DISTANCES:
Brentford
to Dunkirk approx 200 km
Dunkirk
to Kufstein 1000 Km
Kufstein
to Dusseldorf 600 km Approx
Dusseldorf
to Berlin 570 Km
Berlin
to Dresden 200km
Dresden
to Olomouc 440 Km
Olomouc
to Ljubliana 590 km
Ljubliana
to Bologna 385 km
Bologna
to Segrate 230 km
Segrate
to Stuttgart 520 km
Stuttgart
to Solothurn 330 km
Solothurn
to Frieburg 140 km
Frieberg
to Dunkirk 630 km
Dunkirk
to Brentford 200 km Approx
TOTAL:
6,035 Km (approx)
Touring
party:
J.C.
Carroll: Guitar & vocals
Chris
Payne: Bass & vocals
Rat
Scabies: Drums & jokes
TUESDAY 25TH MARCH
18.30: I stuff myself with steak and wine. ItÕs
going to be a long night, so I figured I might as well try and pass out early.
J.C. Carrol (guitar & vox) and Chris Payne
(bass & vox) arrive in the reasonably luxurious black Kia Sedona. With the
back seats removed, we manage to manhandle our cases inside and, after fond
farewells to the wife and kids (young adults), I step inside what will become
home for the next two weeks.
Not bad in the back – electric windows
(still a novelty) grey cloth seats, and a lot of heating controls and buttons
to play with. Spacewise, itÕs fine. The rear bench seat is not quite wide
enough to lay down on and the seat belt thingys are in just the wrong place,
but despite its short fallings, at least the stereo works and so does the
heating.
Spirits are high as we make our way to Dover.
Idle chit-chat and just a little nervous apprehension.
IÕve only played with The Members three times
and IÕm still uncertain of all the songs. Whatever, itÕs too late to worry
about it now, so itÕs do or die time – and at the moment, dying is the
most likely option.
We arrive in Dover and after passport control,
make our way on to the ferry. The boat is the bog standard Norfolk Line tub,
and remains the same as the last time I was on it – a floating service
station.
J.C. has stumped up an extra fiver a head so we
can travel in the VIP lounge, the plan being that he will grab 40 winks during
the crossing and then drive some more.
We get issued with key cards and, in this
bastion of high-class travel, we are treated to free coffee and biscuits, as
well as wine if we want it. I decline the wine but get stuck into the other
two.
To be honest, the VIP lounge sounds very
glamorous, but in reality is pretty much the same as the rest of the boat.
Except, of course, the other passengers arenÕt allowed in.
We watch the tedious news channel on the huge
LCD screen TV. ItÕs all kicking off in Cairo, but the rest of the news must
have been pretty insignificant cos IÕve forgotten it already.
I get bored and go for a wander. After
descending a short flight of stairs,
I find myself with the riff raff in the bar and cafeteria.
I read a sign on the front of the counter that
says ŅFreshly made today on boardÓ,
so I naively decide to invest £2.50 in a Cornish pasty. It looks nice enough
and surely my memory is playing tricks on me when an alarm bell rings in my
head saying ŅBeware of the pastiesÓ. It canÕt have been as bad as all that!
I try to remember the last time I sampled
Norfolk LineÕs finest cuisine, but from here they look golden brown and very
tempting, so I let my eyes make the decision for me. As soon as the first
morsel enters my mouth, I realise IÕve made a terrible mistake. Not even good
enough for dog food and, once more, I find myself vowing never again.
I go out on to the deck for a fag and my phone
beeps telling me I have another text message. So far, I have received eight
txts from T Mobile, welcoming me to France and giving me the call rates. The
tariff goes to a shocking £1.80 a call (either way) on the ŅMaritimeÓ network
(? – Ed). While afloat, I receive another two txts (natch) and my last 89
pence of credit vanishes.
We arrive at about midnight. The port is empty and we drive through
the dark industrial welcome that is Dunkirk.
We pass into Belgium, another four txts arrive
and the darkness continues. J.C. is driving so I try and grab 40 winks. IÕve
brought a spare pillow with me. Past tours have taught me that this will be a
major contribution to my comfort, so I stack up my backpack, pumpf up the
pillow, and try to avoid the seat belts and arm rests. Now, balanced at a precarious
angle, I try as hard as I can to relaxÉ
It doesnÕt work, so I just lay there, listening
to the sound of the tarmac beneath the tires and the steady hum of the engine.
Every time thereÕs a slight swerve or the brakes go on a bit to suddenly, I
tense up and wait for the bang.
I imagine the reality of an accident, the
sudden cold, the harsh solid reality of the road, the wet grass verge, and the
spray from passing trucks. Surprisingly, none of this helps me sleep.
Come the dawn, Chris takes over behind the
wheel. This makes me even more nervous, especially taking into account the
sleep depravation he must be suffering. That and my memory of the last time he
drove me home.
The first
white-knuckle experience Chris gave me was a return journey from a gig in
Littlehampton. He managed to overshoot a roundabout and barely avoided crashing
into the barriers.
The next hair-raising ride was on the way to a
gig in Bruton, Somerset, when he overshot a turning and we ended up on the
wrong side of the road, facing the oncoming traffic. The journey home was no
better. He fell asleep at the wheel twice while driving along at 80 mph down
the M3.
Imagine my despair as Chris takes over behind
the wheel and J.C. (shrewdly?) asks if he could swap places so he can catch up
on some sleep.
So now I get to ride shotgun with the worst
driver in the world who hasnÕt slept. I think about how itÕs the front seat
passenger that always dies in a car crash. But itÕs now 5am and even the terror
of ChrisÕs driving can no longer keep my eyes openÉ
I open the windows, play Paloma FaithÕs album
very loud and eat one of ChrisÕs banana collection. But nothing can keep me
awake. The surreal element of my predicament is high as I nod out against my
will and then every few minutes wake up with a terror filled start.
WEDNESDAY 26TH JANUARY
VENUE: Culture
Fabrik
Despite my fears, Chris gets us to Kufstein by
11.30 am and he didnÕt crash once. There is a little confusion about where to
park, though. I spy a couple of posters for the gig – always a good sign
that the promoters are keen to draw a crowd. But I canÕt help but notice that
it says ŌThe Members Europe 2010Õ. I guess no one realized that it would be
2011 when they were booking the tour.
WeÕd hit snow in the middle of Germany
somewhere and it stays. It makes Kufstein look like the lid of a chocolate box.
Odd mountain peaks thrust through the low clouds and the snow gently falls.
The first moment of trepidation arrives in the
shape of the hotel. IÕm not sure how The Members usually do things, but
needless to say itÕs all low budget, so IÕm prepared for the hotel to be
anything from a 4-star Holiday Bin to Mrs Kufstein's B&B, owned by an old
lady smelling of Beeswax and lavender. But the ŅHotel Restaurant KufsteinerhofÓ
is neither and is actually very nice.
Heating that works and a balcony with a view of
a couple of building sites, plus a couple of giant mountain peaks that are
sadly buried in the mist, convinces me that at least tonight will be
comparative luxury.
I optimistically turn on my laptop expecting
the usual hard time trying to use the local wi-fi. No such problem as it
politely asks me if I want to join some network or other. I say yes and send
/receive my e-mails and update my Facebook page (oooh, get him). I message the
kids (mine) and wander down to the lobby to meet Chris & J.C. so I can go
and find some coffee and a cash point. J.C. doesnÕt make it back out of his
room, so I go with Chris for a walk around the small town.
We find ourselves wandering down a cobbled
alleyway and into an old part of town, where we find the Caf Hell. Perfect. We
sit in the caf by the river looking up at an old castle perched in the rocks
high above us. The coffee is delicious and I order apfel strudel, (when in Rome
and all that). I donÕt know if it was the tiredness or what, but it tastes like
the best thing IÕve ever eaten.
We go back to the hotel and I try to get a
couple of hours sleep, but to no avail. I lie in the big warm fluffy bed and
listen to ŅThe Members Live In BerlinÓ, in a vain attempt to learn the songs
before tonightÕs gig. I enjoy the rock star in bed during the afternoon without
anything particular to do lifestyle, though. I feel very lucky, even if it is
just for one day.
Sound check is at 18.00. The club is just round
the corner from the hotel and is pretty cool – a proper stage, loud
monitors, lights and more coffee. There is also fruit and a tray of cold meats,
assorted cheeses, a loaf of bread and some chocolate bars.
I go to the stage and set up that nightÕs kit,
lent to me by an English speaking crusty(ish) kid called Tyrone. It plays okay
and he gives me a tuning key. We check everything works, then fuck off back to
the hotel till 20.00.
