conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a book titled The Road Beneath My Feet about Million, EPs with the genre: Biographies & Memoirs, Arts & Literature.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: the author is a folk/punk singer-songwriter. He was the lead singer of rock band Million Dead before embarking on a solo career. the author has released six solo albums as well as EPs and rarities, and has played thousands of shows across 38 countries.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first four paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Road Beneath My Feet
  In the end, the hunt was fruitless – I've never seen the guitar since, much to my sadness. Apparently, the one source of criminal activity in the town is due to its proximity to Russia. Long-distance truck drivers, crossing the border regularly, pick up stolen goods and bus them into the markets in Moscow or St Petersburg and come back the other way with cheap manufactured Russian speed. So I guess my old faithful axe got sold in some Muscovite car-boot sale and who knows where she ended up. I still think about her every now and again and hope that at least someone's playing her.
  The rest of the day had something of a pall over it, understandably. Jocke managed to source another guitar for me to use at the show, so I did in fact play for a decent-sized and enthusiastic local crowd – he'd done his work as a promoter. Afterwards, we stayed the night in his bizarre houseboat and in the morning I got up early and walked on the ice of the frozen river in the snow-muffled silence, something I'd not done before. It was a strangely detached experience and helped me come to terms with the loss.
  As much as I try not to be materialistic about things – after all, we take nothing with us when we die – it's still pretty hard, as a musician, losing your old friend. Shortly after we headed back to the airport. I said farewell to my Finnish lady and I don't think I ever saw her again either; we both knew it wasn't working out by then. In travelling around the whole time, I often feel like I'm leaving little things by the roadside as I go – whether it's a washbag left in a hotel (I always lose those), an instrument in Finland or a girl who wanted something more fixed than I could offer. Each one is a small thing, survivable in itself, but I do occasionally wonder what they all add up to over time. Maybe one day I'll do a world tour of trying to find the things I left behind. It'd be a long trip.
  After getting home from Finland, I'd headed south to Brighton to meet up with my friends The Holloways. At the time they were indie darlings, riding around the UK on their bus playing triumphantly packed-out shows. They'd asked me to come and play with them in the Republic of Ireland and of course I'd said yes. But there was a gap in my schedule before those shows started, so I ended up getting on their tour bus a few days early to hang out, party and hitch a ride over the sea. The gigs were fun, if a little messy, and I also had an interesting time buying myself a new guitar in Stoke-on-Trent. I rang directory enquiries, got the number of a guitar shop and called it, only to find out that the owner of the business had died and I'd managed to ring up in the middle of a meeting about funeral arrangements. Hungover as I was, this was not the news I wanted or expected to hear. I managed to get one in the end, something cheap and nasty to tide me over until I could sort a more permanent replacement for my missing baby.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me three more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: We checked in, decompressed a little and then called the taxi number on the card provided by the receptionist. A car driven by a creaky old guy duly arrived, though it did feel like the taxi firm was basically this guy, with his wife working the phone back home. No matter. We had wheels, we were good to go. We told him we were heading for the nearby festival in the hills, which he immediately said he knew and he set out confidently on the picturesque B roads.
  I've never had the best sense of direction, so the fact that it felt to me like we weren't heading in the right direction didn't seem to matter too much. It also felt like we'd been driving for too long after a while, so some gentle enquiries were made as to whether this guy actually knew where we were going.
  We traipsed up to the crest, hoping against hope that the revealed landscape would be dominated by the expanse of tents and parked cars we'd left behind an hour or two before. Alas. On reaching the summit, the achingly beautiful (but festival-free) hills of Derbyshire spread out before us, gently rolling and unending in all directions. Fuck.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last paragraph.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Page 6, top: © Evan Cotter; left: © Rachel Brook; right: © Casey Lee; bottom-left: © Jamie Grime; bottom-right: © Sarah Kay