Friday, September 2, 2016
And that is not likely to change in the near future. Although I understand of course that I’m writing right at this very point in time, but I don’t intend to make it a long one. The frequency of my writing on here (which when home from tour has rarely been more than a couple of times a month, granted), is possibly about to drop another gear since this week I started studying towards a degree in sociology and ethnology at Stockholm University. And judging from the first week of the introductory course the pace is going to be quite fucking frantic, what with family, a couple of bands and the extra job at the shelter to fit in and all.
That said, the ideas for things to write about on here are constantly flowing so I’ll try and find the time to get them out, now and again. Either that, or I’ll simply try to contain myself to shorter pieces. But that doesn’t always quite work out for the rambling, bumbling human being that is me.
This first week at “uni” has been a bit of an eye opener. I always hated when my friends and aquaintances of youth that became students used to call it uni, always hated the whole thing with "students" for that matter, thought they were all a bunch of pretentious wankers, probably because I didn’t belong to that group and felt left out. Quite obviously an inferiority complex on my part. Anyway, this first week I’ve been filled with equal parts enthusiasm and self doubt. The schedule is tough, especially the introductory course, as will be the challenge of writing in a more advanced, academic form of Swedish. But the toughest thing to get past in the beginning is the feeling of not belonging. Which is actually one of the sociological themes we’ve touched upon in this first week. Pierre Bourdieau observed as part of his theory on cultural capital, that children from academic families are more likely to go into academia than children who are raised in non-academic families. It makes sense that most children are shaped by the language and environment they are brought up in. Continuing that theory, university students that have been raised in non-academic environments are often left with a feeling of not belonging. And that’s how I felt for a brief moment as I sat on the lawns of the university grounds for lunch, taking in the sun, eating a sandwich, with no one to talk to. I felt both old and a little alone. The feeling soon passed as a half hour later I was partaking in my first seminar and we had been split up into groups to tackle our first examination work. The three others I was coupled with turned out to be very nice young people indeed. I still felt old, but no longer alone.
I’m really into sociology, I think it’s fantastically interesting. I think punk rock has a lot to attribute to that particular interest. As too has my good friend and fellow punk Karl Broome who is himself a professor in the subject. I could listen to Karl talk for hours about the theories of Emile Durkheim, Max Weber and other such giants. Hopefully I’ll get through this first introductory course relatively unscathed and the self doubt will peel away a little. The course ends with a verbal exam and the biggest fear there is making a cunt of yourself in front of others and being doused in shame. But really, what’s the worst that can happen? It’s not exactly a matter of life and death is it? I've had far worse experiences in my life than a verbal exam in a subject and level of education I'm still relatively fresh in, chopping cabbages in half for eight hours a day for one thing...
The first week is now over and for the most part it has been enjoyable. Next week will be a challenge, we have a report to hand in on Monday, followed by opposing that and another group’s work on Wednesday, followed by the verbal exam on Friday. Once past that I have around one hundred and fifty pages to read and devour for the first lecture of the next course that begins the following Monday. But after that things should plane out a little, and then, once I’ve found my feet I should be able to find the time to write on here now and again. Writing here is after all predominantly for myself. It's the closest thing I have in my life to therapy.
One thing did tickle me as I was leaving campus a couple of days ago. The lawns were full of young people engrossed in activities like watersliding down flumes handmade out of plastic sheeting, getting themselves both drenched and drunk in the process. I glanced at them as I hurried my way to the tube station, back still aching from the Victims show at Cyklopen a few days earlier, and thought, “There’s no fucking chance I’ll be signing up for any of that! Way too fucking old. My back couldn’t take it for one thing”. Rubbish back or not, that carry on was never my bag. I would just as unlikely have been involved with those kind of group activites had I gone to uni twenty years ago. Fucking students...
Monday, July 18, 2016
Managed to get my ass out of bed and into town with Jen this morning. Felt pretty knackered when I woke up but it was worth it. Driving out to Skavsta airport in Nyköping today, or Stockholm if you’d be daft enough to believe Ryanair, so a couple of hours shaking of any potential hangover was probably required. We sat and had a really nice breakfast at this place Greasy Spoon, just down the road from Kafe 44 on Söder. Not often the two of us get to do this kind of thing with Polly running the show, I would have felt shit if I’d decided to stay in bed for an extra couple of hours.
Luc texts me in the morning to tell me that he and Kev ended up in some karaoke bar in Högdalen, pissed up with the Axe Rash guys, Kev getting all emotional, saying it was important for him to have other friends in Stockholm besides us lot. Can only imagine the scene… I meet Jon out at the practice space at midday. I find him sat outside on a bench, face red as Santa’s suit. “Late night last night?” I ask him. “Nah, not at all. We left around twelve”. Funny that, I left at one and they were still there then. Andy is already here so we pack the gear into the back of my car and get going. We’re leaving well early, our flight isn’t until five thirty but there has been a bit of chaos by Södertälje bridge, some numpty drive lorry driver ploughed straight into it, leaving the road closed for the summer, which has led to the traffic authorities warning that the journey to Skavsta could take four times as long as usual. Being Friday afternoon we’re taking no chances. As it happens, the journey is smooth. Only takes a couple of hours, Andy up front with me, Jon sleeping in the back, stinking of booze. Andy is laughing about last night, says he left a few songs into Forward because he couldn’t stand the piss sound anymore, says as he was heading home he found Marku the Finn cuddling the lamp post by the zebra crossing outside Cyklopen. Fuck knows how that journey up to Umeå is going to pan out for the guys today.
Johan is meeting us at the airport since he came out last night with the family for what will be the start of their holiday once we get back from Poland. Given that we’re well ahead of time, and given that we’ve already received a text from Wizz Air saying that the flight is delayed until seven pm, we drive into town to find an alternative to eating a shite lunch at the airport. As we’re walking through the small town centre of Nyköping, the birthplace of Victims itself, Andy remarks that he wouldn’t be surprised if we bumped into his dad. Literally two minutes later Andy points over to an old boy sat outside a Greek restaurant with a pint in his hand, “There he is!” We head over to say hello to him. Apparently this is his regular haunt. He’s retired now and does the odd job for the guys who run the place in exchange for the odd brew.
We head over to a kebab/pizza place called Campino’s. Well it’s called something else now, but as far as Nyköping legend goes it’s called Campino’s. This is where you hung out after closing hours back in the day, where the party continued, everyone bringing beer in with them. The pizza is good anyway, although I unintentionally commit blasphemy by not ordering the kebab sauce. A mistake Jon and Andy avoid, both being seasoned in the Nyköping scene.
By the time we get to the airport it’s just around four. Even though the flight is delayed we still have to check in at the regular time. It’s not until we’ve parked in the mid term parking lot that we remember that we have nine pieces of baggage and only three pairs of hands. We stuff the bass pedal into Jon’s big holdall along with the merch suitcase Uriah, and I crack up as he whips the thing onto his back and struggles along with it and a couple of other items. Thankfully some ignorant arse has left their luggage trolley in the car park and Jon is quickly relieved of his last. We meet up with Johan outside the airport entrance and he tells us that he’s already asked about check in and been told you have to do it online. Of course, we’re too late to now do that, being that the cutoff point for that is two hours before the scheduled departure. The guy working the desk if only too happy to tell us that it will cost five hundred fucking kronors per person. After some absolutely pointless arguing we head over to the service desk and pay the bill, although it actually comes to one thousand four, instead of two thousand. I guess that’s some sort of tactic to take the sting out of the price. The boy back at check in beaming again as we approach. I ask him if he knows why the flight is delayed, he jokes, “I’m not actually the pilot, how would I know?” Can’t work out if I like this guy or if I despise every last morsel of him.
Once sorted we head over to the bar for a much needed beer. As fucking cack as this tiny aiport is the patio outside looks inviting. “That they have the nerve to charge “real airport” prices at this place is a scandal!” grumbles Andy behind me as we’re stood in line for a pint. It is nice to sit down outside with a cold one and have a chat though. Still no message on the flight delay though, and longer and we’ll be cutting it a bit fine with set time, which is due for ten twenty. The flight in only short though, and the airport is supposedly a half hour from the venue so hopefully we’ll be fine. Have to say though, these last few trips with Victims haven’t exactly gone smoothly.
I’d almost forgotten how spine tinglingly rotten this airport is. At one time in my life I was through here as much as twice a month, when I’d first met Jen and still had Speedhorn in the UK. Then I had no other choice than Ryanair. I haven’t flown with that abomination of a company since Speedhorn finished, and this is the first time I’ve been back here in a passenger capacity since. Despite the fact that a few more airlines have started operating out of here and more and more departures with it, the building hasn’t grown any. It was always small but now it feels tiny and the place is fucking swarming. I don’t fancy the barman’s job much, fucking noise in here would be enough to drive you to a flamethrower. I therefore do nothing to stress the guy over the extremely long time it’s taking to pour my Guinness.
The flight leaves at seven and only takes forty five minutes. Filip is waiting for us on the other side of customs, a big old smile on his face. It’s been a while. Always good to see him. Filip is a real staple of the punk community in Europe. We tried to make this fest of his work last year but we just couldn’t work it out with our schedule. Glad to be here now anyway. Filip leads us out to his road worn punk van and as we throw our bags into the back Jon’s eyes light up at the stacks of beer crates inside. Warm or not Jon is no mood to haggle and he does the honours and pulls out four of the bastards. I abstain but Johan happily takes one, as does Andy who is sat up front.
We arrive at the festival which is at a venue the guys played with Rotten Sound back in 2008, the last proper tour before I joined. It’s a decent sized place with a high stage in a room that could probably hold around eight hundred with the narrow balcony open. There are a bunch of stalls out back in the parking lot selling merch, food and beer and plenty of punks hanging around. We dump our stuff in the backstage room as Misantropic from Umeå are onstage doing their thing. Sounds solid as fuck from the side of the stage and they seem to be having a great time playing to a room full of sweaty punks. One of the guys running the fest gives us an envelope of passes, beer and food tickets and then heads off again. Not really knowing where to set merch up Johan and I head off in search of somewhere to dump it once Misantropic have finished but can’t really find a decent location. The stalls outside are all distros and the couple of tables up on the balcony feel completely out of the way, where nobody will find them. We head back outside and see our fellow Swedes stood up against the wall, a t-shirt gaffa taped to said wall behind them, one of the guys selling shirts, the other holding them over their arm. We decide we’ll do the same after we’ve played, hopefully the rain that is just starting to drizzle down won’t get any heavier.
