Latte Pappa

I've never been a morning person. Ever. For as long as I remember I've embraced the stillness of the late, lonely hours hours of night. When I was a kid I loved the feeling of being awake past midnight whilst the rest of the household slept. There was something so very comforting about it. Even when I got older and school at eight-thirty became work at six did I have a hard time getting my head down before midnight, even if it meant sacrificing a few hours sleep.

I guess the reason I've never been a morning person is that I'm always fucking knackered in the a.m, which is obviously my own fault. That may change in a couple of months time when our baby arrives, and then again it may not. Let me make it clear though, I don't have a problem getting out of bed after a few measly winks, I'm just a grumpy bastard for the first hour or so.

On this particular occasion I had an early rise for my six-forty five train to Heathrow from Corby and all I wanted to do was close my eyes and sleep through the journey. After five days of Christmas eating and boozing with my family and friends in the UK I was fucking beat. I was looking forward to getting home to my wife, her big belly and my dog. The thing is, even though my exchange at St. Pancras was the final stop for the train I was on, I still felt a little nervous about sleeping through so I forced myself to stay awake. I'd have to settle for a nap on the plane later. I sat down in my reserved seat by the window in the empty carriage and dosily gazed at the scenery between Corby and Kettering.

At Kettering it all went wrong...

A guy who looked to be about my age alights the train carrying his baby boy in one of those chest harness things and shifts along the aisle to my table. I shoot him a friendly glance and then return my gaze to the window. Fucking typical! The only other people on this carriage and they're sharing a table with me. The guy makes a bit of a fuss unharnessing his son and sorting his bags out before plonking down in the seat opposite me. The whole while I can feel him trying to make eye contact with me. I shoot him another quick look, give a compulsory smile to his son and then in what turns out to be a mistake, let out a slightly over the top yawn and return my eyes once again to the window.

“Tough morning?” he asks. Fuck. That was not supposed to be a conversation starter. Quite the opposite in fact. “Nah, just a bit early” I reply, “I've got a long journey ahead”.

“I'm going to Norway” he immediately replies, with just a slight tone of competitiveness in his voice. “I'm going to Sweden” I reply with more than a hint of pathetic, one-upmanship about it. “Fair enough, you win”, he says without even a hint of a smile on his face. I know then that the quiet journey I'd longed for is doomed.

If I'd been worried about how I'd manage to churn out small talk for the next hour or so, I needn't have bothered, my fellow passenger, Asa, did most of the talking. I certainly started the ball rolling though, and what a fucking ball it turned out to be. It was more like that boulder in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Note for the future: Don't comment on anyone else's kid if you're not prepared to get into a dialogue about it and don't mention that you are expecting a kid yourself.. If only I'd known then what I know now..

“He seems like a happy little chap” I say, unable to deflect the weight of Asa's gaze any longer. I don't know where that came from, it doesn't even sound like me, although the kid was undeniably cute and he was sat across the table smiling at me, making him nigh on impossible to ignore. I felt I had to say something. “He certainly doesn't get that from his mother” comes Asa's reply, a look of untamed misery on his face. I knew then that things had just gotten a whole lot worse for me...

For the next hour or so I'm battered with an onslaught of Asa's sob story, with tips about how to bring up a small child and advice on how to keep my relationship with Jen together under the duress of parenthood. Asa is brutally bitter about how things have turned out between himself and his girlfriend since he moved to Oslo and they had their kid. Ironically this barrage started with the question, “Can I give you one bit of advice?” cue pause, although he's clearly not expecting an answer from me. “Take ten seconds... Before you react, take ten seconds..” he says it like he's just hit me with some radical new relationship technique he'd discovered whilst trekking through the mystical mountains of life experience... I nod solemnly. “Of course, she never took ten seconds, no no..” And from there it rolled.

He told me that he was joining the Royal Navy and mapped out the plan he had for his life and his son's upbringing for the next ten years. The whole while I keep glancing out the window, praying for the train to hurry along.. Wellingborough...Bedford..forty minutes to go. The verbal dissecting of his ex continued.. He had to work nights, she had no job yet still couldn't manage to take care of the kid in the mornings.. She was supposed to study. Study? Yeah that went well...

And then it was the turn of Norwegian society as a whole to hear what for. People are very closed. They say they're happy to speak English but unless you can speak Norwegian you have no chance of a job. Your education in England counts for fuck all. You have to start from scratch again and you will never, ever be accepted in the long run anyway. His job sucked. He was a bar manager apparently, and yet he was never given any hours.

