A festival tour with Feeder isn't all helicopters and limos, there's
the endless hangover to deal with, finds Paul Connolly.

It is commonly believed that the rock'n'roll touring lifestyle is a
moving feast of non-stop glamour: glitzy parties, free booze and
supermodel consorting. This is partly true. Once bands reach a
certain stature, gig promoters will ensure that their charges don't
want for anything. Before a show, a group will be indulged with great
food, comfortable dressing rooms and as much alcohol as they can
handle. Afterwards they'll be thrown a big party, before being
whisked off in a tourbus or private jet to prepare for the next show.

Sounds good?

Well, that's only part of the story. Most of the time touring is
spent travelling in cramped conditions. Boredom is a major problem,
as are hangovers. Everyone lives for the hour on stage, which passes
in a flash. The other 23 hours creep by.

Still, when I was invited to join Feeder for the weekend, flitting
from Donington to the Isle of Wight, to a supporting gig for U2 in
Germany, I jumped at the chance to live the rock'n'roll lifestyle.
How did I fare? Read on.

DAY 1

Feeder's press officer Gillian is waiting for me at St Pancras
station in London for the journey to Nottingham. She is calm, but
becomes slightly agitated when Martin, our photographer, is late. He
struggles, laden with equipment, on to the train with seconds to
spare. We exchange glances. Or at least we would if he could see:
sweat has already blinded him. "Blimey," I think. "We've barely
started and the panic has begun." He just mutters: "Bloody cab
drivers. They should all be shot."

On the train I listen to the latest Feeder album, Pushing the Senses.
I like Feeder, although most critics do not. They are a band who have
had to slog throughout their 15-year career and, while their music
has not always been hugely distinctive, their way with a melody and a
crunchy guitar riff means that they're not only big enough to support
U2 but also headline the first night of the heavy rock orgy that is
Download. The train is full of heavily pierced, black-clad fans.

The closest I've yet come to getting pierced was stabbing myself with
a school compass, but at least I'm wearing a black T-shirt. Even if
it does bear the slogan BigBaby. We meet the band at the hotel. As is
often the way with groups that have struggled for their success,
they're charming people. No ego and no pretension.

However, as we board the tour bus to head for the festival site,
Martin realises that this also means no smoking.

"Don't you dare light that bloody fag," says Mark Richardson, the
drummer as Martin lifts a roll-up to his mouth. The photographer
looks sheepish. It's a poor start.

Backstage at Download we're pleasantly surprised that this most
"rawk" of festivals is very nicely appointed. The catering is great
and, yes, the beer is free. Martin and I take full advantage. I will
later regret this.

Feeder go on stage at 8.30pm, just after Garbage. The crowd is
suspicious. Grant Nicholas, the lead singer, is not dressed in black.
Neither is Taka Hirose, the Japanese bassist. Only Mark, the drummer,
really looks the part. Forty minutes later, Feeder have blown the
crowd away with a muscular set. Nicholas smashes a guitar at the
climax. Afterwards, the diminutive Welshman tells me that it's the
first time he's done such a rock'n'roll thing. "It was a Pounds 2,000
guitar. I never do that usually, but it was such a rush winning that
crowd over." He pauses.

"What did you think of the set list? Did we pace it right?" This will
become a familiar question. Guitar-smashing rock stars can be
sensitive, too.

DAY 2

We're up very early. Grant has had some radio interviews to do. The
rest of the band and crew headed down to the Isle of Wight festival
on the tour bus last night, but myself, Grant, Martin and Matt, the
band's manager, will take a helicopter from the East Midlands to the
Isle of Wight. I'm not a great flyer and, nursing a monumental
hangover, I'm now really dreading this flight. As is my custom before
a flight, I call my girlfriend to tell her I love her. Grant hears me
and smiles shyly. "I do the same every time I fly. I really don't
like flying either." I gawp at him.

"But you must fly at least a hundred times a year."

"I'm in the wrong job," he grins.

The helicopter is a Perspex bubble with a rotor blade. A flying
Tupperware box.

Taking off is scary. But spending two minutes hovering over the
airfield is terrifying. "Problem I'm afraid, chaps," says the pilot,
who looks as if he has just celebrated his twelfth birthday. "No
thrust." We land again and the pilot calls over a mechanic. They have
a quick chat. "Shall I give it another go?" asks the pilot. Grant and
I look at each other. "No way!" we both shout over the noise of the
engine. After a 90-minute flight on an old replacement helicopter, we
finally arrive at the Isle of Wight Festival. The place is abuzz with
the news that Kate Moss has arrived with her boyfriend, Pete Doherty,
the erstwhile Libertines frontman who now leads Babyshambles. There
are tabloid journalists running hither and thither for a glimpse of
the couple. We watch Babyshambles.

Doherty, wearing a vest and pork-pie hat, closely resembles a
doe-eyed Harold Steptoe, and his band are dreadful. An hour later in
a sponsor's elevated tent, drinking yet more free alcohol, we witness
Feeder play a triumphant set. The man next to me, wearing a yellow
dress and feather boa, is going mental, as are most of the crowd.

When we board the tour bus an hour later to catch the ferry back to
the mainland, Martin places his bags in the gangway. Mark, the
drummer, boards and trips over them. "Who put these in the f*****g
gangway?" he growls as he kicks Pounds 3,000 worth of camera
equipment. Martin starts to argue but decides against it when he sees
the vein in Mark's forehead bulge. Then Grant gets on, fretting. He
looks at me. "How was the set -did we pace it right?" I pick up a can
of lager, take a gulp and tell him that the set was great. We all
then embark on a mission to demolish the band's rider. Selflessly, I
place myself in the vanguard.

DAY 3

We're up at 6am to take a taxi from our Portsmouth hotel to Heathrow
to fly to Dusseldorf. I feel as though my head is about to fall off.
Two days of constant drinking and travelling are taking their toll.
That and not going to bed until 4am two nights on the trot. I want to
go home and sleep, but the biggest gig of the weekend is tonight.
Feeder supporting the biggest band in the world, U2. I can't miss
that. When I step on to the stage at Schalke O4's huge stadium in
Gelsenkirchen ten hours later, I'm very glad that I ignored the rats
chewing my brain. It's a marvel. Below stage is a warren of control
rooms. Onstage, standing in front of a half-full stadium of 30,000
people (Feeder aren't due on for two hours, U2 for three), I feel the
power. "Who's that fat bloke with the glasses?" some German shouts.
Or that's what I imagine he shouts.

Later, I'm backstage with Grant, a mile away from the stage. He's
worried. "I need to get a feel of the audience, to work out the set.
Come with me, Paul, the walk will do you good." We go to see the
first support band, the Thrills. We watch from the side while people
watch us from the audience. The noise is immense. My brain screams
for mercy.

Finally, Grant is satisfied and we retreat backstage, where he argues
with technicians and members of the band about the setlist. When
Feeder take the stage I'm surprised to see U2's legendary manager,
Paul McGuinness, standing on the soundstage next to me. Not only do
the 55,000 crowd take to the band with enthusiasm but so does
McGuinness. After the show Grant is very happy. "I think we gauged
that set well. Here, Paul," he laughs as he throws a bottle. "You
must be thirsty, have a beer." I nearly turn green but bravado gets
the better of me. I take a swig. What the hell? It's only rock'n'roll.