The guys from Torso are lying about backstage looking kind of bored. They’ve been out on the road in Europe for almost a month now and they’ve been hanging out here all day. We met them when they played with us in Oakland a couple of months ago and it’s really nice to see them again. Great people. The drummer Giacomo is very bubbly, full of energy, and seems to have a smile surgically implanted on his mug. He’s bouncing around behind the stage whilst the others lay about on the sofa in the backstage room. I’m really fucking hungry but it’s far too close to gig time to eat dinner now and not wanting to drink beer on an empty stomach I opt for coffee. Andy is good enough to head off into the crowd with an empty kettle in search of water. It would have been nice if we’d arrived on time and had time to eat before but what can you do. I do feel pretty weak from the lack of food though, thankfully Johan has some of his protein bars in his bag and he hands me one. It fucking saves me. Ten minutes later we’re up on stage setting up and I feel ready to kick the shit out of this gig. There is a good buzz in the room as we line check the gear and you just want to get going. Our old friend Milosz from Mourne appears just before we start and approaches us all separately wishing us a good show before we play. He looks a little tipsy, the smile and the cheeky eyes giving it away.
Sometimes the sound on stage is so good it’s like you’re miming to a record. It’s like the guitar just plays itself it’s so easy. What a difference from this time yesterday! The room is full and the crowd are going crazy. Jon acknowledges them and says, “It’s good to be back in Gdynia”. It truly is. The only thing holding me back tonight is the fact that we have promised an extra special forty minute set. Given the fact that we’re headlining we couldn’t really get away with twenty five minutes, considering they’re paying for flights, hotel and fee on top of that and given the fact that Doom are headlining tomorrow and playing for an hour. We buffed up the set with four songs making it an eighteen song setlist, must be some sort of record for us. To think that we regularly played an hour with Speedhorn back in the day. How the fuck did we not bore everyone including ourselves to sleep? Anyway, even holding back a little, I feel a crick in my fucking neck about five songs in and it gives me hassle the rest of the set. The lamps on stage are hot as fucking lava aswell and I swear I can feel my bonce burning. That aside, it’s a fucking great gig. Even at forty minutes I feel I could do another couple of songs but when we leave the stage the lights come on and people start to shuffle off. Apart from a couple down front who are pleading for Andy’s drumsticks. All in all, a nice way to finish off this run of shows we’ve been playing since April.
I cool down and then enjoy watching Torso from the side of the stage, just in front of the PA. They sound great and are tight as fuck. Giacomo is an extremely entertaining drummer, full of energy and bouncing all over the kit. The guitarist full of moves, doing the high kick thing made famous by the hardcore crowd. I can’t help but admire him with his moves whilst at the same time playing fast and tight as fuck. Being straight edge and not an unfit twat like myself must make playing that way a lot easier. I wonder if I’ll ever pack in drinking completely and get a bit healthier, it’s something I think about more the older I get. Saying that, it’s something I’ve thought about many times over the years, especially on the back of a hangover. Once when we were young kids in Corby we decided to quit drinking for a while. We actually lasted a few weeks but then when we gave in and started up again my mate Slaven reasoned whilst carressing his pint, “It’s who we are Gaz, there’s no point denying our heritage”, as he looked round the Ev’s at the crowd of old boys long since defeated by it.
After Torso I head outside and decide it’s time to cash in some tickets and get some grub, and a beer to wash it down. I find the other three guys stood outside shifting some merch and talking to a punters. There is still a drizzle in the night air but it’s far from cold. Milosz finds us, looking even more pissed by this point, the cheeky smile all but faded away and his usual hardened look back in place. Part of Milosz charm is undoubtedbly his bleak outlook on life. He fingers Jon’s t-shirt and snorts, “What’s this?” Before Jon can answer he continues, “I get it. Stoner rock”. Jon is actually wearing a Morbid Angel “Altars of Madness” t-shirt, leaving Jon all the more confused. He then turns his stare on me, “What are you going to write about me this time?” referring to when we last met on tour in the States. Milosz had recently cut his dreadlocks off, something that gave our driver and Milosz old friend Matt cause to berate him. It all got taken the wrong way, things were said and written. What I found the funniest was Matt’s reaction to Milosz new hair cut, which I personally found very dashing. Anyway, things have moved on since then and last time I saw Matt he was wearing a white t-shirt and blue jeans. I’d like to think we had a positive influence on him.
We miss the first chance of a ride back to Fillip’s place where we’re sleeping since he’s headed off to pick the Doom guys up from the airport. We’re all staying at the holiday resort he ownes and lives at. I could honestly have taken the ride but the other guys seem to be in the mood for anohter beer. Oscar from Ursut and some other Swedes come up and say heloo, he’s playing here with his other band tomorrow. He’s obviously had a few to drink and keeps bangning on about how good we were, but it’s really over the top. “I walked in when you were playing and you were so good I was embarrassed!” His girlfriend rightly points out that that makes no sense. It’s fun hanging out with them for a while though. This other punk girl who is with them introduces herself to me as Moa. She tells me she works with K-Town Hardcore Fest and would love to have us play. That makes two of us, I tell her. We chat for a while and say we’ll stay in touch. Who knows, I might be able to get both DB and Victims on. That would be a hoot to say the least.
Our ride is ready to take us to Fillip’s around one am. It’s about a half hour ride and there are warm beers to pass around in the dark. I abstain again, waiting for the cold stuff that Fillip has on tap at his place. When we arrive Fillip takes us to our challet and then we head back to his house where the Doom guys are already drinking. Last time we were here it was after our own gig iN Gdynia and Jen and Stachel were with us, we had a fantastic night chilling out in the bar, Jon playing bartender behind the pump. I’d hoped that’s where we would be hanging out tonight but I guess with all the people here it’s easier for Fillip to keep us at his house, away from the other guests. Apart from the Doom guys, baring Dennis, there are a bunch of other punks hanging aroud drinking beer that is regularly arriving on trays and tucking into the grub laid out on the dining table.
Johan, Jon and I are stood over in the kitchen area when some long haired guys wearing glasses approaches me and asks if I like hot food, he’s carrying a little bowl of sauce with him. Only too happy I tuck in. He tells me that he’s branching out into the hot sauce business and this is his own recipe. I soon come to realise that this friendly chap I’m talking too is the infamous Mike Champagne, a name I’ve heard many times about the scene and a friend of many of my own. It’s a pleasure to finally meet him. We spend the next hour or so chatting away, mainly about hot sauce and a little on other subjects, like Andy’s old band Suicide Blitz, it seems Mike is one of the few people who liked that band…
There is another guy here tonight, some English guy, who knows Andy from way back it seems. Andy tells me that they were talking about me a while before, the guy obviously curious as to the story with the English guy in Victims. Andy says when he told him I used to be in Speedhorn the guy looked absolutely shocked, or even horrified. Speedhorn isn’t always too good for my punk rock credentials, especially since the band was often ignorantly thrown in with the nu-metal crowd, which is our own fault in essence since we did indeed tour and play a bunch of shows with a bunch of horrible bands back in the day. Andy assured him that I was okay, though, says to me, “I told him you were the most hardcore of the lot of us”. Me and English barely say a word to each other though, I feel too embarrassed to approach him. Silly really.
Obviously having comfortable beds and a late afternoon flight home tomorrow we make the most of a good night’s sleep and head to bed around four thirty. As I said, time off from our kids is never spent catching up on sleep…
I sleep solidly through unttil eleven thirty, feeling pretty damn good when I wake up. I’m the first to rise too. I make the most of it and jump in the shower. When the rest awake we head back over to Fillip’s and sit down to breakfast with Scoot and Bry from Doom. They really are the nicest bunch of people you could meet. Just as we’re finishing up Dennis arrives, usual tired look on his face. He asks us when we’re playing and when Andy says we already played last night and we’re soon heading home Dennis moans, “Aaargh, you guys are the only reason to be here!” Sweet he is. We say our goodbyes to the guys and head back to the room to get our gear. We pass Stick on the way who is looking giddish, don’t know if he’s stoned or what. “Byeeee” he says, giving a clown like wave and giggling like a child up to no good.
This is the last trip for a while. We’ve been busier since April than we have for the last four years. It’s been good to be out playing with the guys again, and the gigs have been a lot of fun, even if getting to them, with all our gear, has been entirely free of hassle. Still, I’m looking forward to a bit of a break now. I’m enjoying working at the homeless shelter, more than I’ve enjoyed any job for a long time, and I’m looking forward to going down to Italy on holiday with the girls in a couple of weeks. Summer is already half way done and before I know it I’ll be starting university for the first time in my life. Twenty years after my mates in Corby took the plunge. I’m really looking forward to studying sociology at Stockholm University. As much as it will be a challenge it’s a challenge I’m looking forward to. I think I will be okay.
Next time we play with Victims will be at the end of August, just before I start uni, at Cyklopen. If our demands over using our own gear are met. Otherwise the next show will be in September, with DB, at Cyklopen. We’ll play whatever the deal, although it would be nice to play with a good sound, we’not going to cancel the gig if not. Unlike Victims, who will. I guess the difference is, Victims have been around almost twenty years and have done fuck knows how many gigs of that type. After that amount of time I think you’ve earned the right to have expectations from a show. We’ll see what happens with it. Like Johan said on the way home, “We’ll turn up at the venue with our gear. If they refuse to let us load it up on stage, we’ll leave”. Can’t get much clearer than that.
Wednesday, July 13, 2016
We had a quick run through of the set at our space in the afternoon before heading over to the gig. I’ve been working loads at the homeless shelter since finishing school for the summer so have hardly had time to think about this gig, or the Victims show in Poland tomorrow… Plate full as always. Viktor is delighting in showing us pics of the Forward guys. It’s the first time they’ve ever made the trip over from Japan to Scandinavia and they seem pretty chuffed. Kimingo, the drummer has plastered his Instagram account documenting the trip so far, loads of beer involved. Christoffer is putting them up at his place and he texted me earlier saying that he’d spent a couple of hours making them dinner last night, all ready for their arrival after their flight from Osaka, but when they turned up they said they wanted drugs, not grub. No hungry. A lot of the Japanese bands seem to go wild when they travel. Take it to the extreme. The pics from Christoffers flat of Kimingo and the guys getting wasted and clearly loving it, with their host sat in the background looking flummoxed had us all creasing up.