My head is seriously being done in by this point. He seems to be completely undeterred by my lack of interaction. The boy starts to shift around and fuss, now waking from the sleep that his dad's ranting had no doubt induced. He really is cute, I have to say. Blond hair, huge blue eyes. Scando prototype. Asa stands up and starts to bounce on his heels a little, to settle the boy down. He then tells me that he'll need to walk up and down the aisle for a while, which by the way is something I'll have to get used to in the future. Taking a train and reading a book, fucking forget it! Won't be doing that again until I've retired apparently.. “At last!” I gasp inwardly, as Asa starts up the aisle. “If I'm talking too much, just let me know” he says. Why? Why can't I just fucking say to him, “You know what mate, you really are. Can you please just shut the fuck up for a while?”

“No mate, it's fine”. I hate myself...

He continues to ramble on as he walks up and down the aisle. There are other passengers in the carriage now, but it seems it's only me that's aware of them. Up and down, up and down, all the while giving me tips on how to get my kid to sleep whilst in transit. The funny thing is, the kid seems to be having none of it. He's attached to Asa's chest in that harness thing, pawing him in the face and gargling in that cute way they do. Eventually Asa stops back at our table. There is a woman sat directly behind him, opposite me, looking on with the slightest of smirks on her face. She can obviously see the torture that's being set upon me. “Gareth, do you have any friends back home that you can talk to? I mean, really talk to?”

“Err, yeah I guess I do..” Asa nods his head, his eyes closing as he does so, as if he's genuinely relieved to hear me say so. “Good, because you should warn them that there are going to be times when you need to talk to them. And you know what? There are going to be times when you need to cry, and when that happens, you just have to let it out.” His eyes are actually welling up as he says this to me. I'm actually starting to wonder if some fucker is filming me. I wouldn't be surprised if Beadle pops up with a ticket collector's uniform on and prods a microphone in my face announcing I'm on Candid Camera!

But Beadle never arrives, and Asa is seemingly on the verge of emotional collapse.

I hurriedly change tack. I ask him how long he'd been in the UK for Christmas and if he'd had a nice time. “A week. It was ok..” Ok, next question. I realise now that it's up to me to steer this sinking ship. I ask him how often his parents come to visit. “Once! They came when the boy was born and that's it. And they have the nerve to say that I don't stay in touch! I mean, my sister moved to Australia and yet I'm the one who has turned my back on the family?!” Balls...

We were nearing Luton now. Only another twenty minutes to go. Thankfully Asa is travelling to Gatwick, so I'm nearing the end of this agony. But Asa is still not quite done.. He asks me if we've thought of any names yet. I give him the standard answer, that we have a few ideas but you never know do you? I mean, until the baby actually arrives. “We had agreed that she would get to choose the name if it was a girl, and I would get to choose if it was a boy. Well, that didn't happen!” Asa, you are killing me here! I can't actually remember what the boy's first name was, so numb was my head by this point, but I do remember that his middle name was Attila. “Yeah, I got that one in at least. She hates it!”.

The train finally pulls in to London St. Pancras. I shake Asa's hand and wish him good luck for the future. I wonder how on earth he's going to stand the Royal Navy, or how indeed they're going to stand him. I can just imagine the fucker cracking one day and walking around the ship at night stabbing his fellow sailors in their sleep.

It's about six weeks until our baby arrives. I have no idea how it's going to feel to hold my kid in my arms for the first time, how overwhelming it's going to be to bring it home from the hospital and realise that for the rest of my life I'm going to be a dad. Adulthood has finally arrived. It's scary as fuck, but it's also unbelievably exciting. It's going to be weird doing all those parent/kid things again, this time with me taking on the parent roll. I do know one thing. If I can do half the job my parents did for me, then we'll be ok. I hope Asa will be as well. He was a boring bastard no doubt, but I did feel sorry for him. Thankfully though, instead of being scared to death by his tales of parenting woe, I find myself reassured that we're good.

A couple of days earlier I'd met my old friend Mike and his new baby boy, Colt. Mike hasn't had the easiest life, but despite being dealt a shit hand a lot of the time, he's remained incredibly strong. Not many would have coped with the shite he's had to go through. When I knocked on the door, it was the first time I'd met him since Colt arrived. I've never seen Mike so happy, he literally had tears of pride and joy welling up in his eyes. His pride in his new baby son filled me with a feeling of comfort because I knew I'd be feeling exactly the same way in about six weeks time...

The Long Road Home...

