Cast Of  Major Characters:

Ben Green - Civil Civic bass player and confused soak.

Almond The God - Civil Civic's agent at the Julie Tippex Mega-Corp. Reincarnated Squirrel.

Pierre Templé  - Senior Production Staffer and Heavy Honcho at La Route Du Rock.

Marin Perot - Pierre's (red) right hand and pro-troubleshooter. Bad cop.

Roxie (surname unknown) - Photographer, loose cannon, possibly a drug addict.

My rhuemy eyes cracked open at about 10am on Sunday 12th of August, and I remember thinking that it could easily be my last day on Earth. 

Three consecutive nights of hideously boozy up-fucking and tortured sleep had left me physically weak and in poor spirits. Three consecutive nights officially constitutes a "bender", I believe, and there was still one night to go, a night which promised to be the worst yet.

I checked my email, hoping for something to lift my spirits, but all I saw was an abusive FB message from the odious Marin Perot telling me I had nothing but pain to look forward to. The official LRDR after-party started at 3am on Monday, right after the last main-stage act, and I was expected to attend.

"You've caused us alot of fucking trouble, Green." The message ranted. "So the least you can do is represent your stupid band at the party and try to be entertaining. Toughen the fuck up, asshole!!!"

It gave me The Fear just thinking about it, so I decided not to. 

Dan Kelly , Baaron Von Cuddles, and Ms. Lambert. My triple-wing-man posse, maxin' and relaxin' in the press area.

The Baaron had already flown back to London with his trouble-prone lawyer fiance and old pal Dan Kelly, so I was feeling a little isolated out there at the hotel (which was around 10km from the festival site). Down in the lobby there was usually a crowd of band-types hanging around, but they all looked cooler and much luckier than me, so I was afraid to try and mingle.

Mazzy Star, a-sound-checkin'! Look at the size of that fucking stage!

So I went out to the festival site around noon, to haggle with Pierre over getting a backstage pass for that night (something I was not entitled to at-all) and maybe catch a couple of soundchecks. My sickness and fatigue made me slow and vague, but when I buttonholed Pierre in his office he coughed up a backstage wrist-band with almost no fight at-all.

Pierre "Bring your troubles to me" Templé.

"Don't make me regret this, you sloppy idiot." He snarled as I put the thing around my wrist. "Your type are always busy making enemies. You should be in the fucking army, with all the other fuck-ups!"

Then he flipped a catering ticket at my face and walked away to attend to more important matters.

Job done!! All access!!! Free everything!! No fucking around!!!

When I visited Almond and her posse of no-goods at their campsite  they took one look at me and started jeering and pushing me around. You can't show any weakness to these kind of animals, because they will put you head-first through a wood-chipper the instant they smell fear.

Amande and her merciless crew load up on moule and cider.

After they'd fucked with me a bit, we all wandered down to watch a bit of Colin Stetsons sound-check. There was about thirty or forty staffers and volunteers standing watching, so it felt like a miniature gig in a way, complete with applause every time Colin paused to talk to the sound engineer.

Then my boon companions were good enough to drop me back at the hotel so I could get some rest before the Last Big Push.

But that's about enough of a preamble. What about the last night of La Route Du Rock????

Chromatics. A really nice surprise.

Well you know what? Chromatics are really good live! I expected them to be a soul-less, sequenced, pile of cold, but then this awesome, groovy, personality-having band shows up!!!

They were really fucking organic and danceable and sat really well with me at that point. Bravo! 

Circular breathing, bass sax insanity fucks the crowds heads.

How about some Colin Stetson though? Seen that guy??? Hoooooolyyyyyyyy shit.

Ever seen a solo saxaphone, contemporary-classical performer that did a slow-build, circular, head-fucking win-over on a rock festival crowd? Me neither, until that point in my life. Motherfucker.

Mazzy Star were great, but at that stage I wanted some action and the dreamy vibe just made me edgey. But then the Walkmen cooked pretty hard, with their garage-country schtick and classy moves, so I felt things were headed in the right direction again. 

It was around the end of their set that I started to feel a bit woozy from drink and the deep-seated exhaustion in my body, so I decided to hit the back-stage building for twenty winks and some water.

That's when I ran into Roxie, a beautiful but unpredictable young photographer from Paris who the Baaron and I had met after our press conference on Friday afternoon.

She was obviously high on some sort of amphetamine, and for some ungodly reason seemed convinced that I'd lost some sort of bet with her. 

"There you are! So where's that fucking fifty you owe me?" She barked, slapping her palm.  "I need it now!!"