TyroneÕs band is onstage when we get back to
the club and theyÕre rather good. All acoustic guitars with a gravelly
unpleasant vocal, kind of like The Everly Brothers meet Anthrax.
We play to about 30 people, who all show a very
polite appreciation. ThereÕs a couple of cool parts to the set, counterbalanced
by a couple of bad news endings. J.C. seems a bit pissed off, so I open the
bottle of red wine IÕd earlier stashed in my bag and we sit down to a meal of
Weiner Schnitzel and chips (when in Rome 2). The wine gets caned off as we sit
around the bar trying to chat to some of the natives.
After smoking some local weed with one of the
chimps, we decide to make our way back to ChrisÕs room, who is celebrating his
57th birthday today.
His wife (Jasna) has turned up for the show, so
we enjoy another glass of wine (I say glass, more like a plastic cup, really)
while Chris feeds us some pita bread and Taramasalatta he had hidden about his
person. I munch as we watch the snow dozers aggressively clearing the streets
below. J.C. and I bail at about 1.30am to let Chris get on with his birthday.
I listen to some audio files of ŅRat Scabies
And The Holy GrailÓ I recently did with Chris Dawes and wonder at the
comfortable luxury of overstuffed pillows and feeling warm. Sleep soon arrives
and I only wake up twice during the night.
THURSDAY 27TH JANUARY
DRIVE: KUFSTEIN TO DUSSELDORF: 600 km
A knock on the door, and itÕs Chris Payne
telling me I have 30 minutes to get breakfast. I trundle down to the dining
room and get the end of the large urn of coffee. I look at my fellow diners, a
group of five elderly gents who are not so much dining as drinking beer and
wine. Not bad, I mean, it is only 9.30 am.
J.C. arrives and as soon as we speak, the
occupants of the other table take a different interest. I guess that some
things will never heal. The coffee is horrible, so I go upstairs, comment on FB
and pack.
In the lobby, Chris has made a new friend, an
Austrian dwarf who, to be honest, looks like heÕs out on day release. There is
an accordion and acoustic guitar in the lobby, and as I wait outside for J.C.
to turn up with the Kia, I glance round and through the glass doors, I see
Chris strapping on the guitar and starting to tune up. The Dwarfmeister has now
seized the accordion and looks as though he means business.
This should be good. I slowly reach for my
camera and go into the lobby to see the show, catching the eye of the desk
clerk, who is way ahead of me and already flashing away like a pap on sulphate.
HeÕs laughing to himself, probably with the same twisted humor that IÕm also
about to enjoy.
Dwarfmeister quite clearly has no musical
ability whatsoever and squeezes the box and plants his bratwurst like fingers
up and down the keys. A quite dreadful racket ensues and I manage to film some
of it for my own cruel entertainment later.
We hit the road at 11.30 and you can only
imagine my joy as I set the destination in the sat nav to Dsseldorf. A
journey, it tells me, of six hours and 59 minutes.
Ahhh, the glamour of showbiz.
ItÕs decided that I am allowed to drive the
Kia, a great honor for a new boy such as my good self (Are you sure? –
Ed). So I get my foot down and manage only a few white knuckle moments.
We cross the border back into Germany. Stopping
along the way, I am outraged that I have to pay 70 shitters to take a piss at
the service station. Still, the coffee was good and the piss a relief.
I let Chris take over the wheel to drive the
last 100 or so kliks. I donÕt fancy traversing the one-way systems and all the
stress that goes with being a foreign driver. ;-)
ItÕs 17.15 when the pre panic promoter rings
J.C. to find out why weÕre not at the sound check. He is not happy when J.C.
tells him that 18.15 is the soonest we can get there.
Three
bands are playing tonight and the doors donÕt open till 20.00, so they should
have it all working okay by the time we arrive. A shame, though, because we
need the rehearsal time. Oh well, onwards and upwards.
As we drive (slightly lost) around a decaying
graffiti enhanced industrial estate, humour
is high. ŅNice of them to make sure all the tagging was finished in time for
our arrival,Ó quips J.C.
We find
the small club tucked away behind some factories and warehouses and make our
way inside, where our panicky promoter (Martin) meets us. He straps a blue
one-handed plastic handcuff around my wrist and explains it is so I can get
free drinks.
No dressing room, so Martin suggests we change
in the toilet. Hmm, IÕm still deciding about this one.
We watch the somewhat naively named The
Pollywogs sound check. All their gear is brand new, large, flight-cased and
shiny. The stage looks like fucking MacariÕsÉ
IÕm hungry so we ask about food and Martin
shows us four small plastic glasses with some cold noodles inside them. He says
that, cos we were late, the support bands ate all the food. Well, I suppose I might as well numb my
hunger with a drink.
I stand at the bar ask for a glass of red wine
and wave my Ņfree drinksÓ wristband at the barman. He tells me itÕs only good
for beer or cokes, so I cough up Ū3.50 and eat the cold noodles as a protest,
though IÕm not sure why or for whoÕs benefit.
We decide
not to bother bringing the gear in until weÕre ready to play, so I buy a Ū10
bag from The Pollywogs and try to tell them why their name might not work in
the UK.
We fuck off to the Etas Hotel, which I must say
puts the Travel Lodge into a good light. Unhelpful staff and small, badly
designed rooms featuring a lot of Formica makes it cold and unfriendly, even
with the telly on.
Just enough time to set up my sound system and
a short read before we go back and catch The PollywogsÕ set. Modern punk, but
theyÕre pretty good at it. Then itÕs our turn and we play a good set, a lot
tighter and more on the case than last nightÕs.
The gig is very full, with quite a few baldy
old punks and a few kids who show their appreciation. I do a deal with a
probably once glamorous punk bird, who buys me wine which I exchange with her
for two beers. Not so much a scam, more a convenience. Her boyfriend is a big
Damned fan and works doing lights and production, while sheÕs setting up as a
promoter.
The drink exchange works fine until the barman
charges me for one of the beers. I call him a cheap cunt, but before he can
reply a small fight breaks out next to me.
A drunk German bloke has called a Swiss bloke a
poof (so many different kinds of racism) and Mr Toblerone sticks the nut on
him. No real harm done, larger bodies intervene, and itÕs all over in seconds.
The German is so pissed I doubt he even felt it. HeÕs upright and okay a few
minutes later when I see him arguing with the bouncer.
I break down whatÕs mine from the kit which, as
an aside,
I quite liked playing. A German company called
Kirchhoff make them so I might try and blag one for myself.
Job done for the night, we throw the gear in
the back of the car and return to the Etas and my room for a red wine nightcap.
I upload the video I took of the dwarf accordionist onto my FB page while Chris
and J.C. smoke hash off a pin. Bed at 2.30.
FRIDAY 28TH JANUARY
I slept well and would have continued to do so
if the chambermaid bitch hadnÕt banged on my fucking door at 7.30.
For ChristÕs sake, itÕs still darkÉ
My eyes donÕt want to know, so I go back into a
doze before forcing myself to get out of bed and start packing. We decide to
breakfast on the road, the Etas cuisine not looking all that appetising, and
pile into the Kia.
We soon get to a likely looking service
station. J.C. and I feast on bratwurst with all the trimmings, in this case a
bread roll, sachets of ketchup and mustard – mmmm – a gourmet
delight washed down with a rather shabby black coffee.
We get redirected by the sat nav (now named
bitch), so we are off the motorway for a while and actually see some of the
real Germany. ItÕs very cutesy and quaintly antique. The sun is out and I only
wish IÕd remembered my shades. NÕDohÉ
We crack on while listening to ŅSpace ShantyÓ
which badly skips. I put on one of my car compilation discs instead, something
I thought might help the other two to get know me a bit better.
We all share the same taste with a lot of the
tunes, so a good time is had by all and at least they now know where IÕm coming
from.
Berlin has changed quite a bit since my last
visit. A lot of the run down and neglected areas have now become trendy places
to hang out and the people seem to have retained the Ņfuck it, lifeÕs too
shortÓ spirit. Consequently, there is a lot of drunken racket and commotion
roaming the streets. They really
do only live for the moment.
And youÕd only be interested in living for the
moment in this hotel (The A&O). It actually says ŅYouth HostelÓ above the
door and the rooms are the same size as the average Brentford bathroom. I
manage to constantly stub my toes and trip on large, seemingly useless pieces
of furniture and generally feel the lack of space. But it seems reasonably
clean, so IÕm happy(ish).
I, shower, shave and change (the first time for
three days) and feel vibed up for the gig. At 18.00, I knock on J.C. and
ChrisÕs door to wake them up so we can go and soundcheck.