The tour continued, a few more days.. It felt like we should have flown home from New York, it felt like that would have been the natural end to to things. Instead, we found ourselves still with a mammoth journey back to the middle of the country, Texas. Houston to be exact. And there were still a few remaining shows to play.

It was hard to get the momentum going again after what had been a little holiday in New York City. I'd almost forgotten that there was still work to be done. The atmosphere on the bus was heavy. Dutch, by this point, was barely talking to any of us and severely missing his wife. He'd told us as much. We'd joked with him on the way down to Virginia, asking him what was the worst, as in most mental, band he'd ever had on his bus. “You are fucking taking the piss right?! You guys are by far the craziest bunch of idiots I've ever met. No question.” We laughed. He didn't.

As if to punctuate the slow, winding down of this latter stage of the tour, Dutch told us that we'd unequivocally have to cancel the last two shows, which were in Florida. I don't know if he'd simply had enough of us and wanted to get back to his wife or what. To be honest though, the last date of the tour was in Ft. Lauderdale and if we played that show, we'd have about twenty four hours to make it back to Houston and catch our flight. Sense prevailing, we'd have to cancel the shows. It still felt like a welcome convenience for Dutch though. I hate cancelling shows for any other reason than a force majeure, it goes against everything I stand for. I did my best to explore all the options with Dutch, but he was having none of it. To be fair, he was right. And it wasn't his fault. We'd make a fuck up when booking the flights, if the truth is told.

So, we were heading down to Virginia for a couple of nights and then we'd play our final gig in Atlanta. In hindsight it would have been pretty insane to then head back to Florida only to race all the way back again over to Houston for our flight. We'd never have made it. Hopping off in Atlanta and driving back to Texas from there made far more sense. I was still pretty gutted though, it would have been fun to play Florida.

The drive down to Springfield, Virginia didn't take long. I wonder if this is the Springfield where the Simpsons live? It's funny how fast you get back in to the flow of the tour anyway. By the time we'd loaded the gear in and hooked up with the SG guys it felt like we'd never had a day off. It was a warm, sunny day in Virginia. Real t-shirt weather. My sagging spirits were immediately lifted and thoughts of home were once again put on the back burner. I've always had a hard time dealing with the last few days of tour, once the thoughts of home and your own bed, your wife and family start creeping in, it's hard to shake. There have been a few long tours where I've been completely miserable by the last few dates, more likely down to exhaustion than anything else I guess. I'd gotten over that by this point in time though, you have to realise there is no point dwelling on it, that it doesn't make time go any faster, that's for sure.

The venue in Springfield was a large hall with one of those big, high stages. There was just the one large, communal dressing room for all of the bands. It was nice seeing our touring friends again. The relationships you form on tour really are like no other. It gets to be this intense friendship and then when you part ways, it's over. Very few do you stay in regular contact with afterwards, even if you've felt like best friends having hung out every day for the preceding four or five weeks. Still, the great thing is that those friendships can usually be picked up immediately next time you see each other again. I had the feeling that the SG guys wouldn't be staying in touch with Nile after this tour though. There was still a lot of bad feeling about the whole merch situation. We told the guys that we were forced to pull the Florida shows, they told us they were considering doing the same.

We'd become pretty good chums with the Hypocrisy guys by now too. Pete, who is a bit of deal in the metal production world, had been talking to us about recording Speedhorn sometime. Fun as that was to hear, and flattering too, I couldn't see it happening. But you never knew what might be around the corner. It's just one of those things I'd heard so many times, and whether due to us not following it up or it just being bullshit in the first place, it never happened. Still, it was good to be hanging out with everyone in the big dressing room sharing a beer or two. Ironic really that with only three shows to go, I finally felt like we'd broken the ice with the majority of the touring party. The SG guys apart, we were probably completely out of place with everyone, but it felt like we'd been accepted if nothing else.

I don't really remember the show. It was just another one of those big, characterless halls. I don't think it was the worst gig though, since we actually had some girls hitting on us afterwards. We were in good spirits and most likely a little drunk and there was a party atmosphere in the dressing room. There was a fussball table and ping pong, and we were all taking part, even the Nile guys, which as much as they'd been pretty alien to everyone else on this tour, still felt nice that they were getting involved. Maybe like us, they were just a little misunderstood and out there on their own a bit..