The practice went well anyway, just one quick blast through the set. We get the bus over to Cyklopen in Högdalen with the guitars and drum stuff, plus Johan’s bass which he has swapped with Eric Black Breath who is here on a short holiday with Jude after their tour. They were actually by my place on Tuesday for a very quick cup of coffee. Jon was supposed to take the bass with him after Victims practice on Tuesday, since the guys are staying at his place, but Johan had misplaced his guitar. All in a panic he assumed that somebody had lent it but it turned out it was in the practice space all along, stood in it’s case against the wall, so now we’re lugging it over to the gig where Eric will pick it up. Johan had a bit of a brass on about the whole affair. He’d even been on Facebook asking if someone had lent it.. We laugh at ourselves, as we struggle onto a packed bus with a load of large cases. Just like being on one of Kev's tours in the UK again. I was hoping the driver would have a little sympathy with our situation and let us hop on the middle of the bus but she doesn’t even flinch as we fumble with our travelcards at the front and then shuffle awkwardly down the aisle with all the gear. Miserable cow.
We’re the first to arrive at Cyklopen besides Ronny and the sound guy. Ronny is busy making dinner and Vik is eager to sink a cold beer, the hot weather giving him a thirst. Unfortunately all there is at the minute is a bottle of alcohol free Mariestad. At least it’s cold. The sound guy is looking a little bashful going about his business and he soon asks if anyone can help him hook up some cables. Ronny is chopping an onion and the rest of us just pretend we haven’t heard him. Luc, obviously feeling guilty, goes over to help him. The rest of us fuck off outside and go for a stroll around the area. Total wankers. When we get back a while later Luc looks over at us, and I can tell what he’s thinking. Since there are no other bands around we say that we can soundcheck. Probably a good idea anyway given the ridiculous backline policy this place has…
Apparently they get a lot of complaints from the neighbours way over on the other side of the skate park by Högdalen station. In an alleged attempt to curtail this problem they demand that any bands playing use their little in-house combo amps. It’s an absurd situation really, given the fact that there is still a full sized drum kit set up beside the piddling little things. It’s not as if the volume will ever fall below the sound of the snare drum and cymbals. And of course, it’s not about volume, but about sound, and the combo amps sounds shit. It’s just a real nonsense stance the house has taken, and from what I can make out it actually has more to do with the fact that the rest of the groups operating here don’t want the place to host gigs. Or punk gigs at least. But then it would be better that they just didn’t allow them instead of this nonsense solution. I love Cyklopen, it’s a great place with lots of brilliant stuff going on, I’ve been here with Polly when they have kids disco and stuff, but the house isn’t designed for punk gigs. It must be a nightmare for the people putting the gigs on to constantly have to be embarrassed telling touring bands that they have to play on the toy amps. As is the case for the sound guy tonight when Forward turn up.
The guys come walking in, looking chuffed, all of them clutching a beer, Christoffer walking in behind them wearing short shorts and a bewildered smile. Kimingo walks up to each of us in turn and shakes hands with us, grinning like a child in a sweet shop. I try to engage him in chat, “So, you stayed at Christoffer’s place last night?”
“Very fancy!” Kimingo replies, still smiling and giving me the big thumb. The rest of the guys check the place out whilst Ishiya pulls out a little mirror and starts to fix his mohawk into place. I hear Souichi the guitarist talking to the sound guy and looking at the little amp on stage. The guy, awkwardly explains that he’ll have to play on this little thing and Souichi in perfect Japanese accent replies, “Awwww. Little amp. I normally play Marshall.” He’s not being a dick though, he’s totally nice about it and just gets on with it.
When they soundcheck it’s a bit of a struggle with the sound, but with a bit of tweaking it gets a little better. A little. This big Finnish punk guy, called Marku, who is an old friend of the scene and an avid record collector, is fucking wasted already and stands there in front of the stage going crazy as Forward soundcheck, much to the guys amusement. When they’re done Marku gives a rapturous shout of appreciation. Apparently he’s also staying at Christoffers and making the trip up north with them and DS-13 tomorrow. The Glorious guys have turned up, with Jonas and Love from Skit Kids in tow, looking a little bemused by the backline situation, as everyone else. Jonas has a quick peek at the stage and then says to me, “Peavey Bandit, that’s a nice one”. I can’t tell if he’s being genuine, just being kind, or simply taking the piss. They all fuck off again anyway and leave us to soundcheck.
All things considered, it doesn’t sound too bad. Our friend Fabbe lending his ears and opinion on the matter. When we’re done we fuck off to Hank’s Heaven pub, having eaten a bit of Ronny’s grub whilst Forward were soundchecking. I’m with Vik, gagging for a beer. As we leave the place I notice a handwritten sign to patrons of Cyklopen that reads, “If you’re going for a piss in the woods, take a friend”. Never been aware of any trouble here. Strange. Although Nazis did burn down the old place where Cyklopen was housed… Hence they built this place to be fireproof, the thick plastic walls lending the place a greenhouse like feel.
I’d been hoping for a cold pint of draught beer but the fucking tap is off, so have to settle for a bottle of Mariestad, this time with alcohol, but still not really what I’d been looking forward too. Still, it does the job. Hilda from Axe Rash meets us at the pub and we joke with her that we’re not cool enough for those guys anymore since they’re only interested in speaking to Kev. He’d put them on at the Nest a while ago and it seems like they all hit it off pretty merrily. Most people hit off pretty well with Kev though, if you know how to take him. We just have the one and then head back to the gig in time to see Glorious? There are a lot of people hanging in and around the house, lots of old friends, lots of old faces from the scene that you don’t always see anymore but that’s the pull of having a legendary Japanese band on the bill. And Meanwhile of course.
It’s great catching up with everyone. To think I’d considered taking the car to the gig tonight.. I’m soon into beers two and three, chugging them down and doing my best to ignore the fact they’re a touch on the warm side. It’s one of those nights where everyone seems to be here, absolutely magic hanging out. Even Jon is here. Will be the first time he’s ever seen us play I think. Although, he does live just down the road from here, seems like it takes something pretty special to get him to go to a gig that isn’t at Cyklopen these days.
Glorious? play to a pretty packed house, something I’m sure Ronny is relieved about. He was sweating the fact that nobody had bought advance tickets and had gone as far as selling parts of his record collection off to cover the costs for the Forward guys. Quite a remarkable commitment from the guy. Been doing it ten years this year, which sadly but understandably will be his last. We’re actually playing his ten year fest with DB here at Cyklopen in September, making it three times for me here in as many months… All going well. Anyway, Glorious? play noisy d-beat, although with the volume set to low, it’s not all that noisy. The thing that impresses me the most with Glorious?, to be fair it’s the most impressive thing I’ve seen in ages full stop, is the fact the gloriously (pun) moustachioed bass player is playing with a cast on his arm. Fucking broken arm and there he is, rocking away like fuck. Complete and utter respect to that guy!
The guys play for a while, and the running order is already behind track, this being the case Ronny asks Luc if we can get things moving between sets. Luc assures him that we’ll be up and done with the gig before anyone notices. As it is, there aren’t a whole load of people in the place when we start the show, I guess everyone outside taking air between bands haven’t noticed that we’ve started. Either that or simply nobody gives a piss. It gets better as the show goes on though, the guys from Axe Rash down front enjoying themselves amongst a few others. It feels pretty frustrating knowing that the sound out front is probably cack, since up on stage it actually sounds pretty good. I have a good time anyway, and it seems the other guys in the band do too. Fun to play a couple of songs from the new album, although I was hoping to play more than just the three. Next gig in September I’m hoping we play predominantly new material. Fun to see Kenko at the front of the stage, giving signs to Luc and Vik about the sound. Being that he recorded the new record he has an inside idea of how the chaos is supposed to come across. All in all, a good show, one of the better Stockholm shows we’ve played, at least from our perspective on stage.
The place is packed again for Meanwhile, as you’d expect, it’s their first show in ages. I climb up on a bench behind the merch and watch from above the crowd. A couple of beers on the way and I’m having a great time. Jocke the singer cracks me up when he introduces a song, “This is from our new album, from ten years ago”. The sound, not to bang on about it, is not great, by any stretch. But I don’t really care, it’s Meanwhile, and I have a great time watching them. Marku the Finn seems to be flagging though, he’s now stood to the side of the stage looking like he’s fighting sleep. Somewhere near the end Domar, stood up front as always, takes the mic and asks for a minutes silence for Granath from Strul, Giftgasattack and many others, who sadly passed away yesterday. Not a shock by any means, but very sad. Another fallen compatriot. That observed, the guys finish off the gig with a few of the old Dischange songs, bringing a fun show to an end.
Afterwards Stefan from Trash Palace record store, pissed out of his mind, is up on stage ranting about supporting Ronny and making sure everyone comes to his Dead Rhythm Club ten year anniversary gig, despairing at the fact that he’s done loads for the scene and gets nothing back, how he had to sell his record collection to make this gig work. Incidentally, it was Stefan who bought his collection from him…
I don’t even realise Forward have started until Ishiya goes flying past me in the crowd and out the door with the mic singing to the punks stood outside. As fun as it is watching the guys, and being in the midst of greatness, it’s fucking Ishiya Deathside after all, the gig kind of goes by me a little. It’s just hard to get into when you can barely hear the guitar. And what a fucking guitarist he is too. Total fucking legend.
After the gig we hang outside for a while, enjoying the cool night air. The beer in the bar has pretty much dried up, Ronny bemoaning the fact that so few wrote themselves up to the gig’s mailing list saying they were coming, too right and all. In all honesty, I don’t need any more than the six beers I’ve already drunk. We’re heading to Poland tomorrow and I’m driving the guys to Skavsta and could do without the hangover. I still make my classic move and decline the train Jen is taking home, saying I’ll be on the next one. I’ve made this mistake so many fucking times over the fifteen years we’ve been together. Tonight though, it’s not about staying for one last beer, it’s just really nice hanging and chatting with everyone. Somehow a beer finds its way into my hand anyway though. Outside, hanging with Eric and Jude, Ragnar and a bunch of others I watch the clock slowly tick by the next train from Högdalen’s departure a half hour later and then end up having to make a dash just before the next one. Luc asks me how long I have, “Six minutes”, I hastily reply as I say bye to everyone and run off with two guitar cases towards the station. "Six minutes?" I hear Luc quaffing as I run off. It’s fucking knackering! I have to stop a few times during the five minutes it takes to run to the train. When I get there I’m just in time to watch the train doors close in my face.
