor inside. Nixon looked around at the neighbouring chalets. It was just after three. Silence everywhere. He lifted the catch, climbed in, and removed his shoes.

Twenty five years, fifteen weeks, and three days had passed since Nixon Tyme and Gil Riot last saw The Belleville Riders play. The events of that night, a generation ago, had marked them both, and tonight, here they were again, at a club with a number for a name, about to experience another sharp twist in the course of their lives.