Face the gig that should not be…in Bloggness you dwell.

While booking the tour Aaron had offended so many promoters with his arrogant, demanding emails that we had ended up with a 3 day gap in our itinerary, between Malmo and Paris. A Civic with time on it’s hands is a dangerous Civic, so on the first off-night as I was dealing a hand of Old Maid in our filthy hostel outside Malmo I decided to try and manipulate Aarons obnoxious sense of entitlement (and his hopeless gambling addiction) into some work for our idle hands.

I made a bet with him, against a gram of ketamine I had found in the female toilets at Debaser, that he couldn’t come up with a gig for the following night anywhere along our route.

Well, that ketamine changed hands in the morning, which I saw as a “win/win” situation (Ketamine, in my opinion, is the filthiest, most degenerate drug on the planet, turning the user into the pharmaceutical equivalent of a late-stage alcoholic in 10 seconds flat. But the endless quirks of Aarons’ freakish metabolism seem to convert it into a mild anti-psychotic, a desirable result).

As I dreamed peacefully, Aaron spent the night firing threatening and quasi-abusive emails to club-bookers, and amazingly a suave young guy called Ollie in Cologne was so amused by Aarons obnoxious tone that he convinced a local act holding a disc launch at his club to let us play support.

No fee, but we were garanteed a couch to sleep on and as much Weinstephaner as we could hold in our bloated guts.

To Koln!!

Pretty evil, huh? That´s where we´re headed, to face the elder gods..

The giant 16 cylinder engine of the ATV rent the early morning air like a sub-stratospheric nuclear test and the other hostel patrons gathered on the street in their night-clothes to stare at it, having been rudely awakened by the terrifying roar.
After grabbing as many towels and mini-soaps as I could carry I clambered into the cabin, punched in a half-chewed Slayer cassette and we…you know… hit the road.

Get your motor runnin’, dow dow da dow dow…


Four hundred thousand more to diiieee, dow dow da dow dow…..

Stopping only to take on fuel and snacks and to offload urine and other refuse, we hammered down the forest-lined German highways. 14 deafening repeats of “Reign In Blood” kept our sense of urgency keen and prevented any slackening of pace, and a few lines of “K” off the dash kept Aarons’ sociopathic instincts at bay. So we made excellent time without causing any scenes of terror along the way.

Bueno.

Not so Evil in the daytime.

Cologne/Koln is a pretty town which mostly escaped the horrors visited on other German cities by the RAF, so it still has most of it’s old centre in-tact. Aaron was starting to lose concentration as we entered the city center, so we ended up doing 2 or 3 loops over the river, which from a sightseeing point of view was a good thing.
Having located the venue and loaded our crap inside we became aquainted with Ollie, our patron, a dapper Deutsche gent with a quiet but friendly disposition. As it turned out, Ollie had recently purchased one of our fine 7” singles on the webernet, so he was at least familiar with the brand of racket he had invited into his life.

The club was a small, hot, underground box called “Tsunami”, and looked at first blush to be entirely appropriate. 100 capacity, low stage, mid/highs on stands, a mono sub in the corner.
We arrived as our other hosts (the 5 piece band who had accepted us onto their bill) were soundchecking their insanely complex set-up, so we had time to kill.

Ollie, being taste-full and astute, suggested we wander over to a local “experimental” record store where none other than the Awesome Tapes From Africa guy was doing an in-store set that evening. Hurrah!
Armed with beer and kebabs we ambled through the pleasant, leafy Koln streets over to said record-selling-place, where Mr African Tapes was plying his nerdy trade.

Sure, Aaron could have taken a shot from inside the shop...but...

Aaron frightened the poor guy to death, simply by requesting some Algerian screamo-crunk and giving him one of our casstette EPs. But having a smelly, emaciated serial killer make stupid requests and hustle you with merch can ruin even the most stoic deejays night.