The rest of the gang, Vik and Bea, Julia, Kullman, Ragnar and a bunch of others soon arrive behind me, considerably less out of breath, and we hang out on the platform for the half twelve train. When we get to Gullmarsplan the last Skarpnäck train has already gone, so Kullman and I take the bus and a ten minute walk instead. We end up having a good chat about kids and living around this area and decide we’ll have to make a date with our kids over at Fyren park sometime soon. I leave him at the end of our street and curse myself for getting home so late. Jen and I have plans to go for breakfast in town early in the morning. I never, ever make the most of things when I’ve got the rare chance to sleep. I guess that’s how it is when you take time off from your kids or your job to play in a band. “Good gig by the way!” Kullman shouts back to me as he heads off down Sockenvägen. Even though it's already one thirty, I still take time for a cup of tea and some toast before bed. The beer munchies kicking in as I sit there falling aleep in my plate on the sofa.
Next stop Gydnia.
Wednesday, June 22, 2016
Breakfast isn’t bad for one of these plastic hotel affairs, although the scrambled egg looks like it came straight out of a square box. And the toast is disgustingly sweet. The coffee and croissants work though. We sit around discussing the alternative outcomes with gear. How nice it would be to head over to the airport and find it there waiting for us. None of us truly believe that will be the case though, but you can always hope. We finish up and gather our bags together. Andy and I are stood downstairs by the parking lot for quite a while waiting for the other two. No doubt Johan is sat on the bog as usual. Whilst we’re waiting Rainy from Discharge comes strolling out with his wife. He asks us if we’re the shuttle that’s taking them to the festival. We explain that we’re not and then proceed with a pleasant chat. They’re both very friendly and it’s fun having a natter with them. We tell Rainy about the baggage situation and he scoffs in empathy with us. He tells us that one time they were out playing and their gear ended up in four different countries. He says they were playing this festival and they ended up loaning Jamiroquai’s gear. Funny as fuck thinking about Rainy playing Protest and Survive on some six string bass up around his neck. We talk about the upcoming punk boat gig they’re playing in Stockholm in March, Andy seems pretty psyched by the idea of trying to get Victims on it. Playing hungover on a ferry with no escape doesn’t seem like the best idea to me though.
We head over to the airport, it is indeed walking distance as the itinerary had promised. We head for the luggage claim department where we’re met by a very sweet, but stressed out girl working there. She’s got a lot of work on after the strike it seems and as the phone keeps ringing she rabbles off a load of French, the only word I can pick out of any of it being “Merde!” We go through the procedure of making the claim. She tells us the strike is now over and there is the slightest chance that our gear might be on the incoming flight from Nantes in half hours time. It doesn’t turn up though. As we’re waiting in hope, the Napalm Death guys come trudging off the plane. I spot the guitarist first. I go up to him to say hello and with a pained grin on his mug he tells me that their bags have been misplaced. They have their instruments but their other luggage is nowhere to be seen. After playing Hellfest today they’re flying to Brazil at six am tomorrow. I catch up with Barney for a while, but Embury is clearly in no mood to talk. Looks like the old miserable Shane for a while, the one I haven’t really seen since he became a dad. He’s back in full force now though.
We leave them with a “good luck” and head through security once checked in, a little deflated that the gear is somewhere out there in the world. Jon fucks off for a fag before going through security. Johan and I are stood in line and Johan laughs, recalling yesterday when they went through security at Brussels airport. He says that Jon emptied his jeans pockets of his phone, wallet etc and then put them in his leather waistcoat pockets and walked through the metal detector with it all still on him. He gets really nervous around these situations and sort of goes into a silent lockdown. Johan had asked him what he was doing and he just vacantly replied that the cops had told him he didn’t need to take off his jacket. Brilliant.
Nantes airport is small and the food options are practically zero outside of one little cafe. We sit around and wait for our two thirty flight, watching the football highlights on the tv and reading the news about the British politician that has been murdered by some scumbag Britain First supporting nazi. Funny how this is guy is being portrayed as mentally deranged by the media and not as a racist biggot terrorist. And the American with Afghani parents who shot forty nine human beings at a gay club last week is a Muslim terrorist. Funny that.. I head to the bog and whilst I’m away Johan and Jon spot the singer from Offspring. Jon seems pretty chuffed to tell me the news when I return. Never could stand that fucking band.
The flight to Paris takes less than an hour, just and old up and down job. Third flight of four in four days, it’s been a while since I made a stretch like that. I’ve certainly become a more nervous flyer since becoming a parent. I wouldn’t call it fear, it certainly wouldn’t stop me getting on a plane, and once we’re up and in the cruise I’m fine, but if there’s any bumping around going on then I like to be next to the window. Don’t know why, makes me feel better. This has been the topic of conversation within the band recently, twice I’ve had to ask Johan if he would swap with me. The one place I don’t want to sit is the aisle if the plane is bumping around. I feel like a right cunt though as Andy ridicules me.
When we land, safe and sound, as always, we’re met at the airport by a young guy who looks like he plays in the Doors holding a sign with Victims on it. He takes us to the Fiat Punto he’ll be driving us to the gig in. Lucky we don’t have any gear with us since we would have had to have gaffa taped it to the roof. The ride only takes about twenty minutes though. Doors tells us that the venue we’re playing is in an area called Saint Ouen, which is a district in the north of the city famous for its flea market. The small street are indeed packed with cars and people as we snake our way through traffic to the venue.
We climb out of the car and head inside the venue for a deek around. We’re met by a crew of young people who are putting tonight’s show on. Some big guy called Viktor and then the main man, Vincent, who is the guy that’s been in touch with us the whole time. He’s a bit rushed at the minute since the first of the seven bands have just started and he has some things to take care of, but he soon leads us up the to the next floor where a large communal dressing room is. The Unsane guys are sat around stringing guitars and munching on chips. The place is buzzing with various band members. They have some snacks and coffee on the go and food will be coming around seven. Since we’re playing at eight we opt to eat afterwards and get tucked in to the snacks. Nice with an early show anyway, the whole thing is over by ten thirty.
We hang out with Vincent and the guys for a while, as well as Raphael and his band Bain De Sang. Raphael and Vincent between them have sorted equipment for us tonight. I’m told there is an SG I can borrow so I’m chuffed with that. Raphael is an old friend of the guys, he put out the In Blood album on cd years ago, in Europe, or in France at least I think. Really good guy. They all are. I devour what there is of the crisps on offer but decline the beer for now, although the others are supping away. The Unsane drummer catches my eye. He’s sat against the back wall of the room with some other old guy who reminds me of the American comedian Fred Willard. Looks just like him, has the same smirk and everything. They’re sat there gabbing away and checking out some lady who is in the room, seems to be a photographer. They’re not too subtle.
We decide to go for a walk around the area and see what’s happening. The market is still on so we check that out. This area is really cool. The streets are swarming with market sellers and open bars with lots of gypsy style jazz bands playing. It’s what I imagine New Orleans to be like. There are also lots of galleries with artwork and trinkets for sale. Really cool place, certainly somewhere you wouldn’t end up if you weren’t a well researched tourist. We walk around for an hour so, checking everything out, before heading back to the venue. It’s around six thirty and I decide it’s time for the first beer of the night.
We check out Raphael’s band who start just as we get back. The place downstairs is buzzing with people. There is a cafe area where we would be selling our merch if we had it with us. There is a bar there as well as little corner selling pieces of art. The gig room is to the side of the bar. It’s one of those completely sound proofed box rooms, it’s like walking into a vacuum when you go in. It’s hot as fuck in there too and the sound is kind of dense, like there’s nowhere for it to escape to. I’m sweating my ass off just watching Raphael and the guys. I enjoy their show nonetheless. The bass player is pretty frantic as he plays and I lose count of the times he comes within centimeters of smashing his bass on the pillar on his side of the stage. Really good show anyway.
I head off a little before the end thinking that we’re on next and that I need to get my leads and all that shit sorted but it turns out there’s been a swap around in the line up. Willard and his mate are still sat by the wall gabbing away, I swear they haven’t moved since we got here. With time to kill and no food in the stomach, and in need of a bit of a kick before we play I convince Johan to take a shot with me. Jon is right in on too, of course. Vincent comes up and asks if we’re sorted for the gear and all that stuff. We’re all good except Johan, who isn’t sure what bass he’s playing. Vincent tells him it would be an honour if he played his Rickenbacker. We laugh but Vincent appears serious, “If you’d told me ten years ago that Victims would be playing my bass live…”
Time to play, we head downstairs to the sweatbox. Hugo, the sound guy comes up to the stage and hands me his guitar case. I pull it out and to my delight find that it’s exactly the same model as my brown SG that is currently missing in action. Couldn’t be more chuffed. We take a little while setting up and as we do people gradually filter in from the cafe area and the room is full by the time we start. The sound on stage is great and I’m raring to go. Already this feels better than yesterday.
And so it is. I enjoy every second of the gig tonight. THe stage is the perfect size, it sounds great and the crowd are ripping the place up. It seems Andy isn’t having the same show as me though. I don’t notice until he tells us that we’re dropping Theft from the set. I ask him if he’s okay but he just shakes his head and says he’s pissed off. Fuck knows what’s going on. I try to encourage him but it doesn’t seem to be working. It’s only when we play the next song, Errors, that I notice something is weird. During the chorus when he goes to the crash there is nothing there. At first I think he’s dropped his stick but when I look over I see him hitting the fuck out of the cymbal but there is nothing coming out of it, as if it were made of rubber. Turns out that none of the cymbals he’s playing tonight are whole and it’s making things difficult for him. Thankfully, the longer the gig goes on the more the crowd kicks off the lighter Andy’s mood becomes. I’m surprised when we go back for two extra songs at the end of the set, I was sure Andy would have been straight off the stage. We play Your Life is Red and My Eyes as two last songs and then I walk off and lay down behind my amp on the floor, pissing sweat and totally fucked. Great show.
We hang out upstairs for a while, cooling off by the open window and enjoying a cold beer. The beer isn’t great, but it is cold and does the trick. Once back down to earth and non perspiring I tuck into the dinner the guys have sorted for us. Veggie quiche and tabbouleh salad. And cheese, always cheese. As I’m stood there devouring the brie Vincent comes up to me and says that he’s got some cheese in from his home town down on the Swiss border and we can tuck into it for breakfast in the morning since we’ll be staying at his place. Nice one.