The venue is called Wild At Heart and is run by
a very astute, 40-something punky/biker woman called Leila. The in-house
soundman is a great help and quickly drags a drum kit up from the basement for
me to set up and play, while the support band watch on.
The soundcheck is good, mainly because the
drums are twice the volume of anything else on stage so I have a large comfort
zone. I can still hear plenty of the other two, so we are full of confidence
when we go upstairs to LeilaÕs restaurant for steak and wine, then back to the
A&O to kill time before the show.
I turn on the TV and try to watch the news,
which is still all about the riots/protests in Cairo. Then itÕs show time.
Lots of ageing punks, a few bikers and a bunch
of ŅnormalÓ punters fill the small bar and we play a blinder of a show, except
Chris seems to be somewhere else. Even though J.C. and I will have finished a
song, Chris carries on playing throughout most of the otherwise silent parts of
the set.
Some Damned fans that are FB buddies of mine
are there from Holland and I spend a fair amount of my time signing things and
posing for photos.
I guess they want to catch a piece of me before
I drop dead.
Leila brings us spicy schnapps drinks and fresh
beers before we leave. I help load out the gear but every time I take something
out to the van and then go back inside for more stuff, my glasses steam up
uncontrollably, much to the amusement of the doorman. I decide to wait out in
the cold and watch the passing drunk Berliners instead of getting pissed
myself. Probably a good call in the long run.
Back at A&O I stub my toes a few more times
before settling down to bed. Chris is very pissed, so I bail after doshing out
some Rizzlas and tobacco to him. I couldnÕt resist the classic Ņhere are your
papersÓ gag and pass into a deep sleep soon after.
SATURDAY 29TH JANUARY
DRESDEN
(GERMANY)
DRIVE:
BERLIN TO DRESDEN: 200 KM
VENUE: CHEMIEFABRIK
I wake up feeling a bit snotty. IÕve had a
touch of a cold since I left London. It seems to be easing off a bit, but still
gently reminds me of its presence every chance it gets.
IÕve lost my tuning key and J.C. has left his
bag of cables/bits and pieces in Dsseldorf, so a trip to the nearest music
store is in order. We find Central Music on the sat nav and, after hanging
about for half an hour for it to open, we go inside and admire the eastern European
guitars (Framus), second hand amps and other interesting looking old toot. The
bloke who works there is very helpful and J.C. soon has a new pedal switch and
I have a tuning key.
I volunteer to drive to Dresden. ItÕs only a
couple of hundred kliks, so we go for the non-motorway option again. ItÕs a
much better journey with lots of interesting buildings, churches etc to look at
on the way.
Chris has taken to whistling very quietly to
himself – a rather flat, tuneless, somewhat maudlin, dare I say, melody.
A tune that I get the feeling only he will ever truly understand.
Suddenly, we are hijacked in the middle of a
deserted country lane. From nowhere, a dozen or so people in various fancy
dress costumes appear and block the road with a small brass band.
Two small children dressed as rabbits hold a
tape across the road and the grown ups soon surround the vehicle. A man dressed
in some kind of pirate garb who resembles Christopher Lee comes to the driverÕs
window and speaks to us in German. We tell him, in English, that we canÕt speak
German.
We soon figure out itÕs cash theyÕre after, so
I say, ŅWe donÕt have any money,
but this man will sing you a songÓ. J.C. glares at me and the hijackers donÕt
budge. Eventually, we cough up a couple of shitters to a child dressed as a reindeer and the barrier is removed.
ItÕs all very ŅWicker ManÓ.
We get to Dresden at 17.30 and have a quick
pint before sound check. There isnÕt much open, but we do find a little place
next to Burger King. Once we get inside, it turns out to be the headquarters
for the Bayer Munchen equivalent of the ICF. Football scarves all over the
ceiling and a lot of thuggy types playing darts and looking in our direction.
We do the usual British thing and carry on as
if we belonged there and turn up 15 minutes late to the sound check.
The gig is on an old industrial estate and used
to be a chemical works, so fuck knows what might be under our feet by way of
toxic leftovers. The now familiar graffiti covered walls tell us this is
another bastion of 76 commitments. There is water all over the floor in front
of the stage and J.C.Õs amp and guitar are making not very nice noises (nothing
unusual there - Ed).
Despite the electrical shortcomings, the PA and
monitors seem fine. We get taken to a nice restaurant where I have a stew
thingy, red wine and Apfel Strudel for pudding (burp).
TonightÕs accommodation is in an apartment
which belongs to the promoter. ItÕs just round the corner from the gig. ItÕs
freshly decorated with the finest woodchip wallpaper and has large, home made
double bunk beds in each of the three rooms.
J.C. goes for a nap while I type and Chris
whistles to himself and drinks tea. But not at the same time.
I realise that my room doesnÕt have any
curtains, so I drape a quilt down from the top bunk and am taken back to my
youth, when making a tent/den was all I needed to entertain me for a rainy
afternoon.
The gig is pretty good. We play well and the
punters love the hits. ŅPolice CarÓ for the encore and we are done. The DJ plays
some great records – totally time warped, industrial, fucked up, mental
tunes, and quite brilliant.
I jealously watch the punters dancing
(something I never could master) while I suck down a beer and wait for J.C. to pick up the folding. Some of
them are really good movers and I enjoy watching a couple re-enact a bullfight.
V cool indeed.
All goes according to plan and we get back at
around 3am. We ponder why the apartment has two internal steel security doors.
J.C. reckons the promoter has a sideline in smuggling refugees and uses the
apartment as a stopover point. Hmm, maybeÉ
OLOMOUC (Czech
republic)
VENUE: 15
MINUT CLUB
I wake up and I want coffee. There is a kettle,
some coffee and cups even, but no coffee pot. We decide to stop along the way
which is worrying, cos I hate instant. Ironically, there is a coffee shop
opposite the apartment, which is very closed.
Vowing to obey sodÕs law in future, we load the
cases into the Kia, but before we can start the engine I spy the coffee shop
door is slightly ajar. IÕve always been a chancer, so I poke my head round to
see a young man and a dog spinning wool on an antique spinnaker. The man is
doing the spinning, not the dog.
The dog does bark at me, though, and rushes in
my direction. The man looks up and I ask him if heÕs open. ŅNo,Ó he replies,
but what do I want, anyway. ŅThree coffees,Ó I reply. ŅOkay,Ó he says. He stops
spinning and starts frothing while I go out into the street to fetch the other
two.
A mere Ū1.50 later and I feel ready for the
journey. So ready that I even offer to drive, which the others kindly let me
do.
ItÕs a very pretty journey with lots of
interesting buildings, castles on mountaintops, flowing rivers and lakes. ItÕs
a bit overcast so we donÕt get to soak up the true beauty, but itÕs still a lot
nicer than Slough in the spring.
From nowhere, Chris, like some sort of slight
of hand artist, produces some camembert, smoked salami and potato salad, which
he serves up in ŅbrotÓ (with nuts). Yummy stuff. So yummy, in fact, I ate two.
Only three txt messages from T Mobile welcoming
me to the Czech Republic.
As itÕs a short haul, we aim for the hotel
before the gig. The sat nav takes us to the local football ground, where
thereÕs a small (closed) single storey bar called Gol. I look up at the stands
and tell myself that itÕs a dead cert they wonÕt have put a hotel on the
terraces, so we spend half an hour or so trying to find ŅHotel GolÓ. It turns
out to be on the other side of the football ground.
I park out front and go through the door marked
reception. I am immediately greeted by a fog of thick dust and two Polish
builders (natch).
I look before I leap and see a large trench,
dug across the front of the door. With a little despair, I think there must be
some mistake, until J.C. comes like a vision through the dust to tell me that
this is the right place and we have to go into the breakfast room to check in.
I ask J.C. for a hard hat as I gingerly traverse the trench and pick my way
through the rubble.
A very nice young lady takes care of the
paperwork while the Kango hammer bursts into noisy life behind me. I wonder,
with a cynical mind, what kind of shit hole IÕll be sleeping in tonight.
The young woman gives us some room cards and
directions. We trudge round the stadium to what looks like the entrance of a
large block of flats, not a million miles away in appearance to those on the
Green Dragon estate in Brentford.
I look at the faded and worn room card which
has ŅService 1kÓ written on it, but no room number. We take the lift to the
sixth floor, then trudge up the long corridor and into a very unexpected luxury
apartment.
A flat screen TV in the living room and a
kitchen area complete with sharp knives and powdered chocolate drinks. A proper
shower room and bog, another flat screen TV in the bedroom and the place even
has an ŅEthernetÓ cable connection. I open the balcony door leading to a
private terrace overlooking the snowy football pitch beneath me. Wow. Result.