Oh…and in case you’re wondering, yes, Mr African Tapes does in-fact deejay off multiple cassette decks. Awesome Cassette Decks from His House.
Anyway, having sampled some global webernet meem-culture in the flesh, we shambled back to Tsunami for some drunken noise-making of our own. Freeeooowwwww!

The “show” went “swimmingly”, despite the cramped conditions on-stage, and many attendant Kolnites bought “merch”, which I took to mean that they “dug” our crazy “soundz”.

Hanging out on the street afterwards (to get some cool air into my charred lungs) I made the aquaintance of Andy, a local promoter/producer/hepcat.
According to his boozy nymph side-kick, Andy had just recently taken on the job of being “Colognes number 1 scene-chick” after the previous number 1 scene-chick moved to Berlin (where she will start as the number 46,081 scene-chick and work her way up that greasy, greasy ladder).

Cool fucking guys, or WHAT? Andy and Ollie in full moderne man mode.

But being number one scene-chick in any town is a big responsibility, so naturally I treated young Andy with all due respect. He in turn expressed an interest in booking us at a later date for one of his club nights. Poor fool.

Once the night had wrapped up Ollie took us to an apartment belonging to one of the bar staff, the lovely and good-humored Manu (Note: I suspect she an Ollie might be “doing it”). Manu surrendered her well-appointed bedroom to us so that we could lose consciousness in comfort, and damned if we didn’t do just that.

Manus´room is filled with golden light, to keep the Shoggoths out.

She even made a hearty breakfast for us next morning, featuring at least 19 different kinds of cheese!

Thanks Manu. Sorry about, y´know, the stains.

In conclusion, we faced “The Gig That Should Not Be” and returned sane.
In your FACE, H.P!

All that we need now to call a halt to this vile string of low-rent humiliations we call a tour is to get to Paris, “city of lights”, and rock with a rolled R!

Leaving Rape Town was a sad experience. But we took away some priceless memories and a fistfull of parking tickets to cherish on the drive down to Malmo, a small city just across the water from Copenhagen.
Aaron was in a jolly mood, having bested Jonk in a brief but bloody fist-fight over the last can of Carlsburg that morning, and he punished me with bad jokes and old tour-stories full of humiliating sex and stupid, one-sided violence. All I could do was wash Valerian tablets down with warm beer, so that his cruel, infantile humor came to me through a groggy mist.

But the drive was mercifully short, and after 3 hours of scaring Swedish motorists shitless with Aarons erratic driving in our massive, quasi-military Tour Vehicle we rolled up at the venue.

Debaser is quite a joint. To my sensibilities it is more like a French summer palace than a venue.
A big main room, clean and well decorated, with a massive sound system and stadium style lighting rig. A restaurant and a large beer garden strewn with modern lounge furniture looking over the grounds of a large, leafy park. There was an actual back stage area, with a shower and couches and bowls of fruit!!! Fuck me.

 Aaron, tuning in the swank, cafe-style back-stage. Looking at this frail, lost creature, 

who could imagine the terrors he unleashes on the world every day?

We ate braised ocean fish and fancy salads from the venues own kitchen, and sat around in the brilliant sun, drinking beer and oggling a small clutch of ridiculously striking Nordic indie-kittens.

Yes, we received red carpet treatment from the staff, captained by the promoter of the night, Jonas.
I'm sick of having to talk about how the various promoters we've dealt with have been fine, good-humored, free-wheeling humans, but I can't stop now. Jonas is a "Top Bloke", and so are his cronies.

The good-vibes started to turn queer as he hours rolled by and there was neither word nor sign of the headlining act (Ganglians, U.S). We soundchecked on the massive stage until we were properly convinced that we could crush all opposition and then ate more, drank more and stared at more girls, but still no headliners.
So our stage time was pushed back, and back, until Jonas (who had been prowling up and down the street screaming into his phone and kicking dogs) finally gave us the go ahead.
"Fuck it" he snarled "play as long as you want. If those Ganglian fuckers turn up, you guys can kick them once we've got them on the ground."