Anyway, me and Kev are sat on this sofa and all of a sudden there are these two young girls, they must be twins since they looked very alike, unashamedly hitting on us. Fuck knows how they'd gotten in here. Anyway, they're giving it all the classic stuff like, “Ooh I love your accent!” and then mimicking everything I say and giggling. To be fair, it was quite cute and I didn't really feel the need to create any polite distance between us until one of them started gently rubbing my back. Daz, being single, rightly so cottoned on to what was happening and moved his way in. The girls seemed to have their sights on me and Kev though. “Are you guys brothers? You look really alike..” I cracked up at that. Me and Kev? Funny thing is, we do share the same birthday.. I thought this was an interesting fact that deserved sharing. “It's funny because, we do have the same birthday and we're exactly ten years apart.” I hadn't really thought about what I was saying, I was just babbling on in my married guy, haven't got a clue I'm being hit on and just warbling on with some nonsense routine. I was therefore a little shocked when Kev roughly dug his elbow into my ribs, “Five years!!!” I almost spat my beer out when I saw the distressed look on his face.

I hadn't really realised that Daz was pissed up, not like that was unusual in any way, but his patter and the slightly wonky left eye soon gave him away. He was making his move on the girls. “You know it's funny, because he's Gareth Smith, and I'm Darren Smith! But we're not brothers either, although a lot of people ask us if we are..” It's total Homer Simpson stuff, fitting I suppose considering the name of the town we're in. Not long after this, the girls leave, either unimpressed or realising it's not going to happen. After that we get back to hanging out with the rest of the guys. It's one of those drunk photo session nights that normally happen somewhere near the end of a tour. I got a great picture of Brian and Kev. Now they did look like brothers. It was fun listening to them talk, being a similar age and having grown up listening to the same bands, I could have listened to them reminisce the whole night.

The next day we were in Norfolk, Virginia, another short drive. The Springfield show would turn out to be the last big party night for us and the other bands. Also another common occurrence.. We knew we'd be leaving straight after the Atlanta show, so it was best to do all the contact exchanging and pics a day or two before. I remember next to nothing of the Norfolk show, except that it was another big venue with one of those classic billboards you only seem to see in the States. It's always a buzz seeing your band's name outside a venue. The place held about fifteen hundred people and there were a lot attending. I do remember feeling pretty satisfied with both the Virginia shows and thinking that we'd had a pretty good run since the New York gig. As said earlier, by now the standard of what made a good show had substantially lowered. Not getting spat on was considered somewhat a success.

There was still that overhanging feeling of being ready to go home though. We'd been out a long time and a lot of shite had come our way since leaving Heathrow for these shores in what seemed like a lifetime before. We'd all pretty much had enough of other for now. Just the small things were getting on my tits, like Lasse sitting for hours on end on the bus playing this acoustic guitar he'd picked up somewhere along the line. Lasse is an insane guitarist and it is genuinely inspiring to watch him play, his fingers contorted in all sorts of mad shapes over the fretboard, but after a few weeks it was tapping on my nerves. As was Dutch's constant moaning. I personally couldn't wait for Dutch to meet his wife again, something he would do on the penultimate day of our trip. The guy needed to seriously fuck away some pent up tension.. When I come to think of it, even the Meshuggah album, the admittedly superb 33, was now seriously getting on my tits. We'd played it to death on this tour..

Yes. It was certainly time to go home.. In hindsight I wish I'd taken the time to have a look around the city of Norfolk. We were there early with nothing to do and it seemed like a nice enough place with a river running through it. Like I say though, thoughts were mainly on staving off exhaustion, both mental and physical, and getting home.

And so on to the last show we drove. Atlanta, Georgia... No matter how you're feeling at the end of a tour, no matter how tired you are and how desperate you are to see your family and lie in your own bed again, to be able to wake up in the morning and jump straight into a shower, it's always tough saying goodbye to friends you've been hanging out with every day for a month. So it felt today saying farewell to the Soilent Green crew. Even John, the Nile stage manager. I kind of felt empty all day, a mix of emotions..

We were playing a place called The Masquerade. It was a huge old, decrepit building. I guess it was once a factory or warehouse.. It was all crumbling grey concrete and dust. As usual, we were in a run down area, so even though it was a brilliantly sunny day, perfect walking conditions, I dared not venture too far. Mostly heeding advice from Dutch if I'm honest.

I walked a couple of blocks up a hill away from the venue and then back again. The surrounding area did indeed look pretty poor and just a little sketchy. As much as I love exploring big cities, this was just one I'd have to leave. I simply didn't have the energy. Maybe I'd be back in Atlanta another day in more preferable circumstances.