Sound check is at 18.00 and none of us want to
give up our luxury. J.C. and Chris dilly and dally about until I insist we
leave. It is 18.15 and I have to sort out the drums.
We arrive at the club and go into the basement.
ItÕs a quite cool bar, with a few punky types already hanging about. The pile
of drums on the stage doesnÕt have any hardware and a large DJ booth fills the
centre of the stage, not much to be done until someone who cares turns up.
Half an hour later and IÕm just about to set up
a tab with the bar when the promoters arrive. The stage gets cleared, the drums
are set up and a tall beer arrives along with a loaf of bread, some cheeses and
assorted cold meats.
The soundman is a one-man show that says he
teaches music technology. He puts up a lot of mics but doesnÕt bother to turn
on any of the monitors.
The drums are the usual local brand and if the
owner hadnÕt gaffa taped big strips of felt to the inside of the skins, they
might of sounded okay. Instead, they carry the same timbre as a piece of wet
carpet.
The punters include a group of drunken punks
whoÕve traveled from Slovakia. They ask to take photos and are very excited to
meet me (blush) so I oblige.
J.C.Õs amp is still dodge and the sound check
drags on a bit. Both Chris and J.C. have sore throats, Chris can barely speak
at all and J.C. sounds more than a little husky. Chris blames it on the ice
cream he had for his pudding the night before in Dresden. Oh fuck, there goes
the gig. Especially when Chris tries to turn on his amp and plunges the whole
place into darknessÉ
Back at the Hotel Gol, we eat some more of the
cheese and cold meats while I enjoy a glass of J.C.Õs Rioja.
Back to the gig and the place is now heaving. I
have to fight my way to the dressing room where I watch the band (name unknown)
and try and vibe up for the gig. ItÕs gonna be hot up there so I stock up on
Red Bull and we take to the stage.
The punters play their part well. They
genuinely enjoy the hits and heave and pogo about throughout the whole set.
ItÕs just a shame that neither of the vocalists can be heard.
ItÕs after show chaos as loads of people come
into the dressing room area for pics and autographs. We oblige them all and I have a few beers with some Poles
that were at a Bermondsey Joyriders gig at the 100 Club.
One of them is a dead ringer for my mate Keith
Jackson from the Glass Heroes – tall with a big build and a large
flat-top quiff. His girlfriend tells me he is pissed off. She asks me why,
apart from me, did the rest of the band play so badly. I tell them that The
Members never could play very well and wasnÕt that the whole point?
It doesnÕt cut much ice with him, but itÕs a
fun table so I help them out with some of their schnapps and take a shot of
some kind of rum from a grateful punter as we left. We get back to the hotel to
discover IÕd left my coat at the gig, so we have to drive all the way back
again.
I nearly fall down the cellar stairs, get my
coat and have to go through the embarrassment of saying farewell once again.
Back at the Hotel Gol, Chris is whistling
during the long journey up to the sixth floor. I feel a little bit spooked by
the way all of the corridors are pitch black until the motion detectors turn on
the lights. My paranoid imagination kicks into gear when I am confronted by a
large set of doors leading into yet another unknown area of darkness. I mean,
who knows what kind of troll, vagabond or neÕer do well might be lurking in the
darkness. It soon dawns on us that we are the only guests in the whole 750 room
complex. SpookyÉ
During the long journey, I realise that our key cards are designed for the
staff, so I try them out on some of the other rooms along the corridor, all of
which magically open. Possibly useful at some other time, but now itÕs time for
bit more munch and seriously finishing off the Rioja until I slur my way off to
bed.
MONDAY 31ST JANUARY
LJUBLJANA (Slovenia)
DRIVE:
OLOMOUC TO LJUBLJANA: 590 KM
VENUE: ORTO BAR
I wake up at 8.30, take a piss and a couple of
Nurofen. ThatÕs better. I enjoy the luxurious pillows and quilt and the next
thing I know is thereÕs a knock on the door. J.C. gives me 45 minutes to take a
shave and a shower before we reluctantly leave our rock star habitat and drive
into the snowy mists and mountains.
I hook up my i-pod to the car stereo and we
listen to ŅThee Holy MarriageÓ. We fill the travel time with snoozing and the
occasional pit stop.
Only five Txt messages from T Mobile (three the
same) and we finally reach the Hotel Park. ItÕs nice enough but thereÕs not
much of an internet connection so I have to sit in the lobby to get online. The
rooms are at least clean and we have a chuckle when Chris drives the van into
the wall outside the hotel. Did I mention heÕs the worst driver in the world?
Down to the club to set up at 18.00, which I
have to say was very pro.
A decent size stage, a proper PA dressing room
and a real drum kit. The in-house stage boss even sorts out a cymbal dilemma
for me (the holes in the middle of the old Ajax and 5 star Super Zyn cymbals I
have are smaller than the modern cymbal sleeves allow). But with the aid of
some hose from a beer pump, he sorts it out, no probs.
TonightÕs support band are very young, aged 13,
14 and 15 (two of them brothers). Their dads are old skool punks and they all
speak very good English.
Soundcheck done, we get taken to an Italian
restaurant and eat seafood spaghetti, washed down with a couple of glasses of
Rioja. ChrisÕs missus turns up again, this time with a load of her relatives
(plus a couple of Brits in there as well). J.C. does a radio interview on the phone before we head back
to the club.
A rather pretty girl now interviews J.C. for a
local television station. Then itÕs show time. ;-) ItÕs not a bad turnout and
thereÕs lots of photographers, so I guess thereÕs still a fair amount of
interest in ageing punks.
The show goes well, even though Chris is a bit
pissed, claiming the Slivovitch he was necking all evening was purely medicinal
(a likely fucking story – Ed). Whatever, apart from some lumpy timing and
switching to the upbeat and throwing J.C. a bit of a curved ball during
ŅSolitary ConfinementÓ, the gig is fine.
ThereÕs lots of picture taking after the show
and I sample the local beer, Zlaterog. I said to the barmaid that I was with
the band and had just finished playing, so could I get a beer, (the intonation
being can I have it for nothing)? She said she knew I was with the band, but
IÕd have to pay Ū2 for it. I said fine, but when she came back she gave me the
beer and told me that I didnÕt need to pay cos it was on her. I smell a Damned
fan, of which there have been a few turning up.
I sit at a table with six or so natives, who
turn out to be a great bunch of people. Smart conversation is rare, but not
tonight. Before I knew it, IÕd bought a round of drinks for the table and we
were having a good time. J.C. stuck around chatting and drinking with me, while
Chris and his posse went back to the hotel.
Tuesday 1st
February
DRIVE:
LJUBLJANA TO BOLOGNA: 385 KM
VENUE: NUOVO LAZZARETTO
We pull into the peage and since weÕre in an
English car, the ticket machine is on the passenger (my) side of the car. I ask
Chris to get close to the machine so I could grab the ticket. He manages to
scrape the wing mirror on a large concrete block. Tee hee.
The worldÕs worst driver strikes again when he
pulls away from a set of traffic lights while theyÕre still red. Not quite so
funny – thank God there was no
oncoming traffic. I have to say, the Italians all drive like Chris, which
frankly leaves me terrified.
TonightÕs venue is a circular building, a space
IÕd love to have as my own playroom. If only it were in a different
country.
Surprisingly, itÕs not on an industrial estate,
but is in fact just offset from a rather pleasant parade of shops. Needless to
say, the gig or ŅjigÓ as the locals pronounce it, tries to live up to its punk
pretensions with its graffiti adornments. The building has been squatted for
the last 10 years and is a regular gig for visiting punk bands. It shouldnÕt be
too bad, then.
We are very early (15.30), so J.C. rings the
promoter who turns up 10 minutes later looking rather bedraggled and hunched.
My guess is that he just woke up. He opens the doors and we are greeted by half
building site, part recording studio and part jig.
ŅGBH recorded their live album Ōere,Ó the
promoter proudly informs me. ŅAnd next week we Ōave the Sham 69.Ó
ThereÕs some reasonably high-end recording
equipment scattered around the room, Neumann mics, etc. So maybe they do know
what theyÕre doing. We are way to early to soundcheck, so we get the address of
tonightÕs accommodation from promoter bloke and set off.
We get to the right street but itÕs a maze of
one-way systems and limited parking. Grumpy is beginning to creep into the van,
so when Chris finally parks I volunteer to go and sort out the rooms.
J.C. has had a somewhat sheepish aura about him
whenever this gig was mentioned and I suspect there might be a problem with the
rooms. I trot off down the street to find out.