Due to the potent combination of fruit-bowls, eye-candy and a massive sound-system we played with Zeppelin sized egos and reveled in our own bad noise, thundering out of the crisp, loud wedges. The stage was so godamn high I could hardly make out the faces of the smattering of Malmo hep-cats who had slowly coalesced in the room. I pulled the silliest, most melodramatic rock poses my body could handle and still the stage felt too big. Need to work on that.

Is that Madison Square Gardens? Or just some nightclub in a small Swedish town?

Aaron got worked into a Townsendesque froth and sawed the tips of his fingers off on his guitar strings, so that when he played his keyboard, small blotches of blood appeared on the keys.

..and as the last note of our set rang out in that well appointed hall, the Ganglians filed in, lugging amps and whatnot and looking like shock victims. They had driven overnight from Paris and claimed to have an email stating their stage-time as being 3 hours later than was the case. I gripped Jonas from behind to stop him from throwing punches, and he seemed to go along with it, but he hissed awful curses at their road manager and when the guy started insisting on being paid imediately in cash Jonas´ eyes rolled back in his skull and he let out a deep, cracked laughter that sounded like a 60 kilo raven.

I'm not sure what happened after that. I decided my help wwas no longer needed, having been instrumental in preventing imediate violence. What I do know is that Ganglians played, Swedes watched, we hung out with their bass-player a bit afterwards and swapped tour-tales.

Ganglians salute the Debaser crowd after a shredding, tearing set.

 Then we all hauled our warm corpses to our Hotel down the street (they had booked us into INDIVIDUAL ROOMS!!! I was so excited to have my own bed in my own room that I had to masturbate about 6 times just to get to sleep).

Well, if you insist....

All's well that ends well, people. Thankyou Jonas/Debaser for the fine treatment and top notch facilities. Sorry about the mini-bar tab. I'll fix you up next time.



As a concluding note, please ponder this question, posed in writing by some puzzled Malmo retard on a building site on the way out of town.

Where indeed. Nice cock, by the way.

NOTE: When this entry was originaly posted I got Jonas´name wrong, and repeatedly reffered to him as Johan. This is unsurprising, since I spent the entire tour whispering in Aarons ear ¨What´s that guys name again, what´s the bar managers name, what´s the sound guy called, who is that guy with the wig???¨ect ect.

Anyway, my deepest, most grovelling apologies to JONAS! A fine young man who deserves to have his name correctly presented, at the very least.

The best rape money can buy. I’ve tried it. It’s okay.

Five straight nights of boozy, sleep-deprived “rockin’ out” had left us deprived of our natural energies, so we welcomed the opportunity to relax for a couple of days.
Jonks’ beautiful girlfriend Julia cursed us for turning their trim little apartment into a filthy refugee camp, but they still let us use the toilet and play Mario Cart with them.
Thanks guys.

I left the house periodically to do some metal-celebrity spotting, but I failed to see anyone from The Crown and became depressed. I would sit in the bathroom listening to “Deathrace King” on my iPod and snorting lines of paracetamol while Aaron and Jonk laughed and heckled me from the loungeroom. It was a long dark, junior, a long dark.

But soon enough Monday evening rolled around, and Monday evening meant “Get your shit together!”
We had been booked to deejay for 6 hours at a slick local nightspot where the establishment was putting on their weekly ping pong tournament. Within a few minutes of the bar opening about thirty paddle-having scenesters had rocked up and their skills were on display.

They would all circulate around the table at high speed, serving to whoever happened to be on the other side at that moment and then moving on. Anyone who failed to return a serve was eliminated, until it would boil down to 2 ping pong gunslingers, who would then play a full match with brutal intensity. There didn’t seem to be any prizes for the victor in these long, weird matches, beyond the esteem of the other ping pong assassins in the house.