The big venue must have been capable of taking in a couple of thousand at full tilt, but the show tonight was maybe a third full. We had a very average gig. There were large gaps down the front of the crowd, something all too apparent from the high stage we were stood on. The sound on stage was pretty crap, as is usually the case on these big set-ups, especially when you're not the headlining band. Brian got up and played $30 Bag one last time with us though, which was fun as always, although it didn't quite have the same buzz as that first time in the considerably smaller venue in Rochester..

It was one of those nights when all of the bands seemed a little fazed. I guess everyone was feeling the burn. It felt like everyone was going through the motions.. As had often been the case, a large portion of the crowd left after Hypocrisy's set. I remember walking through the venue whilst they were playing and taking note of the large number of Hypocrisy t-shirts being worn. One guy struck me in particular. It was this mean looking black guy, who had a Darth Maul thing going on, with the yellow cat-like contact lenses and small horns sticking out of his forehead. He looked like a right knob but I obviously didn't feel the need to tell him that. He was going crazy for Hypocrisy anyway. I remember thinking to myself that he'd most likely be straight out of the door after their set..

The Mastodon guys were mingling around backstage and John seemed to be hanging out with them. We'd played with them in London a while before but hadn't really spoken to them then, although they'd stood side stage and watched our set They seemed like nice enough guys, although I didn't really understand quite why they'd become immersed in this huge hype. I like the first couple of albums but after that it got a bit boring in my opinion. It's funny because whenever a band starts to get big like that there's this presence that seems to come with it, and everyone around them is fussing and buzzing. I could almost tell that someone “famous” was hanging around backstage before I'd even seen them, just by the way people in the vicinity seemed to be acting. Weird.

I knew that Dutch would be itching to leave as soon as possible after this show and true enough he was. He was asking if we could pack up the merch early and head off, since we never sold anything anyway. It was a fair enough point, but it fucked me off all the same, and for that reason I told him no. The anxiety on his face was plain to see. His balls must have been the size of watermelons.

Of course, we sold a grand total of two t-shirts and then packed up when the house lights came on. And that was that. Dutch had us pack the van in lightning quick time. We said goodbye to the other bands and left the tour. Soilent Green were playing Florida after all. That night on the bus was a bit subdued to say the least. A couple of beers, a film and it was time for bed. Dutch had his foot down up front. I had the feeling he wasn't going to stop until we got to his place in Austin.

We arrived early the next afternoon. We'd spend the night here and then we'd be driving to Houston in the morning to make our flight home. Lasse had been in touch with that cute emo girl he'd hooked up with in San Antonio. They were going to meet up for the night, so he was off. He promised he'd be back in plenty of time in the morning. I joked with him that I had no problem leaving him here. The van was parked up by the time we'd awoken. Dutch had already gone, he'd left a note on the steering wheel saying he'd be back in a couple of hours and then he'd take us somewhere for dinner. Lasse was just heading off to meet emo girl. I waved him off and wished him happy times. The rest of us had the day in Austin, which suited me fine since it's one of my favourite cities in the States.

Dutch turned up a while later with his wife, who seemed to be a really nice lady. They took us to a Mexican restaurant just off the strip, around the corner from Emo's. It was a beautiful day and we sat out in the beer garden noshing on great food. Dutch was without any exaggeration, a completely new man! He had a smile cracking the sides of his face. I felt really happy for him. At the same time, sad, since I knew he was heading off on another tour with another bunch of idiots in five days time. I don't know if I could hack that.

After lunch Dutch headed home with his wife for some well deserved quality time together. The rest of us went to a bar and played pool for a couple of hours before heading back to the bus to watch a couple of films. It was a perfect final day off before we headed home. I went to bed wondering how Lasse was getting on...

I have to admit that I was a little surprised to see Lasse back early the next day, I was expecting a bit of drama if I'm honest. I asked him how it had went with Emo Girl. Not good apparently... She'd taken him for dinner with her family, something Lasse wasn't exactly expecting. What's worse, they were all strict Christians, something Lasse most certainly is not. It must have been uncomfortable to say the least. The girl seemed to be this whole other person from the one he'd met in San Antonio a month earlier. He'd gotten out of there as quick as he could.

Unlike Chicago airport on the way in, the customs officers at Houston couldn't give a fuck. They barely looked at us as we went through the checks. It's obviously a different matter when you're leaving their country. We flew a few hours to Chicago and then changed there. All very relaxed. We didn't even have to pick up the gear at the lay over this time around. We just had to get off and wait for the next flight which would take us to Heathrow.