The promoter had said we were staying at a
B&B and gave me the address written on a piece of paper, ŅVia Algardi 10Ó.
The only trouble is knowing which bell, out of the dozen or so on offer, was
the right one to press.
I send Chris back to the van to get the
details, so while I am waiting I look around me at the spray painted graffiti
covering the walls. For once, my Grail hunting, puzzle solving ŅI wonder what
that isÓ training comes into its own as I read ŅBBÕsÓ sprayed onto two of the
walls.
Hmm, the promoter said we were staying at a
B&B, but perhaps it got lost in translation and he meant ŅBBÕsÓ. I look at
the list of names and, sure enough, one of the labels on the bell push reads
ŅBBÓ.
I push the buzzer and, pathetically in English,
ask the metallic Italian voice if this is where the bands stay. Result. I am
let in to a quite nice apartment and greeted by a young fellow me lad called
Allessandro something or other.
He shows me a room, which is reasonably clean
and contains three beds. My ever honed wisdom soon deduces that the plan is for
all three of us to dorm up, which is not something I do (did I mention that I
never share a room).
I tell Allessandro that we need another single
so he rings the promoter (Luciani) and he agrees to pay the extra bucks. Sweet.
I wander down the road to tell the other two
IÕve TCOBÕd the B&B and that they should come on in. J.C. volunteers to go
and park the van wherever possible.
I put my suitcase on to the bed and set up my
speakers and i-pod. Allessandro lets me join his wi-fi network, so I start to
check my FB page and answer a few e-mails.
Irritatingly, he strikes up conversation, in
not great English, but at least he can make himself understood. He tells me
that he is a drummer and used to play in a speed death metal band, but was
forced to quit because he no longer has the energy (wanker).
I tell him that IÕm also a drummer, but it
fails to impress him. He goes on to tell me he once supported a famous English
punk band (no one IÕd ever heard of but, hey, I live under a stone) and he seemed
very surprised that I didnÕt know who they were.
I realise what it is that I hate about Italy.
ItÕs that no one recognises me as the punk superstar that I am. Que sera. I
guess I shall just have to lump obscurity for the next couple of daysÉ
Allessandro takes on a sort of Basil Fawlty
waiting to happen persona and asks me to make sure that we keep quiet when we
return that night. He is only sleeping in the room next to mine, so if we keep
the noise down it would be best for all concerned.
He then looks into my room and nearly throws a
hissy fit because my case is on the bed. This, he explains, is how all dirt and
unpleasantness will spread
I wouldnÕt mind, but there isnÕt anywhere else
to put it, except on the floor, and my toes are still smarting from Berlin.
J.C. is claiming to be too unwell to sound
check, so Chris and I go down to the jig to set up the drums and anything else
that might be useful.
We arrive and the promoter tells us that the
drums wonÕt be there until at least 20.00. ItÕs freezing cold and I donÕt fancy
hanging around for very long, so I change the subject and ask him about getting
fed. He goes online and shows us a dodgy pizza website menu. We duly order and
take it back to the B&B with us once it arrives.
Landlord bloke says we can eat off the table in
his kitchen, which we do, accompanied by the last of ChrisÕs South African Cab
Sav. Fed and wishing to resume my social networking skills, I return to my
chambers.
ItÕs not long before Basil Fawltiano knocks on
the door again, and we have a brief discussion about which bathroom I can use.
It seems he is reluctant to share his bog with me, even though it is usually
assigned to my room.
He tells me I have to use Chris & J.C.Õs
facilities instead.
Now I donÕt give a fuck where I take a dump,
but I donÕt like the idea of creeping about in another chapÕs room in the
middle of the night Allessandro then bursts into a smile and tells me that he
is going to visit his girlfriend tonight and wonÕt be home until morning.
ŅI meant to be Ōere for you,Ó he says. ŅBut I
like to fuck instead.Ó
I smile and grimace all at once and say
something wankerish like, steady on my friend, I havnÕt been home myself for a
long time. He ignores me and has a lecherous glaze in his eye that tells me he
wonÕt be a happy camper until he has planted his useless seed into some poor
bitch.
The gig is depressing, 20 or so punters, mostly
the support bands mates. Both supports have really good drummers, something I
hate, and it is still freezing cold inside the club. We take refuge in the Kia.
Start the engine and sit until itÕs our turn to play.
No mics on anything and the drum kit from hell
– no bass drum spurs, so itÕs propped up with offcuts of timber stacked
on either side, and a rack tom on an old snare stand that wonÕt go where I want
it to. J.C. tries out the mic and it does nothing but fart a high-end
distortion. He tries ChrisÕs and itÕs not any better.
We launch into the set and, to begin with, I
just canÕt go for it. Why bother, I say to myself. Then I revert to the truth
of my occupation, which is that even though the promoter might be a twat, the
drum kit is shit and the hotel a dump, those 15 or so punters that paid for a
ticket deserve my best efforts.
It doesnÕt matter if itÕs one or a thousand, theyÕve
bought my performance, and as such will get nothing less than my best efforts.
I just wish it sounded better.
J.C. shows some humor and the gig lifts with
J.C. stomping about the audience, singing with no mic and turning the whole
thing into a private party. If only Chris would stop playing while J.C. is
trying to talk to the punters. I try to shhhh him, but he plays on with the
relentless moronicity that only bass players seem to possess.
Whatever, the gig turns into a small victory.
Even a rockabilly kid sings along to the chorus of ŅSuburbsÓ and we all end the
set feeling better than when we started.
J.C. picks up the folding and we try to drive
back, but get lost and end up on a motorway for 45 minutes or so. After
narrowly avoiding being rammed up the arse by a speeding truck, we finally get
back to the B&B and lose J.C. to try and discover another parking space.
A little wine later, I go to my room to write.
After an hour or so, I realise that if I want a piss I will have to wake up the
other two. I ponder the problem for a while and realise that each key ring only
has one Chubb key, including landlord blokeÕs, therefore wouldnÕt it be logical
if his one key fitted all the doors. Which, as it turned out, was exactly what
it did.
I unlock the door to the landlordÕs private
bathroom and enjoy his luxury marbled heated floor while I take a large dump
and read my Jack Grisham book (which IÕm supposed to write a tag line for).
Then I clean my teeth and IÕm off to bed for a solid five hours sleep.
WEDNESDAY 2ND FEBRUARY
SEGRATE
(MILANO, ITALY)
DRIVE:
BOLOGNA TO SEGRATE: 230 KM
VENUE: MAGNOLIA CLUB
Allessandro makes some pretty good coffee this
morning but the rest of the breakfast – sugary
buns in plastic wrappers – isnÕt my idea of Italian cuisine at all.
Whatever, we get in the car and because today is a comparatively short haul
(250 kliks), J.C. announces we should stop for lunch in Parma, a large busy
city and a place where parking is hard.
The singer from one of last nightÕs support
bands made it sound like a small, very cutesy medieval town. We couldnÕt find
that bit, so we fucked off and drove until we hit a likely looking restaurant.
Bingo, a complete result, a semi medieval
building with fashionably sparse rural dcor and a waiter that speaks good
English, learnt during his time working in Camden. He guides us through the
menu, recommending the best in local dishes.
I go for parma ham and cheese mushrooms that
taste amazing, followed by melt in the mouth steak and taglliatelli with ravioli,
washed down by a fine bottle (or two) of Ferrari Pallato.
ItÕs all local produce and just cooked simply.
Fantastic. I waddle out to the car and we resume our journey while I fall into
a contented doze.
I wake up and can see very little. Why? Because
Milan is completely fog bound, with visibility down to 20 feet or so. We manage
to get to the gig, which is in the middle of a large park (or so IÕm told)
where they used a massive lake as a landing strip for those planes wot float
(bi-planes - Ed).
A very large gate needs to be opened. Off you
go then, Chris, and following a small track road through the fog, we find a
large building.
The promoter comes out to greet us and inside I
find a Premier drum kit and some decent cymbals that the soundman says I can
use tonight. Lots of good quality backline amps, speaker cabs and a very decent
PA, as well as real lights and even a smoke machine.
I blag a beer from the bar and we soundcheck
before heading for the hotel. J.C. says itÕs another A&O and, after our
last experience with them, IÕm not optimistic. The promoter says itÕs just up
the road on the nearest roundabout, so we head off into the fog, aided only by
the sat nav.
We get to the roundabout but the only thing
visible is a big sign saying ŅAir HotelÓ. The sat nav leads us to the entrance
of a now familiar industrial estate and after half an hour of confusion we go
back to the gig, only to discover that itÕs not an A&O but the Air Hotel
after all.
