Pescaraletic - A Tale of Shame

 

Ready access to beer is one of the key indicators I look for when first casing out a venue. 

Most of the clubs we play in Europa seem to follow the same basic model. There is a large, glass fronted refrigerator back-stage which contains around two dozen beers, for all acts to share, and if attendance is good and spirits are high it may be re-stocked at some point throughout the night. On the face of it it's a totally reasonable system. 

However, I usually become paranoid that at some point I will be struck by The Thirst and the fridge will be empty, so I'm in the habit of shoving 3 or 4 of the buggers into my soft-case during soundcheck, as a strategic deposit.

This system has served me well, and seven times out of ten I will indeed be forced to utilise these back-up beers. But occasionally they are not necessary and there is a nice, hot can to sip on during the next days drive.

Yes, I am a man of simple vices.

When the venue is generous and the gig goes well and there is camaraderie and back-slapping and whatnot, I have a pretty reliable tendency to become slobbering drunk. As a result there have been quite a number of occasions where my behaviour has become sub-standard. But most of these episodes have been pretty harmless and forgettable. 

I am not generally a belligerent or theatrical drunk.

 

There have, of course, been some truly humiliating exceptions to this rule. The most glaring recent example would be my post-stage antics in Pescara (IT) at the "IndieRocket" festival (I won't go into details about the festival itself, because it was noteworthy in many respects and really deserves it's own post).

Their solution to the beer question was simple and effective. They had these small, self tapped kegs of crappy, psuedo-bavarian pilsner which they replaced at regular intervals, and a stack of plastic cups close to hand. So the beer was quite literally "on-tap". This proved to be my undoing, since I started necking this stuff during our lunchtime soundcheck and kept hitting those kegs every 15 minutes right through to our (awesome) midnight set and beyond.

Holy cow, just look at that action pose the Baaron is pulling. Anyone would think he was the drunk one.

One of the only clear memories I have after we left the stage is of The Baaron holding me by both shoulders and yelling "Chill the fuck out, Green. You're making enemies.... for both of us."

He says I was standing on a big concrete block right in front of the stage during the headline act, hurling half-full cans and screaming primitive abuse at the band. The people around me couldn't understand what I was yelling, but there was no mistaking the tone, and somebody from the festival staff had gone to find a security guard to come and deal with me.

So The Baaron grabbed the waist-band of my jeans and yanked me rudely down off my pedestal. I fell sprawling on my face, only to spring up like a jack-in -the-box with both fists cocked, ready to rumble. So he slapped my face hard enough to shock me immobile and that's when he took me by the shoulders, like a concerned parent, and asked me to calm down.

I remember thinking...
"The Baaron wants me to tone it down. I must really be shitting the bed here." 

So I just nodded meekly and weaved back into the "artists area" to hide. But by all accounts I continued to drink heavily and make a complete fuck of myself throughout the rest of the night.

I tried to hug people I'd never met and became hurt and abusive when they shoved me away. I buttonholed two members of the headline act and mocked their outfits and stage personaes to their faces. I did alot of staggering, ranting, drooling and falling over. Whenever anybody laughed at me or cursed me or tried to pretend I wasn't there I would lurch upright, puff out my chest and say "Yeeeaaaahh, I'm that guy."

Meaning the guy who is making a sorry spectacle of himself. I was, at least, aware of my own shame.

The only existing photographic evidence of that shame (I hope) is this one shot, snapped by the Baaron shortly after I came around after a twenty minute blackout. 

He says I was leaning against that metal pole and talking to myself for while. Then I slowly folded up, like a giraffe with a fat tranquilliser dart in it's neck, and took that big white board thing I'm sitting on with me. When he returned a while later I was still in a pile on the ground. 

"Photo op!!" thought Von Cuddles, but just as he was going to take a snap I suddenly sat bolt upright, looking really pleased with myself as you can see.

Note the kegs of "Kaiser" in the background. That was what done me in, your honour.

Anyway, I've already availed myself of a popular social networking forum to apologise for my behaviour that night. But if any of the people affected are reading this, once again, I really am sorry.

I'm not usually that bad.

P.S Big thanxxx to Paolo, a great host, and the whole Indie Rocket posse...and to Borracce Di Poesia for the T-shirt. It's my favorite, and it makes Italians laugh.