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Home, (Slightly) Burned Home

Back in London – and suddenly even the grey Thames feels like a welcoming committee. Ten shows, ten stages, ten times pretending to be a seasoned touring musician and not a man who usually gets nervous when he accidentally stays on the Piccadilly Line one stop too far.

For someone like me, who practically never leaves London, a trip like this always feels a bit like a pilgrimage. You collect new perspectives the way other people collect fridge magnets: crooked hotel rooms, unfamiliar accents, bars that are too loud, unexpectedly honest post-show conversations. Whether the experiences were good or bad – in the end, they all end up in the same pot. Everything is part of a sum, and that sum makes us who we are. And for me, it also shapes whatever happens at the piano.

Now I’m swapping the stage for the dining table: St. Kobe is just around the corner – an important day for musicians, producers, and everyone pretending to have their creative life under control. This year my London flat will be packed: my children and my brothers are coming to visit.

And because I seem to have decided to be brave not only on tour, there’s a special dish on the menu this time: vegetarian lasagne tricolori. Three colours, no meat, one hundred percent risk.

Anyone who knows me is aware that my culinary experience is roughly on the level of a teenager with a toaster. The most ambitious thing I’ve ever “cooked” was pancakes – and even those had the texture of a failed pop career. So now it’s practice time, so that on St. Kobe no disasters occur and no one has to secretly order pizza.

Maybe, in the end, it’s just like music: you throw together ingredients, feelings, and a bit of chaos, hope nothing burns – and then simply call the result: love in layers.