We couldnÕt find it to ask directions before,
so IÕm filled with trepidation as we set off into the thick fog yet again. We
finally discover the entrance, which is a small slipway next to the industrial
estate entrance.
The Air Hotel is actually a very nice place.
Marble floors in reception and the usual brass fixtures and fittings. The staff
are in suits. We check in and go to our respective rooms. Large quilted pads
decorate the outside of the doors and nice mood lighting comes on automatically
when you open the door. Chocolates on the pillows and a fuck off plasma screen
telly. Sorted.
The room is nice, warm and comfortable so,
still feeling a bit cozy from lunch, I decide to write for a while and chill
out.
A little bit later, Chris knocks on the door
and says the promoter has just txtÕd J.C. to say that there is food for us down
at the gig. IÕm still full of
lunch, so I decline. He says heÕs going down there anyway. I offer to go with
him, but he says heÕll be fine on his own. I ponder the wisdom of this, as
Chris canÕt work the sat nav and often gets lost even in the best conditions.
Add the thick fog and lack of visible landmarks and I expect never to see him
again.
No such luck, when he turns up couple of hours
later and knocks on my door again to say itÕs time to go.
The fog is still a proper pea souper and we
drive past a very cold looking security man, who reluctantly opens the gates.
The club is empty and the staff look bored. Even the support band canÕt be
bothered to turn up. Typical, we finally get a decent gig, PA, lights, smoke
machine, etc, etc and no one is there to appreciate it.
The promoter asks us if we still want to
perform and, as there are two paying customers, we decide that we should carry
on regardless.
ItÕs a dismal evening, but despite everything
we put in a decent rendition of the tunes. Playing to six people is never easy,
but they did clap and all concerned were professionally resigned to tonightÕs
outcome.
After the show, I go to the bar and ask for a
beer. I offer a Ū10 bill , but the barmen wonÕt take my money. I ask him if he
doesnÕt think theyÕve lost enough money already? He laughs and gives me the
beer anyway. Guilt ridden though I am, I still take it.
The promoter talks to me about the Damned
reuniting. I give my usual response, which is that IÕm game, but Captain is the
one saying no.
We bid our farewells and go back to the Air
Hotel. I drop my bags and go across the hallway to ring the doorbell on the
other twoÕs room. We finish off lunchtimeÕs wine. ItÕs a long drive tomorrow,
so we all common sense it to bed.
THURSDAY 3RD FEBRUARY
STUTTGART (GERMANY)
DRIVE: SEGRATE TO STUTTGART: 520 KM
VENUE: ZWOLFZEHN
Shave, shower and clean clothes. Chris takes
the first shot at driving. I wish the fog had lifted so I could see where we
are, but no such luck. We drive on and eventually into the Swiss Alps.
Customs/border control wave us through, not
bothering to even look at our passports, but they do pull us to one side to
collect Ū40 in road tolls.
ItÕs breathtaking scenery, though. This has to
easily be the most beautiful country in Europe. Silver lakes, snow capped
mountains and dramatic views pass the journey time away and I wonder what
people do with their time when they live up a mountain.
I take over behind the wheel just before
Germany and we immediately hit traffic and a congested Zurich city centre,
where they have closed the motorway bypassing the city centre. ItÕs a chaotic
first 30 minutes while the sat nav keeps telling me to take roads that are dug
up or blocked by bulldozers and heavy plant. I follow the other traffic and
hope we are all going to the same place.
We finally hit the open road and, after some
rustling behind me, Chris hands me a couple of sandwiches to eat while I drive.
Despite being a safe distance away, Chris still manages to squirt mayonnaise
all over me and my clean threads.
I pull up outside the gig and meet my buddy
Stefan Hager. He is a fellow ŅRennieÓ. He speaks perfect English and also
shares my sense of humor.
We go inside the club to check it out. ItÕs a
smallish bar, but it has a stage and a dressing room, where the promoters have
laid on some food – bread,
cheese, smoked meats and todayÕs bonus foodstuff, Jaffa cakes.
I snack out while we wait for the PA and drums
to arrive. Someone rushes in and says the car is being broken into and all and
sundry rush outside to see the car door wide open. Oh shit, all the guitars and
amps, sat nav and all the other stuff we need is inside.
A black dude is standing next to the Kia and
tells us (in perfect English) that he owns the Cuban Cocktail bar next door and
he happened to look outside and see the car doors open. Being of a suspicious
nature, I wait for the hustle to begin, but it doesnÕt and things seem to be
just as they appear.
Thankfully nothing is missing, and I wonder if
it was my fault, me being the last driver and all. Maybe I forgot to lock up.
Much to my relief, I donÕt have the keys and remember that IÕd given them to
Chris when we arrived.
The drums turn up with the PA and I set up the
kit. We check all the stuff still works, which it does. The PA and monitors are
good. In fact, we only play half a song before I stop playing and declare that
the sound is very good and we should fuck off back to the hotel, mainly cos IÕd
left my tobacco behind.
The promoter gives us Ū15 each instead of a hot
meal. Result. IÕm stuffed from all the snacking, so Stefan and I go to roam the
equivalent of Oxford Street, looking for somewhere ŅGermanÓ to keep us
entertained until show time.
We discover a Germanic bar and stay for a pint
of something a little bit cloudy but with a good taste. I realise that I wonÕt
be able to drink many of these, so we stick to just one and carry on roaming.
We are soon back near the club and Stefan wants
to go into the Cuban Cocktail lounge for a rum based beverage. ItÕs 20.30 and
IÕm due onstage at 21.45, so I decide that one rum based cocktail, if drunk
slowly, will leave me still capable. So we order up a couple of Mai TaiÕs and I
enjoy the luxury of drinking and smoking at the same time while indoors.
We go back into the gig and IÕm asked to sign a
copy of ŅRat Scabies And The Holy GrailÓ (German edition) for a young lady
whoÕs boyfriend was at the ŅMoot With No Name lecture I did with Chris Dawes a
while ago. There are a few Damned fans in as well. I spot T-shirts and the
bands name painted on the back of a leather jacket olde skoole.
The show goes well. A total of about 50 punters
watch as J.C. tells them that heÕd heard that Stuttgart was the punk capital of
Germany. He works the crowd like a pro and a good time is had by all.
I pose for pictures, and invite the ŅRenniesÓ to come with me and Stefan for some more Mai TaiÕs. We shoot the R.L.C shit and I get pleasantly drunk. Drunk enough to tell my favourite jokeÉ
Two nuns are driving along on a dark and stormy
night when a vampire suddenly leaps from the darkness and onto the bonnet of
the car.
They scream and panic.
ŅWhat
should I do?Ó yells the first Nun.
She
stamps on the brakes, but the vampire hangs fast.
They
accelerate away, gripped with even more panic and fear.
ŅWhat
shall I do now?Ó
ŅTry
splashing him with holy water.Ó
As
she fumbles for the small glass phial, it drops to the floor and is now out of
reach.
ŅIÕve
dropped the holy water,Ó she cries.
The
vampire is still clamped to the car bonnet and now licks his lips in
anticipation.
ŅWhat
can I do now?Ó she pleads.
ŅShow
him your crossÓ comes the reply.
So
she leans out of the window and shouts, ŅGet off my fucking carÓ.
Stefan pays for the drinks and we bid our
farewells and walk back to the hotel. I order a cab to take Stefan back to his
hotel, which heÕd forgotten how to get to, and went to my room to do some FB
and then bed, listening to Maja DÕOustÕs series of lectures on alchemy. Then
zzzzzzz.
FRIDAY 4TH FEBRUARY 2011
Drive: STUTTGART TO SOLOTHURN: 330 KM
VENUE: KOFMEHL
I
wake at 9.30 or so and make it downstairs just in time to catch J.C. and Chris
leaving the breakfast room. J.C. stays with me while I neck some coffee and a
couple of cold hard-boiled eggs. We chat shit about the music biz until itÕs
time to go.
I
pack up my stuff and get down to the car park where Chris is already loading
the van. Because itÕs not such a big drive, we decide to avoid the motorways
and enjoy a slower but nicer drive.
We pull in at an interesting looking antique
shop. J.C. buys an old beaten copper church incense burner, complete with
cleaning brush and chain (Ū20, down from Ū35). I nearly buy a Ņcoal scuttleÓ
German helmet, but decide itÕs too small to fit the average HellÕs Angel. As
always, I feel the inclination to hire the biggest truck I can find and fill it
with European furniture to take back to flog in the UK.
We get to the Swiss border and the lone guard
takes an interest in us.