I head down to watch the end of the Unsane set. I’ve seen them a bunch of times so I’m not that fussed. I used to love them when I was younger but that period has passed somewhat. I still like the band but it’s been a long time since I put an Unsane record on at home. Just so happens when I get down there they’re just finishing up with four songs from the classic Scattered, Smothered, Covered album. Good timing. Chris Spencer’s famous baseball cap is dripping with sweat, literally dripping. He never takes the thing off either, I stand there sweating myself over a by now lukewarm Johnny Walker Red on the rocks wondering what his cap smells like. Andy comes over to me and says he’s got goose bumps, so good was the gig. He was stood over in the middle of the room so I guess it sounded better over there, where I was stood the sound didn’t quite carry and it was missing a bit of punch. Wish I’d gone over into the crowd now to listen from there now.
Afterwards we hang out upstairs and start getting stuck in to the bottles of booze the guys have now lined up on the bar. It’s only ten thirty, the night is but young. Being in France we do as the French do and get stuck into the bottle of pastis. I have a really nice chat with Raphael, he’s asking what we all do for work outside of the band, and from there we get talking about school, and kids, and life in general. I really enjoy chatting with him, the booze slowly but steadily going down. Doors appears and heads over to join the conversation. Both him and Vincent had been down the front of the crowd for the gig, huge smiles on their faces, hopping around with the crowd. We get talking about the gypsy music scene around this part of the city, Doors is an avid fan of it and tells us all about the legends of the scene and the history of the music. Fascinating stuff. Something I’ll have to check out more thoroughly.
The night rolls on and before I know it it’s one in the morning and most of the booze is gone. Still, I don’t feel too bad, just nice and warm. It’s been a good night. Chris from Unsane comes over to Jon and shakes his hand before leaving. They’d been chatting earlier. Jon knows every bugger. Chris had lead us downstairs to their merch and said we could have anything we wanted but as nice a gesture as that was I didn’t really fancy any of the designs they had. Still very kind though. I’ve come across him a few times, played with them with Speedhorn once. Always looked hard and serious, but he’s a friendly enough guy. “Respect”, says Jon as Chris approaches him. And that’s that.
We get our stuff together and head downstairs to the street. The people organising the gig are mulling around on the street outside and we stand there having one last chat. As we say goodbye Jon starts kissing everyone on each cheek, embracing the French custom. Cracks me up. We walk with Vincent a few blocks to his car. I thought he’d had a few drinks so I’d figured we’d be walking to his place but he unlocks the Punto and we climb inside. Maybe he hadn’t been drinking.. Or maybe he didn’t give a piss. Sometimes you just go along with things and don’t ask. We drive ten minutes or so to the Stalingrad area where he lives, just on the north side not far from Pigalle where me and Jen stayed on holiday after the last time we played Hellfest four years ago. He has a really cool attic conversion flat. There are two double beds, one in each of the rooms. Me and Jon are teaming up tonight. There are two beers in the fridge. A German pilsner and a can of piss that is 6.5%. “Woah, that’s a proper crust beer”, Vincent comments as Jon cracks it open. I’m not sure if it was here already or if Jon had it with him in his pocket. Either way, as we share the two beers around I end up with a drop of the crust beer and it is absolutely fucking disgusting. Maybe just as well, I really don’t need any more.
We stand around in the kitchen talking with Vincent for a while. He’s a really sweet person. He tells us that he’s sleeping at his girlfriends just a hundred meters away and with that we head to bed. Jon and I lie there talking away, telling old stories, Jon laughing hysterically and extremely loudly. I’d actually say he was screaming with laughter. I can only imagine what Andy and Johan are thinking in the other room. Gradually the stories turn to normal conversation and finally into some sort of pillow talk before slowly ebbing into sleep around four am.
The next day we’re woken by Vincent ringing the buzzer downstairs and when he arrives he apologises for waking us up whilst clutching baguettes and croissants. He had actually come twenty minutes after we’d agreed on so it was our bad sleeping in. We sit around tucking in to this delicious breakfast with his hometown cheese and jam, orange juice and tea. Vincent apologises again for the lack of coffee but explains that he doesn’t drink it. He really is the sweetest guy.
We have the day in Paris since we’re not flying home until nine tonight so we decide to spend the afternoon walking around. Jon stays at Vincent’s since he has to study, he has a deadline for the next day, and Vincent has things to sort out at the venue so Johan, Andy and I head off for the afternoon. We walk for around four hours. First down to Pere Lachaise cemetery, check out the Jim Morrison grave. It’s fucking tacky though, there are people hanging around drinking rum and listening to Break On Through on some small speakers. As we walk away Andy moans, “Overrated shite, one hit wonder”. The cemetery is amazing though, with all the cobbled streets and house like tombs, it likens a city of the dead. I’d been here before with Jen and really wanted to show the guys the place. I wanted to find August Comte’s grave too but unless you know where it is you could spend all day here looking for it. When Jen and I were here last we actually got lost and we started to panic a little as they announced over the tannoy system that they were closing and we couldn’t find our way out. Place is like a labyrinth.
It’s a gorgeous day and after leaving the cemetery we make for Sacre Coeur. When we get to the junction of Avenue de la Republique we hear screaming. There is some hysterical young guy, stood in the middle of traffic, screaming bloody murder at anyone and everyone. He is beyond pissed off. He’s walking around kicking everything and screaming. We walk along, feeling no need to make eye contact with him and for a moment it sounds like he’s following us. It’s a pretty fucking sketchy scene. He turns away and the screams quickly become more distant. I notice the faces of the people in the cafes and bars though, just staring at him with a blend of pity and disgust in their eyes.
Our walk takes us past the Bataclan where the massacre happened. Fucking weird feeling looking at the place. What hits me is what a normal, almost anonymous little music venue it is. It certainly doesn’t look like any kind of symbol for capitalist western society, just a normal little venue. It could easily be Debaser or anywhere else. Fucking horrible. We move on up past Place de Republique where they held the mass and then on to Sacre Coeur take in the views. It is of course, as we should have expected, full of football fans drinking and singing. We see some football trickster guy stood on a column at the top of the stairs juggling keepie ups. He’s pretty impressive to be fair. At one point he climbs to the top of a lamp post, ball wedged between his legs and then hangs there for fucking ages juggling the ball with his feet. There are men walking around selling beer and if I’m honest I could happily take one but we decide to leave it.
We stop for a spot of lunch back down on the corner of a cobbled streets in the back end of Pigalle. I realised this little hole-in-the-wall creperie place is somewhere me and Jen went to on the tip of it being one of the city’s finest. It was really good too. Makes me think of her and miss her, wishing she was here. As much fun as it is doing this stuff with the guys my absolute favourite holiday partner is my wife. We work great together as travelling companions. We sit down across the street from it at an Italian joint and tuck into a simple olive oil and garlic dish and now I can’t help myself and order a glass of cold rose wine. Fucking perfect.
We get back to Vincent’s around five. Jon has just finished up his studying and is pretty chuffed with himself. He reads through his work to me and Johan whilst chugging on a little bottle of red wine. Andy has gone to the other room and has fallen asleep. Vincent turns up around six and drives us to Orly airport in the south of the city, takes around an hour with traffic. We chat all the way with our new friend. When he drops us off we takes turns to hug him and thank him for everything, promising him we won’t leave it another eight years until we play Paris. He says, “Good! Although next time I won’t be organising the gig, I’ll just be there moshing and enjoying it”.
Four flights in four days. I’m getting a little bored of airports now. I’m glad this one is the last one. I miss my girls. And my guitars...
Monday, June 20, 2016
We only have about an hour until we play, so with that being the case, our personal welcoming committee, a pleasant chap who would fit in just as well at the concierge of the Hilton Hotel as he would Hellfest, gives us our passes and food tickets before showing us to our dressing room and then to the towel area. They have a guy working on the towel station backstage, each member of each band gets one stage towel and one shower towel, all have to be signed for and returned. As Jon points out though, the amount of bands on this fucking thing, and all those towels, it adds up to a bit when you think about it.
We drop our bags in the dressing room, take what we need and then wait for a shuttle bus to drive us over to our stage, the Warzone stage. Our friend Arvid meets us at the stage. He’s doing front of house sound for us today and he’s also been very helpful in getting some guitars and extras sorted for us at the last minute. He’s here doing Entombed AD’s, not the real Entombed, sound so is doing us as a bonus job. The stage crew working the show today are the epitome of efficiency too, although with that very friendly. That unfortunately isn’t always the case at festivals of this size. This one particularly happy chap has sorted us three guitars and he’s very happy to bring them to us and is eager to make sure we’re all good. They even have a drum set ready to go, cymbals and all, all set of to the side of the big stage. With not much else to do, we watch the latter half of All Pigs Must Die’s set, drinking Red Bull from the side stage room. It’s been a long time since I drunk that piss but today it’s needed. I drink two. Johan had also provided us with nutrition bars in the van earlier as Jon was changing clothes in the back seat, struggling with his tight jeans and cursing his choice of music career, lamenting over the fact that if he’d been a hip-hopper he could have worn baggier clothes.
The sun is shining, for now, and there are a lot of people watching All Pigs Must Die. The stage area here is built and decked out as an old fortress, they put a lot of work into the esthetic of this festival, it’s very unique in that sense. When the guys are done the field rapidly empties as everyone pisses off to another band on another stage somewhere. It’s a weird feeling setting up and soundchecking on a huge stage in front of a huge, empty field. Brian, our friend from Trap Them who is now playing in Pigs comes over to greet us, and he tells Jon he’s happy to lend him his guitar. The Kvelertak guys are also here and they’re equally as happy to help out, so I borrow a backup guitar Vidar. As we’re soundchecking you can hear the band on the next stage pretty loudly, it’s kind of off putting. Even more so the fact that they seems to be playing nothing but covers. At first I thought it was just the PA, Rock n’ Roll by Led Zepplin chugging along, but then when a stomach turning version of Smells Like Teen Spirit comes next, to the roar of a very satisfied crowd, I really begin to wonder what the fuck is going on. Fucking pub band playing next door and everyone seems to love it.