She seemed agitated and aggressive and in hindsight maybe I should have just paid her, but at the time I was in no mood for nonsense. I mean, I was pretty vague at that Press-Conference and I'm not at-all ruling out the possibility that I may have said things I don't remember, but as a rule I am not a gambling man.

"I haven't got your money, you dizzy bitch." I snapped.  "Go talk to your teen-aged blogger buddies about that stuff. I'm a busy man."

Then I waved her away and started walking back towards the back-stage entrance

But she was not so easily put off. She balled her little fists and came after me.

"Bullshit!" she screamed. "You creepy old pig!! You're paying up now!"

There was no time to argue the point, because she was very suddenly transformed into a human whirlwind of violence. I remember hitting the ground and screaming for help, but people just pointed and laughed as she kicked me unconcious. I remember nothing after that until I woke up around an hour later, slumped against a crepe-stand on the other side of the site. 

The contents of my wallet were strewn around me and someone had pissed on my legs while I was passed out. My cash and my phone were gone, but I still had my credit card, so I thanked heaven for small mercies. 

There was also alot of very bad bruising, but I could walk, so I staggered back to the VIP area to see if anyone else had had the shit kicked out of them by a 22 year-old French girl, and maybe chat about it over a drink.  

When I got there the Official After Party was in full swing. I re-connected with Almond and her cronies and re-commenced to drink heavily in a last ditch attempt to forget my woes.

I think that's when someone gave me some drugs.

Anyway, the rest is history, as they say in the showbusiness business. 

I stayed at the after-party as long as I physically could, pulling the most rad-tarded dance moves I could muster and yelling stupidities and tweaking strangers nipples ect. 

I'm pretty sure I left that after-party on my own feet and by my own choice, which means two very important things ...

A: I didn't get kicked out by security and 

B: No-one had to convince me/carry me.  

But never-the-less, I'm equally sure I made a 4 dimensional ass of myself, the butt of many cheap jokes and ultra-low in the general esteem of my peers ect. 

Fuck it. I lived to tell the tale, and that's more or less the only thing that counts. To me, at least.

Anyway, everybody knows that next festival season is going to be all about the Fiesta Major Aiguamurcia, and we've already got a lock on the Saturday night headline. Main stage!!!!!

To hell with you people, and everything you stand for. I'm going home.

I've recently gushed and foamed at the mouth about our Lunch Adventures In Italy. Any normal person would assume that we just went there to eat ourselves stupid.

But there was a great deal more to our recent Italian experience than stuff that makes you say OMG when you put it in your mouth. Much more.

There was this one time when we played in a tumble-down mansion on the side of a hill in a dusty, medieval town called Valeggio Sul Mincio, near Verona.

Paolo has it out with the promoter in sight of Mad Dog Fort.

The 4 hour drive from Padova had been filled with bad vibes and tension. I had made an obvious hash of the previous nights show, blundering in ways that pushed all of the Baaron's buttons, so as I drove our rented car down the Italian freeways he would occasionally crack the side of my head with the back of his hand and say things like....

"Your days are numbered, Green. The reaper is coming for you, you silly fuck-up, and I'm going to be there when he takes you... laughing so fucking hard. Count on it!"

Driving in Italy makes me nervous, especially when a corpse-like guitarist keeps giving me mild concusions.

Paolo wasn't used to our vibe yet, and he didn't really know what to make of this casual violence in the tour vehicle. At first he tried to defend my recent actions, and when that proved futile he tried to use his awful, coal-black sense of humor to lift the shitty mood. He was only half successful, and the air was still thick with hate when we finally pulled up outside Villa Zamboni, the venue for the oddly named "Alpaca Weird Festival".

Standing around, as real men have to do from time to time.

Circumstances soon undermined that atmosphere. The lengthy process of meeting the organizers and sound-checking ect was so relentlessly pleasant and problem-free that it was almost wrong, and by the time we sat down for pre-dinner drinks the Baaron was slapping me on the back and telling anyone who would listen that I was the best band-mate he'd ever had and that all my debts were paid. 

Darkness and light, forever trapped beneath his scrawny hide.

He's a mercurial spirit, that Baaron.

Anyway, still nervous from the days abuse, I decided to explore our surroundings, and found that the hill on which Villa Zamboni rested was crowned by some sort of ancient fortress, overlooking a terraced slope dotted with the homes and gardens of the rich. It was a sight to see in the afternoon light.

So Manowar.

The fortress turned out to be ruled over by a huge, black, deranged stray dog that stalked and menaced me (probably because of my strong odor). It was a wretchedly paranoid and senselessly violent animal, so I threw a few rocks at it and said goodbye. 

