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Cars Baa Be Bias's Stocking Mr Harrsr Stars it.//
Nov. 23rd Becky Brooks and I departed from the
Atlanta airport, here in the U.S., with the inten
tion of joining our Happy Happy Birthday to Me
labelmates Hotpants Romance for a 12-date UK
tour between Nov. 26 and Dec. 12.
Sadly, that tour has now been cancelled, as Becky and
myself were denied entry into the UK, a decision made by a
lone British immigration control agent—
a decision that could not be contested
or overturned in any reasonable way.
The UK tour would have been the
first international visit for our band and
was Becky's first-ever experience with
overseas travel of any kind, first pass
port, first time on a jet airliner, etc. (I
had previously traveled to England on a
two-week holiday back in the summer of
1998, well before Cars Can Be Blue was
a band).
Discussions concerning tour plans
with Hotpants Romance began several
months ago, following our enjoyable
two-week States-side tour back in
August. However, many details were left
to the last minute, and it was a com
bination of bad luck and poor planning
that resulted in our eventual denial into
the United Kingdom.
I feel embarrassed by what happened
to us, but I would like other touring
musicians to take note of our misfortune
so they do not make the same mistakes
we did because the repercussions were
more severe than anything I could have
anticipated.
iir.ik
Wi
'M K’iJA'A
■ Wi m
m ’A m
ti'H'.r ■
F or one thing, Becky and I had just
wrapped up 60+ dates of a U.S.
tour, the last show of which was a
rather unhinged, drunken house party
in Atlanta replete with four bands,
fisticuffs and splattered bits of birthday
cake.
I called it a night and exited the
festivities around 2 a.m., by which time
the live entertainment had devolved
into beer-besotted, free-for-all jamming.
Becky continued raging until the wee
hours, not that she had much choice.
I awoke the next morning, groggily
throwing a scant bit of my own clothing
into two small suitcases that contained
40 or so hand-dyed/silkscreened CCBB
t-shirts.
We collected our newly-minted
passports and got a lift to the Atlanta
airport, arriving at 11 a.m., collected
our tickets to Manchester Airport (via Chicago) at the American
Airlines counter and passed through airport security.
Our flight was exciting (for Becky), but thankfully unevent
ful. We endured a two-hour layover in Chicago and then
boarded Flight 54 for Manchester, UK, departing at.5:30 p.m.
and scheduled to touch down at 7 a.m., British time.
I kept myself occupied on the seven-hour flight by reading
Bob Zmuda's Andy Kaufman: Exposed biography, eagerly antici
pating our arrival and hospitality from the Hotpants girls, too
excited for sleep.
A fter touching down safely on the Mancunian tarmac, Becky
and I were handed a landing card by the flight attendants,
which we looked over while exiting our plane. The card
asked for our name, occupation and address that we would be
staying at during our visit.
The latter proved an unexpected problem for us, as we
hadn't considered it, not knowing exactly which Hotpants
Romance member we would ultimately be staying with.
When we arrived at the immigration counter, we quickly
got off on the wrong foot with the assigned officer, asking to
borrow a pen to fill out the card and were curtly directed to a
separate counter. While the other passengers (primarily British)
passed through, we filled out our landing card with our names,
occupation (we both put down "clerk") and left the address
section blank. f
From there, it was all downhill. We couldn't provide the
requested street address of our friend, nor the last name of the
person picking us up (awful time to draw a blank on Laura's
last name), couldn't name her occupation, nor could I provide
a flight itinerary proving we had round-trip tickets (I booked
the flight through Priceline and neglected to print out the itin
erary, although American Airlines hadn't provided one either).
We were also asked about the nature of our visit. Thinking
it would be better not to make mention of the tour or being
musicians, Becky said we were intending on spending the holi
day with our friends and doing some sightseeing. When asked
where we were intending on visiting, Becky had no specific
answer (I did express interest in visiting the site of the former
Hacienda club, which apparently left no discernible impression
on the officer. Not a Happy Mondays fan, I guess).
The officer also asked how much money we had on us. I had
about $50 in cash, while Becky had about $5 on her person,
although we also had our Visa debit card. These declarations
did nothing to put us in good stead with our inquisitor.
Failing all of the above, we were moved into an adjoin
ing room for detainees. It was quickly becoming clear that a
nightmare situation was rearing its ugly head. The only bit of
concrete information we had on us was Laura's phone number,
which I happily provide^ to the officer. I figured a phone con
versation would sort everything out, that we really did have
friends expecting us and that we weren't trying to smuggle
anything dangerous into the country or
defect or otherwise illegally immigrate
into the UK.
» we waited. And waited. And
Sill waited. Two hours passed by
lllli before the officer returned,
saying that she had spoken to our
friends and that our baggage was going
to be searched, which we responded to
with a heavy sigh of relief.
Two airport security officers led us
past the immigration counter, down
stairs to the baggage claim area. We
figured our baggage would be checked
once more to make sure we weren't car
rying anything dangerous and then we'd
be let through.
The security staff was considerably
friendlier than our immigration officer,
so we chatted happily with them while
they examined our belongings.
Upon discovering the CCBB t-shirts
(and virtually no other clothing), we
finally let it slip that we were in a band,
which seemed to amuse the folks rifling
through our luggage.
Satisfied that we were not smuggling
any explosives or illicit substances, the
security staff closed up our suitcases.
We awaited our imminent release and
reunion with our British friends, soon
to be recounting our unlikely encounter
with British customs.
Instead of leading us through the
airport lobby, however, our caretak
ers led us right back upstairs to the
detainee room, where we would wait
another two hours.
This is the point where Becky and I
truly began to panic. What was going
on? We had not been offered even a
phone call; we had no way of knowing
what our legal rights were and were
left sweating over the very dismal, but
also very likely prospect that we had
just spent about $1500, virtually every
penny of profit from our U.S. tour, for
absolutely nothing.
J et-lagged and exhausted, going on 24 hours of being
awake, malaise and depression were quickly setting in.
The immigration officer returned, legal pad notebook
in hand, and asked us a few more questions, this time in refer
ence to our luggage items. We had no clothes in our suitcases,
she said. Becky said we had intended to go shopping during
oit stay, to which the officer rather rudely replied "with what
money?" Well, fuck you, too, lady.
Next, she brought up our band t-shirts, asking where we
had planned to sell them. Becky answered that we were going
to try and play some open mic nights and give the shirts away,
although sleep-deprivation had reduced these statements to a
rather incoherent mush.
When asked why we hadn't initially been up-front about our
band playing music in the UK, Becky, looking a hair's breadth
from passing out, meekly stated, "I don't know. I don't remem
ber. Right now, I'm really tired and confused."
With that, the immigration officer said "right, then,"
sharply retracted her pen and hastily exited the room, leaving
28 FLAGPOLE.COM • DECEMBER 10, 2008