Needless to say the action was tense and pacey, and Aaron took the first shift in the booth, playing appropriately angular, uptempo “jams” to keep the athletes on their game. Like most sociopaths, Aaron has a number of keen intuitive insights into the human mind, and he can certainly "Fit the music to the mood", as they say.

The time passed quickly and my turn in the dock came around midnight. As I started in on my set Jonk introduced me to local selekta/promoter/woman-about-town Sara Shakarchi, who had made a flattering re-post/comment on the internets regarding our show at Henrys.
Sara is of Iraqi extraction, and in fact is descended in a direct line from the ancient Kings of Ur, so naturally her beauty is breathtaking and her taste in music and fashion impeccable.
I stopped breathing for a full 10 seconds after we shook hands, and then I remember mumbling something about marriage and a house in the country.
Sara looked shocked for a moment, but then she laughed and poured her beer over my shoes.
“Go back to your prison island, you bald Aussie creep.” She sneered.
“Buy a cheap wig and do some sit-ups”.
And with that she went back to chatting gaily with Aaron and Jonk.

The Queens of Sweden! Julia and Sara discuss the action,

ignoring the guy with the most AWESOME mullet ever.

I had no time to brood on my humiliation. The crowd was becoming increasingly dense and rowdy. The ping pong had given way to boozy dancing and flirtation, and if I hadn’t kept the tracks coming the mob  would have turned on me and ripped me apart like a chicken. At that point at least three giant Vikings had muscled into the booth and threatened me with horrible beatings if I didn’t make their girlfriends dance.

But fear made the time go quickly, and before I knew it it was 3am and the crowd was thinning. The barkeep came over and made the cutthroat gesture to indicate last track, so I put on some Wagner and scuttled out onto the street for a few cigarettes (I was so desperate for a fag during my set that I let Sara convince me to try snus, the small packets of tobacco that Swedish people stick inside their lips. It smelled vaguely like stale urine, but it delivered a powerfull drip-feed of nicotine and I was thankfull for it).

Snus. Yeah, you stick it in your lip. Just don’t sniff it first.

Anyway, eventually the whole crew assembled out front and we weaved home (via a Kebab stand, naturally) for some powerful night-caps and sweet, sweet rest.

Once more, in case you hadn’t heard, Gothenburg Rapes! Stick  it in your lip and suck the juice, shithead!

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.

4/6/2010: The scintillating Nordic morning light was an unwelcome guest in our Kristiansand hotel room.

Our drunkenness had reached triple-vision status by the time we “hit the hay” after the gig and I felt more or less like the victim of a savage skin-head style beating. Aaron was more or less himself, since he revels in his own pain as much as the pain of his enemies, so I just moaned softly while he packed the ATV and made other preparations for our departure.

No-one the previous night had brought up his vicious slandering of the Norwegian royals, so he had renewed optimism about our reception in Oslo and chatted spiritedly as we GPSed our way out of town.

We drove at a relaxed pace, stopping frequently at quaint little roadside shacks for big helpings of Scrap, Knacker, Phuknuckle and other local junk-foods. We became so full of sugar and grease that our sweat turned brown and fellow travellers eyed us with obvious distaste.

But nothing short of a shit tsunami could have spoiled the drive, through some of the most enchantingly beautiful scenery my watery, bloodshot eyes have ever seen.

Norway is a bleak, ugly, shitty place.

Upon arriving in Oslo we drove straight to the grounds of the University, where an outdoor stage had been set-up next to the refectory. Sound-check was still some hours away, so we drank beer and hobnobbed with the Magnificent Magnus from Radio Nova, who had organised the gig.

Magnus was very enthusiastic about the show, despite our revolting appearance, and good vibes did abound.

At the Uni, chewing the fat with Mr Magnificent.

Is that snot, or something on the window? Or is it fucking speed? Questions.