He asks us where and why and do we have any CDs
or T-shirts for sale.
J.C. says no and the guard looks me in the eye,
as if I might give the game away. He waves us on and we drive the B roads
through the mountain passes. I put on ŅRat Scabies And The Holy GrailÓ while
Chris produces another sandwich from about his person and proceeds to munch.
A small church looms up and I suggest we stop
for a look round. J.C. pulls into the laybye and we admire the scenery from
about 500 feet above the valley floor. ItÕs a breathtaking view and I bang off
a few pics, before opening the church gate and going into the garden. An old
looking font stands by the front door, opposite a statue of the B.V.M.
depicting the vision at Lourdes.
I open the front door, but J.C. goes a bit
wobbly and wonÕt go inside. IÕm not sure why. It turns out he was supposed to
attend a funeral in London today. The coincidence is that, as we stopped
outside the church, the bells chimed that it was three oÕclock – the same
time the funeral in London is scheduled to start.
Maybe it was a bit close to home for him when I
said perhaps it was fate bringing him here and he should light a candle for his
spiritual well being. (Scabies, you can be a piss taking twat sometimes –
Ed).
Chris and I go inside and I take more pics.
ThereÕs not much to see, what with it being a new church and all, but I
photograph the usual items of interest and the bell starts to chime again. I
carry on photographing and checking out the wood panelling on the pulpit, which
is very stylised and nice workmanship. The bell is now constantly ringing,
almost as though itÕs an alarm, so we hastily get back in the Kia and leave.
All is good until weÕre guided by the bitch to
take a turning up a narrow lane, which continues to rapidly rise above the
valley floor. There is a now very large, sheer drop on the left hand side of
the road, which keeps getting deeper and deeper. I have fleeting attack of
vertigo. But I can deal with that okay.
We drive past a road sign that has a car wheel
with tire chains on and a red line struck through it. I guess it means Ņno snow
chainsÓ. Probably something to do with the delicate road surface, I thought to
myself.
We carry on up the single-track road, which
rapidly turns to slush and then to ice. The front wheels spin round frantically
and the Kia starts to drift to the left. ItÕs times like this, just as youÕre sliding uncontrollably
toward a large ravine beside you, that you wish for snow tires.
We just about stop, with the front wheels
dangerously close to the edge of the ravine. J.C. wants to try and drive on up
the hill to turn the car around, but I think this is a bad idea. I mean, we can
barely move the car forward as it is, and if he tries it again the car might
drift even further
J.C. hits the accelerator pedal and the Kia
stays exactly where it is – except for the front wheels, that is, which
slide another few inches towards the edge. ŅReverse down,Ó I suggest to J.C. He isnÕt keen, but he realises
heÕs run out of choices when he tries to go forward once again, resulting in
more tire spinning but this time itÕs the rear end that drifts towards
disaster.
The wheels spin and the Kia lurches a few more
inches to the left. I ask to get out of the car and, like a true coward, and
walk down beside them as J.C. gingerly reverses/slides uncontrollably back down
the narrow lane and on to the exposed tarmac.
We finally arrive at a town that looks like
chocolate box lid. No, strike that, make it a Marks & Spencer Chocolate box
lid.
We drive across the cobbled streets until we
get to the hotel, a trendy wine bar with fashionably sparse bedrooms. A river
runs alongside and the medieval looking buildings on the far side of the shore
make me realize how rare beauty and history are in my daily life. I gaze like a
proper tourist at the views and grab a couple of snaps (pics, not the
aperitif).
The hotel is a very old building. The floors
are magnificently wonky and the bare wooden floorboards creak noisily with
every step as we are shown upstairs. ThereÕs no TV but I can just about get
online. IÕve stayed in much worse places during the last 10 days and the beauty
that surrounds us more than makes up for having to wander up the hallway for a
piss.
As always, parking is difficult. ItÕs still
early (16.30) and the sound check isnÕt for another hour, so I tell J.C. I
wouldnÕt mind using these rare moments of freedom to have a look around the
town. We ask the receptionist to show us on a map where the gig is which is
apparently only a 10-minute walk away along the river.
J.C. studies said map and then we make our way
outside. He says he and Chris will drive to the gig to park the car and will
meet me in an hour in the lobby.
I go for a very pleasant stroll around the
town, stopping to photograph some of the grandiose buildings and an unusual
Ņsolar clockÓ. IÕm about 30 minutes into my cultural pleasure when driving down
the hill, across the cobbled street and through the middle of numerous
pedestrians, small children, dogs, etc, come Chris & J.C.
They pull up next to me. They have obviously
got lost several times and tempers seem to be fraying. They are still no wiser
than I am as to where the gig is.
J.C. usually has all the details written down
and, from his paperwork,
I normally program in two addresses – the
gig and the hotel.
Today I only put in the address for the hotel
(getting my priorities right?).
So now I have my duo of hapless travellerÕs
pleading with me to show them the way back to the hotel so J.C. can get the
relevant piece of paper. I have no choice but to get in the car and join them
driving through the pedestrian precinct.
We soon reach the hotel and J.C. goes inside to
get the paper. He returns 10 minutes later without it. It is now seemingly
lost. I go to look in my room, but itÕs not there either. I suggest we talk to
the receptionist again, in case J.C. left it on the counter when we were
looking at the map. He says he has already done that and so vigorous was the
search that any future goodwill from her is unlikely.
Back in the car and, in a moment of brilliance,
J.C. remembers the name of the street the gig is in. We quickly punch it into
the bitch and five minutes later we are in the right street, but we still canÕt
get there because of the very large concrete blocks, spread across the road. I
look out of the car at a very normal piece of grassland inhabited by a very
normal flock of sheep.
We figure out a way round the anti tank devices
and, voila, believe it or not, a very large club decorated to look just like a
grimy industrial estate looms before us.
We are met by the promoter and the gear is duly
chimped. ItÕs a great venue, with big load-in doors and lots of backstage area.
It houses two halls, one big and glamorous (capacity 1,000), and the other a
smaller, more intimate, Members-type gig, which is a large bar and holds 100 or
so. Whatever, the stage is a good size and not only do they have PA and lights,
but also people that know how to work them.
As soon as we arrive, some fresh veg snacks are
laid out on the bar alongside the usual cold meat cuts and a loaf of very
edible fresh bread. I ask for – and get – a very decent cup of
coffee and, as the smoking laws are nonexistent in here, I spark up a fag and
enjoy the moment.
A young person, who to be honest looks like a
delicate hormone balance to me, is in charge of the lights. I donÕt think J.C.
realises itÕs a girl as he keeps saying, ŅCan we get the lighting bloke to give
us some smoke?Ó. He then goes on to say that Ņhe looks like OttoÓ, the bus
driver in ŅThe SimpsonsÓ.
Maybe her English is not so ŅgutÓ or maybe she
diplomatically chooses to ignore him. Either way, she gets the smoke machine
out and J.C. can now feel like heÕs in Pink Floyd.
I finally get around to asking where the drums
are and get told that they wonÕt be here till 19.00. ItÕs still only 17.30, so
I suggest I fuck off back to the town and we let the support band deal with the
sound check.
Everyone agrees until the soundman arrives. He
would prefer us to check properly. He only looks like a kid and I figure he
needs to make it work more than I do, so
J.C. and Chris check the amps and vocal mics while I enjoy a small glass
of the local beer.
The soundman gives me enough weed to keep me
going for the night (a fair swap for a T shirt), so the waiting is not so bad.
I go to explore the building and find a Star Trek pinball table upstairs in the
dressing room area.
As I donÕt have any Swiss money, I go into the
office and ask for change. They give me 10 Swiss francs in shrapnel and I kill
20 minutes playing. Ah, itÕs the simple things that make life such funÉ
J.C. is checking his mic and launches into a
comedy routine which keeps everyone in the room entertained for half an hour.
He performs a Chas & Dave style version of ŅDelilaÓ, which is my favourite.
He can be very funny, so when the support band eventually arrives, morale is
high.
We run through a couple of tunes and it
actually sounds pretty good. I ask the other drummer how much of his kit can I
use and he says all of it, so I do.
I afford myself the luxury of toms in the
monitors.
A long table appears and is laid out for 20. A
couple of bottles of wine are produced and we all sit down to a chicken and
rice dinner. I didnÕt eat all mine – I donÕt like playing on a full
stomach – so I make the most of the wine until we decide to walk back to
the hotel.
ItÕs cold but pretty and I play poker on my
laptop while J.C. goes for his traditional lie down. We walk back at around
10.45 and the place is jam-packed. The support band are onstage and are very
tight. They play very well and the crowd is having a good time. After a couple
of songs, I go upstairs to the dressing room and lie on the large leather
couch, resting my eyes.
