I’ve been to New Guinea five times, and in 2025 was looking forward to my sixth visit to explore the world’s second-largest island – this time to venture deep into the remote, swampy terrain of the Kombai. A unique expedition, to participate in a sago palm grub festival. There’d be dancing, and chanting, and I’d probably make a fool of myself trying to mimic their rhythms. I’d sleep in a tent, wash in a brook and eat at least one palm weevil grub. It would be a great adventure.

I had been a fan of the Throwing Muses for decades, and of acts that spun off from it, but most particularly of its co-founder Kristin Hersh, whose unusual lyrics had captivated me into buying albums, books and concert tickets. I had seen her perform her solo material perhaps a dozen times. But I had never seen the Muses.

And then they announced a new album and a tour, including dates in the UK in May. Their first European tour for a decade, the UK dates unfortunately... of course... coinciding with when I was due to be in New Guinea. It could have been a blues song. Or perhaps something stranger, weirder, a story by Kristin Hersh. A Throwing Muses “Bright Yellow Gun” versus a New Guinean “Palm Weevil Grub”.

I sought the best of all worlds – and booked to see the band perform in Berlin and Cologne. After the Cologne concert I would return home and fly to New Guinea and the Kombai... a multiday experience of intercontinental airplanes, internal flights from Java to New Guinea, a chartered missionary flight into the forest and then a motorised canoe further inland, leading finally to a day’s trek through terrain promised to be muddy, wet and slippery. I had it all planned and prepared.

Berlin is walkable, and with the sights I targeted within healthy stretches of my hotel, but something went wrong. At the end of my first day, my right foot was sore. The next morning it was pinkish and swollen. Knowing of the forthcoming long trek, I skipped the remaining sights and only left the hotel for food in nearby restaurants. In my hotel room I listened to the band’s new album and to their back catalogue.

I hobbled to the metro for the concert at the Lido. There I found a place to sit and rest my inflamed foot while listening to Fred Abong warm up the crowd. I only stood when the Throwing Muses arrived on stage. Standing was painful. I gave the experience an hour and, well before the encore, sad to miss songs I was almost certain would be coming, left early, hoping to shield my foot... after all I had another concert, the next day in Cologne.

In Cologne, Google Maps showed me the way, a sneaky route to the Ibis hotel I’d chosen for being close to the train station and the concert venue. Close enough to walk, even with a swollen foot, even if it throbbed with every step I took. Within two hundred yards of my destination, I discovered the path ahead was blocked, fenced off for a construction site. I had no choice but to retrace my limping steps and start again, along the main road. What should have been a short walk became torturous – and the psychological hit of being so close, and then being forced to turn around, didn’t help my mood.

I rested in the hotel. I had an hour, perhaps two, before doors opened at the venue and the music started. I decided to concentrate on the band I had travelled across Germany to see, and this time to skip the support act. Arriving early in Berlin had tired me, after all, and I’d abandoned the concert before its peak. The hotel room mattress was comfortable, the room had a kettle and my foot, squeezed into the boot over hours of travel, was red and sore, and would probably swell now that it was free.

I thought of New Guinea, I thought of my foot, of squeezing it back into the boot, of the walk to the venue. I chose not to go to the concert.

The next day, in theory reserved to visit Cologne, was a day spent in the hotel lobby, foot raised, then a taxi to the airport. At London’s Gatwick Airport, the corridors were endless, a walk possibly even more uncomfortable and frustrating than the route to my Cologne hotel. I had checked online about the travellers’ aid service – thinking of how for once a cart would be a solution – but I had left it too late.

In London, I saw a doctor, tested and treated my foot, and cancelled my planned activities, hoping the rest would be enough to enable me to fly to New Guinea. It wasn’t. Medical advice and discussions with the expedition organiser confirmed my fears – I was in no shape to travel and then hike to a remote village.

My foot raised, in an ice pack, I watched television, sitcoms and comedy panel shows, not travel programs, of course, ... and then I realised that my swollen foot came with a tiny silver lining ... the London concert that had clashed with my New Guinea trip no longer did. A little over a week away... surely my foot would have recovered.

An improvement, yes, but not enough: I stood, uncomfortable, foot throbbing in a different rhythm to the Muses, at the Electric Ballroom in Camden Town. Once again I left early, well before the encore.

The Throwing Muses had more dates in the UK – including one two days later in Brighton, in normal circumstances not an insurmountable distance, with good odds of returning home the same night. I decided to prioritise my foot.

Then... Kristin Hersh herself caught laryngitis. A Muse without a voice. Brighton was postponed... to September. I’d be fine, I was sure, by then, so I bought a ticket.

***

Come September: the good news is that the Throwing Muses have added a date in London. The bad news is that hotels in Brighton are sold out because the city will host two gigantic Women’s Rugby World Cup games. And the rail network’s last trains back to London make attending the encore at Brighton’s Chalk a risk.

Once again, I leave before the encore. At the station, the train will not start. Someone in a carriage up ahead is sick and the driver won’t depart before paramedics arrive and give an all-clear. I wait, imagining the crowds at Chalk throbbing and dancing to the Muses. When I am finally on my way, heading north on the rails, I wonder whether I could have stayed for the encore and made the train, a sick woman effectively holding the door for me and other fans. I arrive home after midnight.

Last chance: September 9, Throwing Muses at Shoreditch’s Village Underground, a music venue that I had never visited – a renovated warehouse. It’s on the other side of London from me – and just to make it interesting, all the Underground lines are closed for strike action. The alternative, for me slower, Overground usually stops running earlier in the evening. I study timetables. It’ll be close. There may be taxis, but on strike days, from a part of London close to the late-hours financial district...? I’ll risk it. Worst case, a two-hour walk. My foot is fine. It might not be after such a walk, but I’m not giving up on the encore this time.

The support act is an atmospheric trumpet and keyboards duo and the evening already feels surreal, exposed brickwork, coloured spotlights, and artificial smoke. I move around, from near the stage to further back, to the bar, to the merch stand. I buy a tee shirt to add to my collection. My feet are both fine, tapping to the music as I wait for the Throwing Muses. Towards the back of the room, there’s an elevated area with a few chairs and its edge is a perfect place to rest my plastic pint glass of beer.

A woman, white-haired in the light, small in stature, walks in my direction, I assume aiming for the stairs that lead up. She is uncertain in her feet, weaving, and I wonder if she is drunk, but as she gets closer I see that she is a decade, perhaps two, older than me. She stops, then sinks to the floor, at first motionless. I cross to her, as does another man, who rests her against the staircase. Her head jerks, spasms, and I fear she will hit a corner of the stairs and injure herself. The man and I call for help. I tear off my hoodie, intending to pad the stairs under her head, but a Village Underground employee arrives and takes charge.

Minutes later, the woman is, she says, fine, but is given one of the few seats on the elevated section. I’m relieved, not just for her, but selfishly, for the concert itself. I stay for the encore. I talk to her once more – she does not remember falling but she looks well. And happy to be there. So am I. The encore ends, as I had always expected, with “Bright Yellow Gun”, and I dance and shout along with the words.

I catch the last Overground, make my connection and get home.

My Sore Swollen Foot cost me several Bright Yellow Guns and Palm Weevil Grubs. They all feel like song titles by now, or choruses, but I’ll leave alternative lyrics to Kristin Hersh and instead look forward to her next performance, solo or in a band. But please, not in June 2027 – I’ve just been invited to a sago grub festival deep in the rainforest. It’ll be my sixth trip to New Guinea, so that too will be a fifth encore.

This time I’ll get there even I have to hop.