Our peace was shattered by the sinister presence of Andy Inglis (pronounced Ingles) who had flown over to catch the show and do a spot of herring fishing with some Viking friends of his. We couldn’t find a decent excuse to get away from him, so we all dined in a local eatery and sampled some brewed-on-site beer at a swank pub across the road. Total cost? 48,000euros.

Aaron became increasingly agitated by the fact that every single person we saw on the street looked healthy and attractive and professionally successful, so as we were walking through what Magnus described as the “posh part” of town  he casually threw his cigar into a trash-can and stood back watching while the whole thing erupted into flame.

Onlookers were visibly horrified by this outburst of brazen vandalism, to Aarons' great satisfaction, and he gleefully squatted down next to the blaze and started rubbing his hands like a vagrant.

I was concerned about attracting attention, but I had also lost my lighter and bent down to ignite my cigarette, with the result that Evil Andy managed to snap us both squatting in front of the bin while fowl-smelling black smoke blew into a near-bye restaurant, causing the diners retch and flee for the exits.

So having had a bit of pointlessly destructive fun, we walked back to the gig and, y’know, “did our thing”.

Fiddling with pedals and tuning up. We are legendary show-men.

I got an industrial strength attack of nerves before we played, for whatever reason, so I was distracted and butterfingered throughout our set. But it didn’t seem to spoil things for anyone else, and Magnus declared himself over-the-moon with the whole shebang. He even introduced me to his friend Water Cooler at the radio station.

I am down with Water Cooler. No need to ask about the kaldt vann.

Bueno. We did some mingling amongst the happy young crowd after the show, but people say I became a nuisance. I couldn’t help it. The girls are just so pretty. But typically it was Aaron who "scored" as we can see from this photo of him snogging some enraptured Viking babe. Aaron has a beautiful lawyer fiance, so it is with great evil pleasure that I post this shot, in the hope that his domestic bliss will be shattered like so much cheap Chinese crockery.

Anyway, we went back to the hotel without causing too many scenes and tried to sleep, even though at that stage (4:30 am) the sun was fully up and shining brightly.

Many thanks to Radio Nova, and to Mr Magnificent Magnus Berg in particular. A fine host with excellent manners and taste.

That’s Oslo, people. Next stop Gothenburg, home of “Melodeath”! Frash out!!!!!

3/6/2010: The nightmarish early morning drive from Hamburg to the Danish ferry terminal where we would take passage to Norway was plagued by bad traffic and delays. Is the Danish government deliberately trying to bait the free-market neo-liberal scum-suckers who run the world by investing massively in highway infrastructure? Or are they just tired of their well surfaced roads and want to spruce them up for no good reason? Who fucking knows.

We had one particularly hairy moment just before reaching the ferry terminal when a small spider wandered across the dashboard of the ATV, causing Aaron to shriek and swerve wildly across three lanes of fast moving traffic. Let me explain.

Aaron is as tough as they come. Despite his emaciated appearance, he is a serious brawler, and would routinely be arrested for Agravated Assault back in the heady Melbourne rock days. His victims were always the meanest of the mean. King Street nightclub bouncers and tattoo slathered speed dealers with axes to grind and early psychosis setting in. Yes, Aaron is afraid of no man.

But he is utterly crippled by arachnaphobia. Even a fucking picture of a spider in a magazine can make him tremble and sob and babble like a goose.

So it was a close call when that harmless little bastard sauntered across the dash, but I managed to sweep him into an empty cigarette packet and launch it out the window before Aaron went completely to pieces behind the wheel at 140kph amongst hapless Danes on their way to Norway for fjord-spotting holidays.

Hammer of the gods, will drive our ship to new lands...

Anyway, we could feel the Viking bloodlust rising in our veins, so we boarded the "Fjordcat" and slammed some Enslaved on our enourmous boom-box to antagonise the other passangers, until we were threatened with being tossed overboard like chum if we didn't turn it off. But our spirits remained high and we sang bawdy shantys as we made landfall in Kristiansand around 5pm. 