The other hall has a big show on tonight. A
Swiss band called The Bubble BandŅ who won some kind of ŅX FactorÓ competition
by playing a lot of drum patterns on drums made out of old rubbish.
One of them says hello and I blag a Red Bull
from him before we go down to play. The punters are great. They gently mosh
around and have lots of fun. We old farts do our job well.
A few joints are passed around in the club
afterwards and a drunk girl gives me her weed. I love celebrity. Then itÕs time to leave. The people
that we worked with on this gig are a really good bunch. Very friendly and helpful
and realistic about all the shit that goes with making our lives easier.
We walk back, Chris whistling all the way and
then, again from nowhere, he breaks out a hidden sandwich. After a brief search
for the night-time entrance to the hotel (down an alley and past a closing
bar), we make a creaky and noisy return to bed.
SATURDAY 5TH FEBRUARY
FREIBURG (GERMANY)
DRIVE:
SOLOTHURN TO FREIBURG: 140 KM
VENUE: WALFISCH
Breakfast is over by 10, so I throw on my
clothes and catch J.C. at the table. A waitress goes off to fetch me a pot of
coffee, which is how I discover my voice has nearly vanished. So I enjoy some
fresh bread and strawberry jam and gradually return to life.
I volunteer to drive. ItÕs only a couple of
hours away, so we opt for the Ņno motorwayÓ route. ItÕs all very pretty and
Swiss. I smoke some of the local produce, we use up the Swiss francs on diesel
and, before you know it, weÕve crossed the border and are back in Germany
– and not one txt from T Mobile! IÕm beginning to worry they no longer
value my custom.
We see
some signs for a ŅFLUH MarketÓ and our natural ability with languages leads us
to deduce it translates as ŅFlea MarketÓ. We detour up to a municipal looking
building and see a couple of secondhand stalls just inside the door. The first
one has an autoharp which J.C. immediately wants to buy. The same stall also
has a nice old American washboard, which he tells the bloke to put to one side
for him as well.
Brilliant – and weÕre hardly through the
door. Talking of doors, there is another one that has a bloke asking for Ū1.50
each by way of admission, so once J.C. has coughed up the required Ū4.50 we
start to scavenge.
IÕm tempted by a pewter dish for Ū10 featuring
the Adam and Eve story, but this is the only thing I fancy in the whole place.
To be honest, most of the stuff here is the same pseudo porcelain car boot shit
we get in the UK.
One other stall also has a zither, but the back
is split, so I advise J.C. against it.
The bloke behind the stall hates me.
We leave, J.C. paying for the autoharp and
washboard on the way out, a bargain at Ū30.00 for the two. We drive on, into
the next adventureÉ
Getting lost in strange cities is an
occupational hazard. But itÕs one that, with the arrival of sat nav, should no
longer be a problem. No problem, that is, until the poxy thing wonÕt recognize
the address.
I slowly drive around Freiburg, upsetting other
motorists as I dawdle along. We can find the street okay, but not the venue. In
a moment of brilliant desperation, we ask a woman on a bike if she knows where
the Walfisch is. She points to the building we are outside and laughs.
The Walfisch (The Whale) is the name of
tonightÕs salubrious venue. ItÕs a punk bar with lots of skulls, football
scarves and the usual punk adornments, mostly band posters and stickers.
A large blackboard announces todayÕs lunchtime
special of ŅBockwurst mit Brot ( Ū2.00)Ó so J.C. and I order some up, along
with a small glass of yet another fine local brew. There are big plasma screen
TVs scattered around the bar and the football is on.
We chimp in the gear and sit down to eat while
Chris is sent off to park the van. Stuttgart are playing and itÕs a fast and
furious game. We have some quality time watching the match and just chilling
after the drive.
The club is run by a rockabilly type who
happens to be a drummer, so I get taken down to the cellar to choose which
drums I want to use. ItÕs a bit of a Heinz kit, but thereÕs enough for me to be
happy with.
We set up and the soundman arrives, a gnarly looking
old dude who has obviously been at the game even longer than me. He puts just
three mics on the kit, so my sound check is pretty painless. The same canÕt be
said for Chris, who is having trouble plugging in his bass amp. He tries
another amp but it wonÕt power up.
J.C., on the other hand, has a huge E.N.G.L. amp and cab linked to his
own stuff. HeÕs happier than the proverbial pig and twice as loud.
TonightÕs accommodation is above the venue in
the ŅartistÕs apartment,Ó which is found by going past the toilets and up a
dingy stairway. A broken pane of glass in the front door and no lock doesnÕt
make it feel very secure, but IÕm guessing the large skinhead who manages the
door of the club and lives in the apartment next to ours is feared enough locally
to guarantee the safety of our possessions.
I open the window and start to type, taking in
the night air and the sights and sounds that remind me IÕm far from home.
I go downstairs at about 22.00 to watch the
support. A very good rockabilly guitar player and his band take the stage but,
despite the obvious abilities they share, it just doesnÕt seem to gel. The
place is packed tight and I feel tired.
I neck the ŅSexÓ energy drink that J.C. bought
me a couple of days ago and we take to the stage. As it goes, I play the best
show of the tour. J.C. is on top form and Chris, well, Chris is a bit pissed
and still necking miniatures of Jagermeister under the guise of medicine for
his sore throat. I suspect this is why tonight heÕs opted to use some obscure jazz
timings. :-)
While weÕre on the subject of health, my throat
is caning with the ŅTour SicknessÓ. Whatever, the gig is a blinder and the
punters genuinely have a great time. We nail a two song encore and then join
the audience for a couple of beers.
Lots of pics are taken and I hear ŅItÕs really
great that you old guys can still do itÓ more than once. I never know how to
take that comment. I guess being a far out old man is the best I can hope for
nowadays.
We have to leave at 8.30 tomorrow morning so,
after watching the audience drift away and sampling a schnapps or two, I thank
everyone and fuck off to bed.
I wake up needing a piss and I have to go
through ChrisÕs room to get to the bog. HeÕs still not gone to bed, though, and
I suspect J.C. hasnÕt either. They must be partying pretty hard downstairs, so
I go back to bed and fall into an uncomplicated sleep.
SUNDAY 6TH FEBRUARY
DRIVE: FREIBURG TO BRENTFORD: 850 KM
I like
the heavy duty roller blinds the rest of Europe discovered but never shared
with the UK. Not only do they give you a total blackout should you want it, but
you can leave the slats slightly apart letting in thin rays of light once it
arrives.
I look
out to see the golden rays decorating the outside world and think it might be a
good idea to check the time. ItÕs 8.40. Hmm, not too late to make the six hour
drive and get the 16.00 ferry weÕre booked onto. I wake up J.C. and Chris and
am pleased to find out they loaded the gear last night, so all we have to do is
dress and leave.
I volunteer to drive and we hit the golden
arches for a bacon and egg McMuffin and surprisingly good coffee.
Many roads in Germany donÕt have a speed limit
and I manage to knock the gauge up to 120mph. Despite being overcome by a
massive wave of tiredness, one that makes my eyelids feel as if they are being
pulled shut like the roller blind on last nightÕs window, I have to press on
until I can find a suitable place to stop.
Chris takes over the driving at Ghent and we
made it to Dunkirk by 15.45. After showing our passports, we are stopped by a
couple of likely looking English lads who are wearing hi-viz jackets with
ŅImmigration ControlÓ written on them.
They ask to see in the back of the car, take a
brief look through the window at the guitar, zither, washboard, snare drum,
suitcases, etc and try to wave us on. J.C. makes conversation with them, while
all I want to do is get on the ferry.
The good news is that the ferry is running late
due to bad weather and we have to hang about in the departure terminal. IÕm
starving, so I get some change out of a machine, and spend 10 minutes trying to
figure out how to buy a sandwich. I canÕt do it and settle on a Bounty bar and
a hot chocolate drink instead.
J.C. is playing pinball and gives me a credit.
I do badly and invest my last shrapnel in another couple of games. IÕm still
not great, but at least it passes a few minutes. An electronic bell chimes and
we walk back out to the car, board, park, and make our way up to the bar.
We are travelling riff raff class on the way
home (natch), which isnÕt really that much different to the VIP lounge. We use
up the last of our shrapnel on coffee and I glare at the sign on the hot pasty
counter saying ŅFreshly made today on boardÓ.
Turning towards the deck, I go outside to brave
the gale force wind and manage to find a quiet corner. I spark up, sip my
coffee and look at the disappearing coastlineÉ