At last! The JBC got to jail! Pausing only to offload a huge rider backlog of fruit on the bears of Bern, we make our way deep into the countryside to play this rich-but-draughty venue. Michael and I skip dinner (we have eaten SOOOO much on this trip) and sit in the bar worrying about all the rich teenagers sitting around listening to what Curtis will later call "acid crap" or "crap jazz" depending on who's asking. No need to worry - the show goes down really well, and we have a fine old time until the police show up. Then we go home.
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