It certainly is. But will the ogre staring at me eat us before we get the chance?

As we drove through the relentlessly clean, pretty, orderly streets I began to see the appeal of wearing corpsepaint to the supermarket and setting fire to things. It's easy to see how a youth with a dark imagination living in a place like this could be driven to a world view that is just one big revenge fantasy against everything nice. Aaron probably put it best when he remarked that "Even the fucking trees and swans look like they're straight off a high-tech production line". It's true, they do.

Is that even a real swan? It sure wanted some of my sandwich.

Designer at work! I will soon be launching my hot new clothing label, stay tuned.

So much for that. 

I was gripped by an awful black wave of pesismism when we got to the venue. It was a small, pleasant wood panelled bar attached to a hideous brushed-aluminium steak-house staffed by Barbie dolls. I imagined us playing to a bunch of horrified Nordic yuppies in polo-shirts and loafers. I should have had more faith.

The promoter was a jolly giant called Louis, a charming colossus who infected us with his enthusiasm, so that within minutes of loading our gear in my mood had swung right around. The feeling of good cheer was bolstered by his hip young sidekick Joshua and Mary the bar manager, who was awesomely pretty and also bluff and hale in fine publican style.

My mood improved further when we were given as much beer as we could drink, even though each one would cost an ordinary punter about 4000euros and a kidney, and we hit the tiny stage drunk as mules.

The sound-system was massively over-speced for the room and we drove it hard, but the sound was crisp and I became completely giddy with pleasure, especially when the crowd of local hep-cats and music-nerds who had crammed themselves into the little bar applauded us like we were conquering generals bringing home the heads of Norways' enemies. My satisfaction was complete at the end of the night, when I saw that Louis was so drunk (on fucking white wine!!) that he was in danger of soiling himself, which I took to mean he had enjoyed the evening as heartily as we.

Once again, a fine experience. Many thanks to all involved, especially to the bouyant, good-vibe-radiating Louis. My only regret is not getting the camera out of the car and taking a snap of him at his wined-out worst.

Next stop, Oslo, where we actually DO start setting fire to shit.

1/6/2010: This-morning we received an email from our manager full of threats and abuse. One of the main points raised was our dismal failure to update our tour diary, and yes, we have "dropped the ball" on that front. But Damnit, we are busy! We are Touring Performers! Not just a pair of ordinary drunks driving a giant armoured car around northern Europe for no good reason.

Well, you want blog? We got a whole mess-o-blog for you now, you pushy creeps. Strap in.

Me and Aaron with the ATV after arriving at Hafenklang.

Bright and early last Wednesday morning we picked up our armoured tour vehicle (ATV) and drove it at top speed out of London, blasting Napalm Deaths' classic "Scum" album and hurling half empty cans of budget energy drink at terrified commuters. It's not the way we usually behave on the road, but we felt it was an important part of aclimatising our nervous systems to International Touring Standard.

As a result we made Dover in excellent time and proceeded through check in to the line of cars waiting to board the ferry.

It was at this point that I noticed Aarons antique Remmington revolver lying in plain view on the back seat of the cabin. I had pleaded with him before leaving not to bring a loaded firearm on tour, but he

was convinced there would be ugly scenes in Oslo because of the editorial he wrote for the Washington Post describing the Norweigan royal family as a degenerate mob of drunks and child molesters who should be dragged to the I.C.C. in a giant heshan bag full of spiders.

Anyway, I quickly slashed the upholstery with my Leatherman and stuffed the old six-shooter in as deep as it would go. In the end we boarded without incident and hit the bar for a round of Navy Grogs and some salted snacks. The crossing was unusualy rough, and an evil flock of greasy grey sea-birds circled the boat throughout the entire passage, which gave me an ominous feeling.

