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The Ritter End

It’s been a tumultuous few years for Josh Ritter. Against the dramatic backdrop of the Swiss Alps, he talks about his number one fan Stephen King, recalls the day he met Bob Dylan and explains why it’s never a good idea to drink before a show

Olaf Tyaransen, 11 Sep 2007

AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRR... ”

Standing in the shadow

of a tall wooden cross high

on a grassy mountainside in the Swiss Alps, a boyishly handsome and immaculately suited and booted Josh Ritter is unleashing his inner rock and roll animal, primal screaming from the depths of his being, and scaring the living bejaysus out of several jangling mountain goats, a few of whom actually skid in their frantic efforts to get as far away from the Idaho-born musician as possible.

... GGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!”

hotpress photographer Graham Keogh – who will later require medical attention for a mild case of ‘high altitude cerebral edema’ (better known as ‘mountain sickness’) – examines the digital image of the screaming singer on the screen of his digital camera, and then declares himself unsatisfied.

“Let’s try that one more time,” he instructs. “That one came out fairly shite!”

Ritter bursts out laughing, as he prepares to do it again. “Gosh! I hope this isn’t gonna cause an avalanche somewhere,” he says.

The mountain we’re all comfortably clinging to is called La Chaux (2260 metres up, according to the signs), and the cross is there in memory of the countless climbers and skiers who’ve lost their lives on its treacherous slopes over the years.

Fortunately, it’s off-season and a distinct lack of snow makes an avalanche unlikely. At least on this particular lump of hard Swiss rock. Some of the other mountains surrounding us like something out of Lord Of The Rings are heavily snowcapped, but, impressive as Ritter’s vocal range is, his screams probably won’t cause any faraway occurrences of what the guide books call “the white death.”

25 minutes and many photographs later, the hotpress cover shot is hopefully in the bag and we all adjourn to a nearby bar (actually, more like a wooden hut) to fortify ourselves with strong alcohol before braving the creaking cable cars back down the mountain again. It’s just gone 11am, but those things are damn scary!



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