The dying sun kisses the rose-bushes of the 1%.

Whatever my problem with that dog, the sun was almost setting, which meant the time for CC action was close. And I said yes!!!!

Looking to get in?? Meet Paolo, taste defeat. 

Hey, the bar downstairs is starting to happen. I think we'll actually have a crowd!!

All the pieces were in place and the Baaron and I started the first of our many long and creepily homo-erotic warm-up rituals. But from out of the calm evening sky a bolt of disaster struck, just as the gates opened and boozy young Veronans started to bleed into the courtyard.  

Somewhow Paolo's ex-landlord had broken through his carefully constructed personal smoke-screen and was suddenly calling and texting, demanding money and threatening to torch Paolo's father's beautiful old skiff, which was harbored back in Pescara under minimal security. Paolo swears it would be the death of the old man.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

We had to keep the crowd milling around in the courtyard for at least half an hour so that Paolo could use the tiny concert room to conduct negotiations. Outside the assembled Veronans were already staggering drunk, and they were yelling and shoving and throwing empty beer cans at each-other while they waited to get through the door.

"I can't concentrate with these fucking people in my sphere." Paolo shrieked. "If I can't have some peace to work this shit out, I'll fucking lose my mind!!! I will shed their pissy blood, and you stupid Australian fucks will be responsible!!!!"

Anyway, in the end a verbal contract was reached and the show went ahead as planned. It looked more or less like this.

You can't tell from the photograph, but it was as loud as a thousand lawn-mowers in that fucking room, and just hot enough to be uncomfortable. The Baaron played every note like it was a hated enemy to be stomped into powder and spat upon in sight of his ancestors, and me, being a sensitive guy, I couldn't help but be carried along by his enthusiasm.

It was a stand-out gig and I will savor the taste of it forever.

After the show I managed to start talking to a ridiculously pretty girl with a huge Morbid Angel tattoo on her chest and a job writing real-estate copy at the local newspaper. She was blonde and young and eighty times cooler than I have ever been in my long life, but like a machine made of disappointment and rusty number-plates Baaron Von Cuddles swooped in and fucked the scenario for me.

"I spent half the afternoon slapping this idiot, repeatedly, in the face.... and he did nothing to defend himself!" The Baaron hissed, chuckling and rolling his eyes and draping his freakishly long arm over my shoulder.

Eight seconds later, the real-estate girl was gone. But even now, weeks later, the thought of her still troubles my sleep. One day I will pay the Baaron his back-wages in full, and the rivers will run a deep, deep red.

Just when he thinks he's safe...

Fuck it, who wants to hear this kind of shit at this hour of the day. 

Here's some happy snaps taken the next day, when we visited Parc Sigurta Guinardino and ended up having probably the stand-out lunch of a stupidly lunch-tastic tour.

So anyway, I'm only just scratching the surface of our Italian romance. There's a blogospheres worth of awesomeness trapped inside those memories, and I'm a busy man. Move on!!! 

Roubaix, in the scummy, windy, rainy north of France is most renowned as the terminal of the annual Paris-Roubaix bicycle race. In bike-nerd circles this race is idolised and reffered to affectionately as "The Hell Of The North". It is also probably one of the most brutal and de-humanizing spectacles in the field of human endeavor (that was not created specifically for Japanese television). 

Paris-Roubaix - Turning grown men into twisted, ugly wreckage since 1896

But Roubaix is also the birthplace of such shining luminaries as Viviane Romance (1912-1991) , a saucy screen starlet of the late nineteen thirties who turned down a lucrative Hollywood contract because of ingrained gallic zenophobia

and Henri Despannes (1806-1852), amateur naturalist and inventor of the modern strap-on).

Civil Civic's relationship with Roubaix goes back a whole year, to the happy-go-lucky days of Spring '11 when we totally fucked shit up at a greasy basement venue known as Les Caves Des Poetes.

At the time I was deeply impressed by the boisterous, fuck-off attitude of the locals and, predictably, I used the loose atmosphere they created as an excuse to become slobbering drunk and hit on a bunch of girls who really would have been much happier without my attentions. 

But these things happen, and only a fool would stand in the way of such normal, healthy after-hours behavior on the part of a balding, confused bass-player from Canberra. 

But why dwell on the joyous past, when the hideous present has us in it's black, disease coated fangs. That gig is for cowards.

There were many note-worthy things to be noted as worthy about our latest trip to Roubaix. We were joined there by our representative from the Juli Tippex mega-corp, Almond The God, who was accompanied by a strange young Frenchman named Romaine Leblanc, who for some reason wanted to take some photos of us.