There aren’t a whole load of people here as Arvid starts up the intro track that Andy has sorted out. And it sounds a little weird on stage, always does on these huge joints, sound swirls around a bit depending on where you’re stood, and since I’m never stood still it makes it a bit difficult for me to get any kind of grip on the songs. The area fills up as we get a few songs in though and by the end of the gig there are a good couple of thousand watching and some mosh pits going off. But for some reason, I just don’t feel it. The buzz simply isn’t there, and by halfway through the set I’m looking forward to the end. Last time we played here it was in a big tent and the atmosphere was amazing, today felt like a bit of an anti-climax although I have no idea what the audience's perception is, this is purely how I feel. I guess it has a lot to do with the fact that we’ve pretty much come straight from the plane and I haven’t had time to get my head together before it’s time to play. And my head is still feeling the pressure of the plane, hasn’t quite let go yet. Or maybe it’s a hangover. And then playing on unfamiliar gear on top of that… It feels to me that we do a professional job, pretty standard, but nothing more than that. Brian who has been stood side stage watching us the whole time reckons it was good, but I’m not that enthused. I’m kind of just happy it’s done and we made it here. As I’m packing up the gear I hear some English accent shouting my name and when I turn around there is some old metaller guy waving at me and calling, I recognise him from somewhere, somewhere from the blurry past of Raging Speedhorn I’m sure. I shout a bit of a conversation with him as I’m packing up, trying my best to act like I know who he is.
Once we’re packed down and cooled off we head back over to the backstage area and chill out in the little dressing room for a while. There is a bottle of Hellfest wine on the table and Jon is eager to crack it open. We sit around with Arvid and sup on that for a while whilst trying to send off an email to the baggage company to make a claim for our gear. But the server seems to have crashed and the mail won’t go through, I’m sure they’ve got a lot of correspondance to get through today. We give up and head over to the catering hall and have a beer outside by the bar before heading in for food. I bump into a very old face on the way, one I haven’t seen for years. Paul Ryan, who was the original guitarist in Cradle of Filth and played bass in Enmity, who were out with Speedhorn on the second tour we ever did, playing to an average of twenty people a night. He then became an agent and was booking us for a while. He's’ now the top boy at The Agency Group in the UK. It’s weird talking to him, we’re obviously living in two completely different worlds nowadays.
The Turbonegro guys walk through, all dressed up as they do. It’s weird seeing my old mate Tony Sylvester dressed up in makeup and hot pants, now singing with them. Dream come true for him, he was always a huge fan. I say friend, but I guess Tony is more of an acquaintance. We hung out for a while when Dukes of Nothing played some shows with Speedhorn, and nowadays we see each other on social media but have no contact. He doesn’t spot me as he walks past with the entourage anyway.
The local beer they have here is really good, fruity and crisp, somewhere between an ale and a pilsner. It does the job perfectly, gives me an appetite for dinner. We head into the big dining hall and browse through the huge selection of buffet foods. There isn’t a whole lot of vegetarian options though, I scrape together some couscous and vegetables, a bit of hot sauce saving the day. It’s a great production they put on here though, I have to say. Large round tables, loads of food, bottle of wine to each table. Fucking luxury.
After dinner Arvid calls the luggage company for us, being brought up in France he knows the lingo and we’re hoping he can sort us out but they just tell us to write an email.. Marvelous. We’ll simply have to hope for the best at the airport in Nantes tomorrow before we fly to Paris. With fuck all else to do, we start to drink. The Kvelertak guys are hanging out with us, really nice people, although I have a hard time understanding the Norwegian accent. They seem to really like Victims for some reason, it’s funny. They played with us on their first ever tour at a Converge show in Hamburg and we’ve kept a bit of contact since. For all their success, they are still a very humble bunch of guys. We mull around for a while, drinking small glasses of beer, invariably eating cheese and crackers from the cold buffet, talking with different people like the Converge guys, but I feel myself just getting more tired with every beer when what I’m actually aiming for is to get a bit of a buzz. It’s just not happening tonight. And the constantly changing weather has now locked it’s setting to chilly and I wouldn’t be totally against heading to the hotel and lying in bed watching tv. I think I might have a little hangover from yesterday that’s just not budging, I’ve had a nagging headache all day. Sucks.
We decide to change scene anyway and actually go and take in a bit of the festival. Melvins are playing on one of the stages so we head over there with Vidar from Kvelertak, take a walk over and have a chat on the way. Dropkick Murphy’s are playing one of the stages and Jon gets pissed off with them and starts mouthing off. I think he’s a bit drunk, he’s been tanking the red wine all evening. He says anyone playing Irish tinged punk should be shot. Finding this a bit extreme Vidar remonstrates that as bad as the music is he’d rather just avoid it than have anyone murdered. “Näh, näh” Jon shakes his head, having none of it.
It’s always fun to see Melvins but in all honesty, as much as I love the band, after a while it gets a bit tiring. It’s like watching one long drum solo. As much as Crover is a great drummer, it bores me a bit after a while. There’s never any stop to it, and I’d rather just hear them go up and play a set of songs. Steve McDonald, whilst very cool for playing in Red Cross, is also a bit tiring, prancing around stage like a tit. All that aside, they’re still Melvins and I still have huge respect for them.
When they’re done the four of us go for a bit of a wander around the site. They’ve built a little mini town area, it looks like a film set. We walk around the hordes of people discussing the logistics of this insane festival. Mad to think that it started out as Fury Fest fifteen years ago, or whatever it was. It’s enough with ten minutes though, before you know it we head to the backstage area and sit down with cheese and crackers and a beer. Peace and quiet. Rock n’ roll. Fuck it.
I end up catching up with Sylvester as I head to the bar to get a drink for me and Jon. He’s surprised as fuck to see me. We chat for a while, catching up on old times and old friends. I can see Jon sat over in the corner, getting more and more anxious about his glass of wine I’m holding in my hand and after five minutes or so he cracks and heads over. Jon is happy enough to meet Tony though. Jake and Nath from Converge soon join us in mingle. Funny how these days we talk more about kids than music. How times have changed.
We have a lift taking us to the airport hotel at eleven thirty and Converge start at ten forty, so we head over to watch those guys from side stage for a half hour or so. It’s nice seeing them play in the dark of night, adds to the atmosphere. I’m talking to Nate just before they go on, the crowd baying for them. They’ve just flown in today and he says he’s knackered and too old for this shit, but then when hit the stage he flies around like a maniac, as always. It’s quite something to see. Me and Andy had been talking about how Nate had aged a little since last we met. The beard is getting greyer. We’re all getting on I guess. But it’s quite something to watch Converge deliver as they do, even if you don’t like the music you have to be impressed with their sheer brutal musicianship. Converge are one of those bands that just seem to steamroller on, they’re like an industry, a trademark in the hardcore world. I wonder if they will still be around in ten years time, when they’re in their fifties, still playing this brutally? Probably.
It’s time for us to head back and catch our lift. We walk along the road outside of the arena, past the big stage where Rammstein are playing. What a fucking daft band. It’s amazing really, the riff they’re playing as we pass wouldn’t have made it past the shit filter at a Morphine practice when we were thirteen, and here they are playing to twenty thousand people or something. Mind boggling.
There is a very friendly French girl waiting to drive us back to the airport hotel where we’re staying. We grab our bags and head off. I sit up front and talk with her along the way, always happy to chat to new people. We’re talking about the situation with our luggage, about the strike of the baggage handlers. She says that it’s typical France. I tell her that this strike was actually localised to Brussels airport, “Same shit”, she replies. Word. She tells me about the tradition of striking in France, how they normally go out and protests during specific days every week. Land of the revolution. I blame Napoleon. Joking aside, I do feel a sense of solidarity with the workers, I understand why they strike. I just wish they’d left it a day…
We get back to the hotel, right next to the airport. The reception is closed but we’d been sent door codes for the two rooms by the production staff at Hellfest. We find the rooms. Johan and Jon’s door opens, mine and Andy’s does not. Fuck… I have a horrible vision of sleeping on the floor in their room. I’m really longing for a bed, have been for hours. Andy notices that our code is missing a digit though, it’s one shorter than the other room. It’s simply a matter of testing the code with a new number from zero to nine. Thing is, the cunting door flashes red for about ten seconds after every failed attempt. We make our way through the digits, one by one. Eight turns out to be the magic number. It seems to be a recurring phenomenon, there is always some sort of hassle with hotels and festivals. Always. Thank fuck we’re in though. Getting under the cool white covers is absolute heaven. The thought of crashing out on the floor in their room was enough to make me weep, even if Jon had shouted down the hallway as he was going for a fag that he could take the floor himself. He’s pissed up and doesn’t seem arsed.
Time for bed, and it’s never felt so welcome. We fly for Paris tomorrow.
Friday, June 17, 2016
First off we were flying out of Bromma airport the night before we play Hellfest in Clisson, France. We had to take the night flight since we have a three pm slot at the festival and there were no reasonable flights to take the same day that would have gotten us to the gig in time. Given that the festival paid us three thousand euros in advance we can’t afford to miss the gig… That would be a bit of a fucking bummer having to pay that back. So we flew down to Brussels at night and booked a cheap hotel at the airport, to then get the ten am flight to Nantes the next day. All well and good, no problems.
It started off with me and Johan lugging three guitars, a huge bag of merch that is as heavy as a corpse, and then our own personal bags. Been fucking raining all day, total misery weather where the grey clouds seemingly hang just above your head. The plan was for me to drive over to Johan in my car, pick him up and then drop the car off at the tube, which Jen would pick up later. The thing is we’re flying home to Arlanda on Sunday so we have to take public transport. Of course, one of the two car keys I had at home decided to break, it’s one of these farty remote control things. So I had to get Jen’s mum to come along in the car with us, with Polly, and all the gear, for her to then drive our car back. Bit of a hiccup but no big deal.
Johan and I lugged all the gear on the tube to Alvik on the north side of the city where we met Jon, who texted saying he’d be smoking a cig on the platform waiting for us. It’s an above ground station.. So we get there, get off the back end of the train and I spot Jon stood at the other end of the platform. Well, I spot a hood, a beard and a cig. We trudge down the platform, staring at him the whole way as he just stares at us. With all this gear I’m thinking, fucking lazy cunt, could at least come help us. The fucker is just staring at us. It’s not until we get within about five meters of him that he starts to life, “Woah”, he’s just spotted us. I forgot, he’s been without contact lenses and glasses for a couple of weeks and the fucker is as blind as a bat without them…
We take the bus over to the city airport, right behind where me and Jon used to live. I used to love living so close to the airport, obviously it was a bit noisy but it was great walking the dog around the grounds watching the flights take off and land at such close proximity. Anyway, we get into the tiny airport, check in the gear, and to our pleasant surprise are told that the baggage will be checked in all the way to Nantes tomorrow. Nice one. As we’re leaving the oversized luggage some old rocker guy comes up to us, “Are you guys Victims?” Seems he knows us from somewhere but none of us can make out who he is. Seems to know the band pretty well anyway.