Despite my misgivings we made shore and blasted down the French, Belgian, Dutch and German highways without atracting the attention of the fuzz of any nation.

We drove as far as Essen on the first day and set up shop in a greasy suburban bierhaus for some currywurst and dunkelweissen. We were alone in the bar, and within minutes the haggard 40 something ladlady was learing at us and trying to make sleazy conversation. My German is very bad, but what little I did understand completely unhinged me.

I leaned over to Aaron and hissed in his ear..

"This woman is out of her mind. She's saying she's going to drug our beer and let her boyfriend sodomise us while she takes pictures. We have to leave NOW!"

Aaron gave me a pitying look and shoved me away.

"Bullshit" he said. "Your German is useless, and anyway, this hideous bitch can't possibly have a boyfriend".

He laughed at me and drained the rest of his Paulaner while the landlady ran her yellowed fingertips over his forearm. Then suddenly he leaned forward and slapped her ear hard with a cupped hand.

She shrieked and fell back against a rack of bottom shelf spirits, so I seized the moment and barged Aaron off his stool, through the door and out into the street.

We fled in the ATV and parked in a truckstop to catch some sleep before continuing on to Hamburg. We were not pursued.

We drove the rest of the way at an easy pace, playng I Spy and talking gayly, and rolled into Hamburg around 5pm. We located the venue in a ritzy waterfront neighborhood full of nightmarish yuppie furniture showrooms and upscale restraunts, where  it stood like a righteous pillar of honest sleaze among the temples of greed and stupidity. Hafenklang is a stalwart punk/anarchist institution and the staff treated us with all due courtesy. Plenty of drinks and snacks for the weary itinerant musician, and thousands of punk stickers on the walls to look at.

Welcome to Hafenklang.

The opening act was what they call a "curveball". It was an idiosynchratic trio called The High Quality Girls, who played a heavily psychadelic, improvised soundtrack to an Argentinian film called "La Antena" which was projected onto a giant screen in front of the stage and blew my mind right out of my left ear. It was a wierd/hard act to follow, and I was nervous about the crowd, who seemed older and more downscale-arty than we are used to. But in the end we pummeled them with our childish noise and they clapped and hooted and heckled us good-humoredly in Deutsche. All in all, a fine experience.

Check the line-ups! With little us nestled inbetween all the radness.

The venue, amazingly, had a sort of inbuilt youth hostel around the back, in which we were the only guests, so we slept like stones for 3 hours and rose at daybreak in order to make the drive up through Denmark. If we missed the ferry, we would miss our next gig, in Kristiansand, Norway.

Clear, concise rules and instructions. We NEED them. Thanks.

But that is another story, for another post. In the meantime, ponder this fine piece of graffiti from the side of my bunkbed in the hostel and spare a thought for the poor, dumb punk who enscribed it.

So Aaron thinks the rude tone and vicious lies in my last diary entry were uncalled for.

I told him to stay the fuck out of my affairs, but he insisted I go up-beat for this one, just to preserve the balance of forces in the universe, or some shit. Fortunately, that job is made very easy by the various fine qualities of our first show.

Holy fucking shit! Have you BEEN to The Windmill (22 Blenhiem Gardens, Brixton, London, UK)? Fucking go there NOW!
It’s a nuts and bolts rock dive, a grisly-old-man pub and a social hub for the young and fashionable all rolled into one small greasy brick box. But that’s not all.

Oh Lord no.

They have dogs! Huge, goofy, lick-your-face dogs that lick your face!
...and a sweet scummy beer garden full of refuse and old picnic tables....and dogs! Huge fucking dogs! One of them lives on the fucking roof!! Huge fucking Rottweiler on the fucking roof!

...and a super-sweet garage that’s been converted into a suburban death-metal bong cave for smoking “reefer” on rainy nights.

Serious props to the staff, with special big-ups to Tim the booker.

