Ian Morris: Dudes' diary

Ian Morris

The first week reunion tour diary of Th'Dudes guitarist Ian Morris ...

We're a machine. Seventeen shows in 19 days: we roll along State Highway 1, sweeping over the north and the 'Naki, hitting the capital and points south. Every detail, every car, flight, hotel room, guitar string, cable, mic stand, litre of diesel and scrap of food has been calculated and organised.

We've spent three nights and a day rehearsing at Dave's Auckland studio, discovering we've remembered more than we've forgotten. By Saturday night we're tired but confident. On Sunday the machine rolls into action - by late afternoon we're swinging into Whangarei. The road crew are here. Hammond Gamble and Hello Sailor arrive. We all sit down to a communal dinner and swap impossible stories.

Monday 9.50pm: The Forum lights dim. Bowie's Warszawa oozes from the speakers. This was our intro track in the old days, and its stern chords create anticipation in all of us.

Then we're on and away! Walking in Light thumps into the crowd, and they're screaming and punching the air and singing along and pushing against the stage. Any worries about being able to deliver are swept away. I could do this for the rest of my life. Peter invites some front-rowers on stage to sing Bliss. I fear things could get out of control, but it passes: everyone's too happy to cause any trouble.

Afterwards, the crew are elated. It's gone off! Towels around necks and cold beers in hands, we bask in the glow of a job well done. No time to rest though: into the van and back to Auckland, where we arrive at 3am. Tomorrow we fly to Napier.

Tuesday: It's raining in Napier my hometown. I have a couple of hours with family then the machine calls: soundcheck, dinner, show. The audience at the beautiful Municipal Theatre is wilder than last night. The crew is worried about the people on stage for Bliss. One-time manager Charley Gray turns up and we present the old jazzer with a Miles Davis box set.

Wednesday: Drummer Bruce has a migraine. He lies on the back seat groaning. We're starting to worry about tonight's show in Tauranga, but in Rotorua he eats a couple of ham and cheese toasties and makes a startling recovery. Tonight's show is more controlled and sober: there's no liquor licence but the response is still ecstatic.

Thursday: Over the Kaimais to Hamilton, always a raucous gig, and tonight is no exception: over-enthusiastic fans jump the barrier to dance on the flimsy orchestra pit cover. Crew members spend the night turfing drunks back over the barrier.

We've changed the set around. It has a better flow. And Peter gives things a twist by wading into the audience for Bliss. I can't believe the mind-blowing reaction we're getting; all we ever wanted to do was create fun for people, and now we're doing it again.

Friday: Both Auckland shows are sold out and there's such a buzz that I'm sure even Chris Knox is wishing he'd bought a ticket. The faded glory of the St James Theatre never fails to impress: the rococo angels alongside the painted-over cracks and taped-up light fittings.

At 9.50 we hit the stage in an explosion of energy, and the place erupts. It's uplifting and humbling to see 2000 people cheering, singing and dancing. In Bliss Peter rides the shoulders of Big Tony into the crowd. I don't know where Pete finds the energy to perform so brilliantly at the pointy end of the band. Post-show even the promoter is smiling - high praise indeed!

Saturday: The relentless push of the machine has produced a supernatural exhaustion that has burrowed to the very marrow of my bones. I totter down Queen St in search of a healthy breakfast, then it's back to bed. We are strange plants, conserving energy through the day to produce a wild, 90-minute spectacle every night.

The show is every bit as good as last night, though I manage a gigantic gaff by starting Here Comes the Money in the wrong key. I'm sure I turn red in the spotlight, but no one seems to notice except Lez and Dave, who wear quizzical looks. Backstage are more old familiar faces, and invitations to parties. I wisely decline them all.

Tomorrow, Sunday, is for sleeping, and it's 10 minutes to midnight.