We head through security and watch a bit of football in the bar whilst we wait to board. Of course, being that the European Championships are currently being held in France there is a good bet that it’s going to be a bit crazy this weekend, with the country swarming with football twats. Rocker comes up to us in the bar again and strikes up a bit of conversation, says he’s heading back to Visby and is talking about the fact we should come and play there. Johan reckons he might be in Candlemass. Fuck knows. Nice guy anyway.
The flight takes off on time, and I take a quick view of the big field I used to walk Bonz to at the end of the runway, but we’re barely over it when the plane disappears into the clouds. The flight down to Brussels is smooth enough, it’s one of those planes that have the wings on top of the plane instead of out of the side of it, so it’s noisy as fuck the whole way, but despite the high clouds, the ride is fine. It’s been pissing down in Europe for the last couple of weeks and much of France has been under water, as was the case even in Southern Sweden this morning, so fuck knows what weather awaits us down there. And the thought of playing a festival in a big of mud isn’t the most appetising. I’m sat writing on the plane, on the back row, waiting to order a beer from the guy with the trolley. He seems to be taking an age. It’s finally my turn once we’re long into the decent, but I’ve had my mind set on a beer the entire flight so I’m not to be deterred. I order a can of Leffe. Turns out the card machine the guy has is fucked, well the zero button doesn’t work, and my pin code has two zeros in it. After numerous attempts the guy just takes it back and tells me it’s on the house. Dancer.
We land and make our way to the transfer busses. There is a fair bit of hustle and bustle here since the recent terror attacks have resulted in a big increase in security. There are machine guns everywhere. There are plenty of signs for the bus but none of them seem to make any sense. When we finally find the station we notice that the last bus went an hour ago. So it’s in a fucking Joe Baxi then. Some old cunt picks us up and drives us ten minutes and charges us twenty euros for the pleasure. We hadn’t even noticed the sticker on the window informing “No cards”, but as luck would have it Andy happened to have cash on him. Could have been a tricky situation. The old fucker refuses to give a receipt too. Feels like we’ve been had.
We head into the reception of the Ibis Budget hotel we’re staying at where we’re greeted by a rather tired looking receptionist and a rabble of what I immediately assume to be Brits. You can tell them a mile off. All old boys, shaved heads, crap tats and crap clothes, most of them half pissed up and talking loudly. Don’t miss them. As we’re checking in I notice the buzzer sounding from the door where some old boy is pressing repeatedly, not understanding why the door isn’t opening for him. When we come out of our rooms having dumped our bags we find the same old boy and his mate, slowly pressing in the code on the door for their room. The four of us instinctively know that they’re not going to figure it out. “It’s not facking workin’” moans one of them whilst the other nods at us one by one, “Alright. Alright. Alright,” he greets us as we pass him in the corridor trying not to laugh.
We head over to the larger Ibis hotel opposite, where they seem to have a bar and a restaurant. We walk in and find it’s full or football Brits, none of them under forty. We order a large Jupiler each and head to the beer garden where thankfully it’s a lot quieter. We enjoy a couple of pints and enjoy the garden. It’s nice to be halfway to the Fest with just a short flight to finish off the journey tomorrow. Johan had got talking to some guy by the bar who was on his way to Hellfest but had missed his connecting flight, he was now getting pissed and worried that he’s going to fuck up tomorrow’s journey. I imagine there will be a few rockers on the flight tomorrow.
It’s one thirty by the time Jon and I retire, a little too late maybe, but it had been a nice night and worth it. I’ve only had three beers but do feel a little mushy. We wake a little late and no time for breakfast, we head straight downstairs to the bus stop. In plenty of time we grab some expensive breakfast at the airport and then make our way to the gate. All going smoothly, until we board and step onto the transfer bus.
We’re stood there for twenty minutes with no driver. I look at the time, it’s already passed our allotted take off slot. No info, stood around on a packed bus, starting to get pissed off. When some guy finally comes he drives about the airport grounds looking lost, as if he doesn’t know what plane we’re supposed to be heading to. We finally pull up at the side of some small plane at the far end of the airport and there we wait a little longer, a stressed out looking stewardess stood in the doorway at the top of the stairs. When we finally board the flight we’re told that the ground staff at the airport have gone on strike this morning and by the looks of it no checked in luggage will be coming with us because there is simply nobody working to bring it to the flight. For that matter, they don’t even know where the luggage is.
Balls. This sucks. We have no equipment and no merch with us. And if this plane doesn’t take off soon we’re soon going to be in danger of even making our stage time.
We’re now in Nantes. The flight took off an hour late, but we’ve managed to contact the festival and they’ve sorted guitars and drums out for us. The stewardess on the flight was also really cool, and she’s given us some numbers to ring. We’ll have to try sorting our baggage out after the gig today though. The guys in Paris are a little less optimistic about finding all the gear we need to lend for the show tomorrow. Luckily an old friend of the band is playing with us tomorrow so hopefully we can work something out. Still, without the merch we’re losing a lot of money. We’ll see what we can do. We’re staying at a hotel by the aiport tonight and not flying until three pm tomorrow. Fucking hope the bastard gear turns up. Still, could be worse. There are a couple of festival goers on the plane that have lost their bags, one guy is looking pretty distraught, saying his tent and everything is in his bag. Another guy from Canada, comes up to us and wishes us luck for the show. He’s in the shit too. No tent, no clothes, no jacket. Fuck spending the weekend at a muddy festival without any of that lot. Fuck spending the weekend at a muddy festival full stop I guess.
Almost at the festival now, we’re on in an hour. It’s raining.
Wednesday, June 15, 2016
We take breakfast at the Waiting Room today, sat outside in the sun eating bagels and drinking black coffee. Miles is travelling with us in the van today, he’s coming to the show tonight and then continuing up to his home town of Barnsley for a few days. He’s been in Australia for a while and now he’s back he’s homeless, drifting from sofa to sofa whilst working a few different jobs. Not a situation I envy but he seems ok with it, he’s talking about moving up to Leeds. I’m amazed by the fact that he’s never been to Nottingham.
We can’t get into the Bird’s Nest until midday but we’re in no rush, we don’t have to be at the venue in Nottingham until six according to Andy EGS, although the guys have invited us to a garden barbeque at Jeremie’s place. That would have been really nice to attend, I was there last year with Polly, we had a punks and kids get together at his place with some friends from Nottingham, something that would be nice to make into a yearly tradition. Anyway, with a four hour drive and London traffic to navigate, making it for the barbeque is very unlikely. After picking up the gear from the Nest and dropping most of it off back at Marv’s studio, we say goodbye to the Deptford crew and head over to DIY Space with Kev to pick up a speaker cabinet that Steve from Molluch had left when they played here a few months ago. We’re punk DHSing it up to Nottingham for them, and using it at the gig tonight. We all help each other out, as it should be.
They’re having a clothes swap at DIY Space today, would have been fun to have a deek at, but time pressing we say bye to Kev and make our way north. Kev is looking forward to a well earned relaxing day at Ellie’s. He’s put shows on three nights in a row now and is understandably knackered. It takes a while to get out of London of course, and with me and Gordon sat up front nattering away we miss a couple of turns, which delays things a little. It’s great being able to catch up with Gordon properly though. I’ve kind of been looking forward to this journey today since I knew it would give us the chance to have a good talk, something we don’t get the chance to do all that much anymore. He’s still one of my best mates and we’ve been through so much together in Speedhorn, but life pulls you in different directions and that’s the way it is.
We have a really nice chat during the four hour journey whilst most of the guys snooze wearily in the back of the van. There is a lot of talk about Speedhorn, of course, but not only that, about life in general. About work, ambitions and what we’re hoping to do with the next few years, kids, marriage, the lot. I was Gordon’s best man at his wedding a couple of years ago, and he and Katy are very important people in my life, it’s too bad we don’t get to see each other more than we do. Gords tells me certain things about Speedhorn today that don’t come as any surprise, but it’s nice to hear that in general he’s really happy with how it’s going. We talk about the last record we made, and how in hindsight maybe we should have started a new witha new name before releasing that album. I’m kind of torn on that one. We’re both really proud of that album, and it was a bit of a departure from Speedhorn’s past, but at the same time we finally got the band to where I wanted it to be musically and I’m kind of glad that we put that out as our last album. At the same time, Gordon is right in suggesting that had we started with a new name then then the album would probably have had a bigger lift and we might have carried on longer. But I don’t know, it was probably time to call it a day anyway. As soon as we’d released that album I knew I didn’t want to write an album long distance again, it was far too demanding flying fucking Ryanair to practice over a the period of a year.
With all this gabbing, we miss the turn for Nottingham off the A14 and get stuck behind a horse transporter on a small narrow lane for about twenty minutes. It’s a bit of a pain in the balls but we get to see some of the English countryside up close. We get to Nottingham just before six, although it takes a while to localise the venue. We played here in 2009 on my first trip to the UK with Victims, but the venue is very anonymous, hidden above a pub on a one way street. We get to the right address anyway and I jump out of the van to find the place when I hear Jeremie shouting me from down the street, big smile on his face as always. Andy, Gords and Steve are just behind him beginning the load out into the small alleyway beside the venue. It’s good to see these guys again. It’s a great feeling organising shows with friends. I’ve said it fuck knows how many times but the thing I love more than anything about playing DIY shows is that in every town you get to meet good friends. And tonight that is very much the case with EGS and Skiplickers playing, plus a bunch of other friends who live in Nottingham coming to the show. Shame we’ll have to leave right after the gig…
We load the gear up three flights of stairs to the small function room above the cafe/bar above the pub. Henry Molluch from the 539 Collective who booked the show tonight has tubs of warm kale stew with him and Jeremie has brought a bag with a few leftover beers from the barbeque. The food is great, and this bottle of Hot Mint sauce takes the fucker over the edge. Absolutely stunning. I hadn’t planned on drinking at all tonight, the thought of feeling booze groggy at the airport in the middle of the night not particularly appealing, but it’s pretty balmy in here and the early evening sun is shining through the windows of the cafe. A bottle of San Miguel hits the sweet spot, it turns out. There’s even room for a second.
My old childhood friend James turns up and we catch up for a bit, always great to see him. We had our first band together, Morphine. We’ve both come a long way since then. James tells me that his band Grey Hairs has just recorded a new record. Looking forward to that. Steve Molluch is also here, he’s very happy about his cab being returned. He’s always smiling anyway, always got a cheeky look on his face.
