The civic chronicle #6

That's a typo. It should read "Gothenburg Rapes!"

15/06/2010 - On the drive from Oslo to Gothenburg we were once more subjected to the depressing, barren ugliness of the Scandinavian landscape.

How do they stand it? It's worse than a Jakarta land-fill.

When we reached Gothenburg the first landmark to catch our eye was the giant ferris-wheel belonging to the fun-park in the middle of town. At that point we had no reason to suspect that this was an Omen. The following 10 hours would reveal the prophetic symbolism of that object.

The venue turned out to be one of those large, multi-faceted uber-clubs, with a street-level snooker-bar, a downstairs concert hall and a compact nightclub upstairs called “Henrys Rooftop” where we were to perform.
 
Henrys’ Rooftop is joined like a swarthy Siamese twin to a gigantic rooftop terrace overlooking the waterfront. The terrace operates as a high-end eatery and cocktail bar for young Swedish idiots-on-the-make and when we arrived there was around forty or fifty of these swish, affluent, good-looking yuppie scumbags sipping Chablis and hitting on each-other. It was completely nauseating.
One disturbed loner with a flame thrower could have made the world a better place in 3 minutes flat up there, but alas, I prayed and prayed, but he did not come.
 
When I collapsed on a couch for a powernap I was swiftly browbeaten by a bitter, abrasive dyke who turned out to be the bar-manager. She demanded that I sit-up, so that her money-stupid clientele wouldn’t have their champagne cocktails spoiled by the sight of some bald, slack-faced musician lying down on the job. The thought of dealing with this arid, loveless bitch to get our drinks was terrifying. Fortunately she had bigger fish to fry that night, and the rest of the staff were perfectly reasonable people.
 
...and then, out of a cloud of silver dust, appeared the man, the myth, the promoter...JONK.


 "What's behind this door? Pain, motherfucker!"

International man of intrigue, top bloke.

At first blush Jonk came across as simply a polite, efficient young hep-cat who just wanted the gig to go smoothly. No ribald humor or strange outbursts at-all. Just help-full information and the like.
It was only much later that night, when we were all horrifyingly drunk, that he started to grab our testicles and throw glasses of beer at our heads and call us “Fucking Aussie cunts!”.

As our stage time grew closer the mob of schmoozy, arrogant yuppie vermin were slowly but surely infiltrated by Gothenburgs' cultural elite. I have seldom seen hipsters (for want of a better term) anywhere who are as original, classy and loose-limbed as these people. I began to feel hope.

My hope was not vain. This was probably the first gig of the tour where I stopped just trying to play well and actually started having FUN! These people were DRUNK and LOOSE and they wanted GOOD TIMES! Yep, we played Goode, and the people laughed at our jokes and danced and yelled shit at us in Svensk. Oh Lord yes. Me likey.
Anyway, this brings me to the second reason that I was excited to be in Gothenburg. The first, of course, was the idea of seeing the guys from In Flames out shoe-shopping and setting them on fire as punishment for crimes against Metal. Sweet poetic justice comedy!
The second was that we were supporting Fucking Werewolf Asso. My expectations of this shrill, offensive act were very high, and I was not disappointed. As a live act, these two guys were the punkest, most aggressive, weirdest, funniest whirlwind of slobbering action I’ve seen in years, and the mob of boozy scenesters who packed the room went berserk, like chickens on cheap speed. It was fucking AWESOME!!!

 Sometimes they tour with their own, home-made P.A.

Fucking AWESOME!

They are also very agreeable “dudes” in “real-life”. Hail!

After that the night seemed to drag out into a long, blurry vignette of Bad Behaviour. I remember being slapped by a young Mod type and slapping him back, being asked to dance with someones’ ugly sister...and of course Jonk ordering rounds of 300 proof of some tobasco laden shot, grabbing my balls and saying he would “hook me up” with some pussy (although he never did, the cunt).



Aaron and I became hopelessly lost on the short, double-visioned walk to Jonks’ apartment where we were to stay for the next 3 nights, and we had to call him about 4 times before he agreed to leave the debaucherous “after-party” he disappeared to and come and rescue us. A mattress on the floor of a tiny flat has seldom looked that good to me. Sleep, my darling, sleep. It is the cousin of death.

Yes, Ghotenburg rapes. Stop in on your next Scandinavian jaunt and see for yourself, sucker. Grab Jonks’ balls and tell him we said hi.