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The Fillmore. San Francisco. 25th September.

At 8:30, groggy, I went to the Hotel cafe shop in hope of buying a coffee and bog standard oatmeal but they only have that shit sweet stuff with apple and cinnamon. Cinnamon should not even look at apple sideways. It should get out. It’s not welcome. So I went for a continental in the restaurant. Porridge and a piece of toast and a 44 dollar bill. Fuck off. You can take the girl out of Basildon… My dad would be ridiculing me with fair reason.

I had a bath. Re packed. Moved like treacle. Ironed. Went back to the cafe at midday and almost bought a chopped salad but the man in front got the last one, so opted for the last little quiche warmed up to go, which happened to be very nice. Result. Tim brought me another humidifier with a filter only puss yellow this time, and it works. Things are looking up. I have not spoken today beyond food orders and I don’t know if there is a voice in there. I hope above hope. Today’s back to back films were The Hunger Games series. I like how they do that here. I don’t have to look for the remote again.

I made up and curled my hair and had to leave before I found out what happened. I’ve seen it before but I forget.

In my dark but serviceable dressing room, I warm up with the boys. We take it slowly. They are very gentle and understanding. Again, I am happy we are together. I like them very much. My crew yet again have made it possible for me to perform without a soundcheck. I couldn’t chance singing out without a long warm up, so a soundcheck was counter intuitive.

I signed CD’s for the merch stand, and the posters that the Fillmore are renowned for making for every act that performs here. The walls are covered with them. Big Brother and Cream and Hendrix and The Grateful Dead.
All these bands I follow. I have played here before, but it’s still a thrill.

I met Bill Graham once. There was talk of him managing me in the US, but the meet was in central London and I’ve never lived there, and I got lost and couldn’t find a parking place and was an hour late, and he was furious. That was that. Here I am though.

We go on to a sold out house and the audience is beautiful. Euphoric and loving, and glad that we are here together. Quiet in the nuanced moments and full on in the up-tempo. They listen and they escape, and I’m so happy. I found my throat and I stopped worrying. It was for me a brilliant night.

I legged it. Of course. I have another 2 consecutive shows and have to be disciplined.

Outside a couple of guys were hoping for autographs, but were so understanding that I was jumping in a cab.
They had read my diary and knew why and I loved them for that selflessness. For not making me feel bad.

In my room, telly and my sandwich and a happy heart. I like being me today.

Along with being a venue of great history and stature, we were exceedingly well looked after. The crew told me the house bent over backwards to make life easy, and they did. On top of which, having heard my short mic stand neck woes, they gifted me a mic stand of titan proportions. Sometimes those who need give the least, offer the most.

Thank you The Fillmore. You are king amongst legends.

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