There was a bit of a tussle with local shred/bash/yell crew “Cold In Berlin” (check ‘em!) for second spot on the bill, which we of course won, due to a combination of my physical strength and Aarons’ terrifying, unblinking serial-killer stare. But by the time the dust settled there was no time for a sound check.

So we was very loud and messy. But damn it, we cranked through our half-hour set like a two man Green Beret amphibious hit squad and I think people got the message. That guy Greg who bought a seven inch off us sure as hell got the message.
Hi Greg. How’s that little round bugger sounding?

The Whigs of course beat every ones skulls with their signature blend of sweet melody and brute he-man rock power and there was a general air of satisfaction in the house as the proceedings wound down.

This morning brought the predictable problems (double vision, tinnitus, migraine) and I kicked the bathroom door off its’ hinges when I looked up cyclingnews.com to find that Ivan “Who’s blood am I using today?” Basso stomped the field on stage 19 of the Giro and Cadel “It’s not fucking FAIR” Evans lost all hope of wearing pink. But the 3 grams of paracetamol I took half an hour ago is kicking in, so me and Aaron will probably start running our gruelling fitness drills, to stay cut and frosty for our next onslaught in Hamburg on Wednesday.

Oh yeah, that reminds me. Apologies to any Hamburgers offended by the belligerent and abusive tone of the last diary entry. I hear nothing but the finest things about your fair city (not joking, EVERYONE says Hamburg slays) and I’m sure that if your reading this you are not wearing Urban Outfitters cycling pants. Fuck it, even if you are, just come to the gig and we’ll do our best to impress.
See you there, un-squares!!

Until then, we’ve got abs to blast.

P.S Apologies also to the inestimable Andy Inglis (pronounced Ingles). To the best of my knowledge he has never tortured an animal, except in the course of his important medical research which will one day put athletes foot in the garbage can of history, along with scurvy and rickets.



Ben.

27/5/2010: So the first show of the tour is tomorrow night in Brixton, at a small but infamous hole known as The Windmill, supporting Athenian post-grunge overlords The Whigs. We are sharp and ready to blast those hairy fuckers right off the stage, or at least buy one of their t-shirts and shake hands.

This comes at the end of 10 straight days of rehearsal in our blast-proof bunker on Kilburn High Road, constructed and maintained by the handsome but devious proprietor of The Luminaire, Andy Inglis (pronounced Ingles). He is a man without mercy or pity, who tortures stray cats for sport, so it still gives me cause for wonder that he saw fit to give us access to his inner sanctum for the purpose of honing our chops.

At great expense we trucked in a 40 kilowatt 3 way public address system for this final phase of tour prep, and we have red-lined it 12 hours a day. Each night as I try to sleep on the floor of Aaron’s cockroach infested rat-hole in Dalston I can listen to the delicate pops of the cilia in my ear curling and dying, like a bowl of Rice Crispies. It’s so loud now that it drowns out the screaming of the killer drunks who seem to roam Kingsland Road at all hours of the night, sometimes in packs of 3 or 4.
Most mornings there is blood on the pillow, but that’s as it should be. Are we not men?

We posted our new single online last night and sat back with a bottle of peppermint vodka to watch lady internet do her thing. Aaron flew into a violent rage when the entire stock of five hundred 7” singles didn’t sell in the first hour, but I counselled patience and eventually he let me lock the pistol in the strongbox under the bathroom sink.

Aaron is a Young Genius, and thus wracked by the terrifying psychic winds that blow through the minds of all such men. But he listens to me, if only because I have the key to the strongbox and the password to his email account.

So anyway, tomorrow is Friday, so let’s see what kind of horror and damage we can generate in Brixton, and then pick up the hire-car and go hit those boozed up fuckers in Hamburg like an airbourne cement factory!

They will piss their Urban Outfitters cycling pants when they hear our battle cry.....”LOLLYSCRAMBLE!!!” *

Ben

*colloquial. usage