Romain and Almond stare each-other down during soundcheck.

Romain had signed up to travel with us and document a few of our French shows, and over the next few days he proved to be a hail and hearty companion. But when he first arrived in Roubaix he was moody and tense. Almond explained that he had just been acquitted of a flimsy sexual assault charge brought against him by an obesessive ex-girlfriend from Poland with many chronic personality disorders and a violent, vengeful family. 
There was never any doubt of his innocence, but the process had left him drained and paranoid.

But after a few beers and quick, brutal fist-fight with the Baaron he loosened up alot, and in no time at-all he became one of the family.

The Baaron starts to circle Romain backstage, prior to throwing the first punch. Romain is, however, a powerful grappler, and the Baaron had to back down after only a minute or so. Well played, Romain.

...and here we see the Baaron, post rumble, trying to re-capture his legendary cool.

Moving on, our performance that night was solid, and the crowd seemed to be dangerously enthusiastic. More than one spectator had to be physically restrained from pouring full glasses of beer into our pedal boards and even the Baaron seemed nervous about where it would all end.

But for me the true hi-light of that turbulent evening were running into Dangerous Dorothy and her whacky side-kick Christophe, our old pals from Lille. Both were boozed-up and in top form and it warmed my heart to see these fine people again. 

To top it all off, we had the pleasure of catching the act of notorious bodybuilder and band-hopping drum-mangler Sebastian Thomson (of Trans-Am/Weird War/Dead Kids fame) who was headlining the night with his solo-zapp-cum-proto-tech-house schtick, Publicist.

It was loud and goofy and almost toxically spazz in that room and I for one couldn't get enough of it. 

Dangerous Dorothy gets casual.

Sebastian gets wet.

But in the end, this girl took the biscuit. I don't know who she was, but there was alot of tres spazzzzz moves getting thrown down in there and this chick out-spazzed and out-keened them all. Bravo.

Anyway, it was a fine and honorable way to kick off a run of French dates and I'd like to thank the people from Autour des Rythmes Actuels for hosting us in such grand style.

Peace out to Snr. Seb and kisses to the Lille crew for making the big, long drive. XXX

Before I had the pleasure of spending time in the great nation of Italy, most of my preconceptions about that nation were to do with wild hand-gestures, bad driving and women with mustaches.

Having now spent some time in that fine country I now know better. Sure, some of the hand-gestures were pretty effusive, but the people were loose and welcoming, the gigs were professionally organized and I didn't see a single mustachioed woman in the whole week we were there.

What I really learned about Italy is that if you have intelligent, sensitive Italians to guide you to the right place, every single thing you put in your mouth can be a transcendent experience.

I mean, where else in the world do truck-stop boutiques look like this???

Fucking nowhere, in my experience.

Anyway, I'd like to take this space to share some gratuitous Italian lunch porn with you.

First stop, Faenza. We didn't have a gig here, but we were breaking a big drive by crashing with Morena, the proprietor of Clan Destino, an all-in-one venue/wine/bar/high-end-eatery. We'd sampled her cuisine before and my mouth started watering about an hour before we arrived. I was not disappointed.

I opted for a selection of raw and smoked fish. The whole dish was only about a dozen mouthfulls, but every one made me moan and shake in a kind of sensual melt-down.

The Baaron opted for some octopus with potato and greens in a tomato based sauce. I had some. It was the business.

Followed by home made gelati that was so good it made me cry, and a couple of Morena's grandmothers pastries. Fuck me.

Next Stop, Pescara, the location of the first show. We have a shamefull history in Pescara, and I was nervous about being seen on the street there. In the end a few strangers spat at me and one guy tried to set fire to my jeans, but we came out in one piece and we ate well.

Once we hit town we were firmly in the hideous clutches of this man, local punk-made-good and concert promoter Paolo Vizio. 

Paolo is a very difficult guy to be around. He has many personal habits that are frankly disgusting and his violent temper seems to flare up at the worst possible moments. But Paolo knows how to do two very important things.

A: Put on a great independant music festival and 

B: Have lunch

So let's fast-forward through the next five days of lunchtastic, gastrotronic awesomeness.

  

...and here we see the Baaron going through the daily task of digestion.

This happened to all of us after pretty much every meal, and it made us late to every sound-check, but fuck it. It had to happen and I feel like a richer man for it.

So thankyou, Italia, for serving up endless amounts of THE BEST SHIT I HAVE EVER TASTED, and to Paolo for shepherding us and making sure we got the good stuff. I didn't really mean that shitty stuff I said about him.

Paolo, come on! You know we love you, man.