After eating we take a walk around the city centre in the last of the daylight. It’s a very pleasant June evening here in Robin Hood town. There are people sat at tables outside of all the pubs and I could easily take a place at any one of them. How I now wish we were flying back later tomorrow. I’d seen Gords and Steve outside the pub beside the venue earlier drinking two of the most gorgeous looking pints of pilsner I’ve ever seen. Fucking gagging. But with two in the system already I knew I’d have to leave it. Gords follows us as we stroll around, we take a deek at the castle where of course there is a pub with a load of people sat outside enjoying themselves. We went to this very pub when we were here with DB a couple of years ago. It claims it’s the oldest pub in Nottingham, almost nine hundred years old. That’s quite amazing really. Funny, I swear the pub beside the venue had the same claim written on it’s facade too..
Anyway, time getting on, we head back to the venue, I don’t want to miss any of the bands tonight. Gords heads back to his van for a bit of kip so he’s rested up enough to catch us play later and then drive us three hours to Heathrow. When we get back the Skiplickers guys are hanging outside, I clock Weird Chris first in the gang mulling around outside. It’s good to see him and Bry. They ask how the London shows were, I tell them they were good. The DIY Space show was really fun, lots of people I tell them. “Did you enjoy some cucumber water?” snorts Weird Chris. He’s an outspoken critic of London in general and has previously made his feeling clear about DIY Space. God knows. To my amusement Bry says that he’s played there a few times and really liked the venue, Chris doesn’t look convinced. We head inside just as the first band start playing. You wouldn’t have known it since the cafe bar still has music playing, which seems a bit cack but then I guess there isn’t a bar upstairs and they want to keep people here drinking. I head up at the faint sound of drums and I’m a little surprised to see EGS already into their set. The small room is almost full. Henry sat by the door gives me a satisfied nod as I shuffle into the room.
EGS are absolutely superb tonight. The majority of the material they play is from their newly recorded album. It sounds fucking brilliant! Can’t wait to hear it when it’s out. Sometimes you forget what a fucking drummer Steve is. I mean, you don’t forget, he’s Steve from Heresy, an absolute legend, but he’s so unassuming, at least when he’s sober. I can’t take my eyes of him whilst they play, just a phenomenal drummer. But then Andy and Gords are both pretty fucking masterful on their instruments too. It’s an absolute pleasure watching them play, I wanting to just get up on stage and play now. Andy takes time out between songs to mention the seven inch they’re selling to help fund Victims, and then he speaks about how the song from it is about testosterone foaming bullies who infringe people’s lives with violence. He notes that this very town has it’s fair share of scum who thrive on making other’s lives miserable. “Fuck em, just fuck em”, he shakes his head solemly before furiously screaming the lyrics to the song whilst playing at breakneck speed. Blows me away, and at the same time leaves me pondering what he’d said.
Gords also takes some time later in the set to touch upon a poignant subject, namely the sudden passing of an absolute legend of the scene, Brandon Ferrell. Brandon was really young and suddenly, heartbreakingly left the world, leaving young twins and a wife behind. Vik was friends with him and he’s been really down about it. A lot of people have. It’s so sad. Brandon was an amazingly talented musician and songwriter, leaving a superb catalogue behind him with bands like Direct Control, Wasted Time and Government Warning, to name but a few. Nobody seems to really know what happened yet but it’s left a lot of people gutted, he’s one of those who had friends all over the world, many of my friends among them. Gords gives a heartfelt speech about how horrible it is to lose someone so important from the scene, people our age who just, die. After some gentle applause EGS go into their last song, a longish song from the new record that has a hint of Killing Joke about it. Brilliant way to end the set.
I’d been really looking forward to seeing Obstuct, who were added quite late to the bill, I really like their lp. But unfortunately their set is hindered by various technical problems tonight. The crowd is in full attendance and willing but it doesn’t quite get going. First off the one guitarist breaks a string, and not having a spare guitar takes a painfully long time changing a string, which drags out over three or four songs. He doesn’t look rushed in the slightest. It’s not too bad since they have two guitars anyway, but then the singer’s mic lead starts cutting out without him seeming to notice so they do a couple of songs with only three of the five members playing. They are really good though and the songs they do all play together sound great. The bass player has a great Totalitär t-shirt too. The thing that surprises me is how young they all look. And they also have a young kid with them, obviously a mate travelling with them, who is done up in all the right skinhead attire. I must be at least fifteen years older than this crew. Weird, I always assume everyone is the same age as me. Before they started I’d caught up with Avi, the Dry Heaves singer a little. Always a pleasure. He’s driving Obstruct and he tells me they’d came down from a Glasgow show the night before. That’s a good old drive.
Skiplickers, and Bry in particular, are as spot on as ever. Just a really solid d-beat band, but Bry’s persona gives them something extra. What a great fucking line up tonight is, a pleasure to be involved. Bry says between songs that the first time they played this venue was in 2008, which surprises me a little since I didn’t realise they’d been going that long. I think they’ve only released two seven inches in that time! “We probably played this song that night anyway,” says Bry as they blast into the last banger of the set. Proper fucking good!
We get set up as quickly as possible once Skiplickers are done. The room isn’t all the full by the time we start with Death Do Us Part, I’d suspected this would be the case, but by the time we get a few songs into the set the room is absolutely full. I love floor shows. I can only see the front row of people, where Jeremie is stood in the middle, watching Johan’s mic stand, as is Steve Molluch who is clenching his fist, lapping it up. I spot James just hidden in the second row, keeping a solid eye on me, as well as Gords Speedhorn stood up on a stool near the back as well as Gords EGS who is stood up high at the back taking photos. It sounds absolutely perfect when we play, the set just plays itself and leaves me the freedom to just flail around and enjoy every second of it. About half way through the set, as people are rolling around on hands holding them aloft, a wave of people come crashing on the “stage” and fall into Johan. I notice Jeremie picking them all up and placing his foot at the bottom of Johan’s mic stand to try and prevent Johan getting any teeth knocked out during the rest of the set. It’s a really, really fun show. I’m a little disappointed when I see Andy giving me the cutthroat sign afterwards as people are shouting for more, I guess he’s feeling fucked.
Jon is chuffed afterwards, he comes up and says some old boy had approached him as he was packing up and said, “I saw Discharge five times before they were shit and they blew me away. Tonight, you guys blew me away”. Strong words. As I head downstairs to take care of merch I pass Henry in the doorway looking chuffed, “Sold out on a Sunday night, can’t ask for more than that!”
I hang out downstairs with Gords and James, sweating my ass off whilst trying to participate in the conversation. Jon arrives with a perfectly chilled can of Bulmer’s cider in his paw. It’s about the best thing I’ve ever tasted. It’s enough with a sip though, we’re leaving soon and I can’t be arsed stopping for constant piss breaks on the way to the airport. The night seems to end very suddnenly and I don’t really get the chance to hang out with the Nottingham crew afterwards. I chat a little while to Kellp Apple, who has moved here from London since we last met, she seems to be doing well, seems happy. It’s quite nice to stand and talk about other things than just punk. She’s asking about how the family are and things went with school. She does take the time to bash the whole Temples thing though, she’s been an active combatant to the whole sham online, calling the asshole out who has fucked over a lot of people. Good on her. We, like many other friends, have been shafted by that guys ego. Although hopefully this weekend has gone some way to making us some of that lost money back. I really can’t afford to do this and lose money, which I do simply by coming away since most of the extra work available to me being a student, is at the weekends. So I’m double fucked. On that note, Andy EGS gives me fifty quid from sales of the limited seven inch he did for tonight. By that, I am truly, truly humbled. What a beautiful gesture.
It feels like it’s been a little too brief, Nottingham. It feels like before we know it everyone is packed up and ready to go. Gords EGS has made us some of his infamous keyrings, custom Victims ones. With that as a parting gift we get the van around to the venue and make to go. I’m still wearing my soaked through Paranoid t-shirt when we leave, I make a mental note to change that when we make a stop for petrol. I sit up front with Gords and chat for a while. He tells me it’s weird seeing me playing in another band, but at the same time he really loves it. He’s raving about this weekend, he says he’s had a really good time watching us every night. It’s been great hanging out with him. I’m so grateful to him for helping us out.
When we pull over for a gas stop I change tops, it’s fucking cold now and I’m freezing as I switch. I head into the garage shop and pick up a couple of packets of crisps for supper. We chat for a little while longer once back on the M1 until Gords kindly tells me to get my head down and kip. There’s a pillow laying on the front seat that Gords tells me belongs to Paul Cook, the Sex Pistols drummer. He’s been out in Gords’ van recently. Funny that. Cookie’s pillow comes in just handy. I close my eyes and the next time I open them time has moved on three hours and we’re pulling into Heathrow airport. It’s now three am. Check in for our flight begins at five. We line up to give Gords some hugs and thank him again. He says he’s going to give heading straight back to Cardiff a go since Katy is home for the night before heading off to Leeds for her next job.
I’m fucking freezing as we walk towards the departure hall. It’s the tiredness more than the temperature itself I think, although the we’re all shivering as we walk across the road. With not much to do, we print out our boarding cards and find some floor to sleep on. The lights in the hall were dimmed just nicely as we entered but of course, as soon as we lay down they brighten. I’m not sure if I get any more sleep, it’s hard to tell. The others seem to be clocked out though.
We wake at five and head through security after dropping our bags and we’re on the flight to Oslo at seven. I sleep pretty much the whole way. We have only a short stop there of forty five minutes and we’re on the short flight from Oslo to Stockholm at ten am. I decide from there on in there is no point in sleeping any more and order the first coffee of the day, the first of many that will be needed for the day ahead. It’s Sweden National Day today and everyone is off, including Polly, who will want to play when I get home.
I sit by the window next to a couple of women. The middle aged woman sat in the middle seat pulls out her laptop and begins to type furiously, she’s completely immersed in her work. She doesn’t look up once during the entire flight, not during take off, not as the wheels touch back down. I can’t help but look what is so engrossing. I’m a bit taken aback by it all. It seems very much like she’s writing a letter to her husband, Gustav, telling him that their marriage is over. It’s a very depressing letter, full of self loathing. I notice the woman in the aisle seat has put her book to rest and is now looking horrified at the woman’s laptop. The letter writer is hardly being bashful about writing this thing. Poor Gustav.
Fucking weird end to a hazy journey home.