We had about an hour at Chicago O' Hare. It's a huge airport. Fucking colossal! We'd been sat by our gate for about fifty minutes when Lasse decides he's heading off in search of a sandwich. I ask him if he thinks he'll have enough time, my tone clearly stating my doubt. The food court was a good fifteen minute walk away, and that would be for someone with two working legs.. “Yeah no problem..” he assures me. The fucker literally hobbles around the corner way down at the end of the hall, his broken leg weighed down by the plaster cast, when the lady by our gate announces we're boarding. Lasse doesn't come back..

I wait for a while and then decide I'm not missing my plane for him. I take his guitar on board with me and leave it with on of the stewardesses at the front of the plane. He eventually turns up, last one on the plane, with a chuffed grin on his face and a sandwich in his hand. It's not only us lot that are fucked off with him, “You must fucking love a drama, you!” I bark at him. “What's up?” he innocently enquires. You can't help but love the cunt...

Before we take off from Chicago, a steward asks me if I could consider swapping my seat with some guy so that he can sit with his pregnant wife. I'm only to happy to oblige, of course. I move my gear and I'm filled with a warm feeling when I see how grateful the guy is. I end up sitting next to some older guy, businessman by the look of him, who is instantly chatty. He turns out to be this really nice guy, who is deeply into blues and jazz music. He has some great old live music clips on his laptop that he's happy to share with me. The flight literally whizzes by as we talk to each other about everything music.

Until we get to up and above Iceland... The pilot comes on the intercom and like something out of a film, asks if there is a doctor on board. It turns out some guy at the back of the plane has had a heart attack. We make an emergency stop in Reykjavik. Well, it's not like we nose dive down to the runway or anything, but it's an unscheduled stop. It's all pretty sombre on board as the ambulance crew rush on to the plane and try and save the guy. I can't see what's happening but we're on the ground for a good hour and a half. I wonder what ever happened to him.. And then without word, we're lifting off again. Five hours later we're back in London.

And that was that, a weird end to a pretty weird tour.  

New York City

I heart New York City. It hasn't always been that way though. NYC and I had a bit of a rough start.

The first time I was here I had a bit of a nightmare. We were recording the We Will Be Dead Tomorrow album with Speedhorn. Twelve days in Billy and Danny Biohazard's studio just over the river underneath the Brooklyn Bridge. We were staying at the Gershwin Hotel on West 34^th. St. which was a pretty cool place, inhabited by poseurs and artsy fartsy types. We didn't really fit in there but then we didn't fit in anywhere. As cool as this all sounds though, and it was a fucking privilege to be in New York recording a record, we were all low on money. I think I had something like one hundred and fifty dollars to last me the almost two weeks we were there, which was supposed to be my food fund. Of course, we got steamboats the first night and by the morning of Day Two I had about twenty dollars left. New York is a hard place to be if you're broke. I spent most of my time in the studio anyway, but at that time I was young and didn't think the studio was as fun as I do now, in fact, it bored the tits off me, so I spent most of my two weeks in New York skint and fucking miserable. It wasn't the experience I'd hoped for.

I was convinced after that first visit that New York wasn't the place for me. The next time I was there I fell in love with the place..

I've never tried living there and I think maybe that if I did then I wouldn't handle it too well, much the same as London living would ill suit me I guess, but I love visiting the place and nowadays if I don't get to see the Big Apple at least every couple of years then I get withdrawals. Luckily, thanks in large part to playing in hardcore bands, I've had the chance to go there regularly since that first visit.

When we woke up in the van which was parked near the East River somewhere in Alphabet City, I had that familiar buzz that being in NYC gives me. As an added bonus, we had a day off. Kev and I were first up and the two of us got the fuck out of there as soon as we could. One thing neither of us could be arsed with today was trudging around Manhattan in part of a large group with everyone arguing.

It had been a pretty full on tour, the last time we'd had an actual day off that wasn't spent in the van was way back in El Paso, four days in. And that wasn't exactly a bag of laughs. We were now nearing the end of the tour though, and amazingly we were to spend three days in New York. We had one show which was sandwiched between two free days. Dutch had the van parked up, and apart from moving it back and forth to the venue tomorrow, he wasn't going anywhere until the early hours of the morning in three days time. After the hard slog this tour had been, these three days felt like a holiday.

Kev and I spent the day wondering around the southern part of Manhattan, checking out the usual stops like Generation Records and Bleeker Bob's. We got some great sushi by St. Marks that cost seven dollars, proving you can find cheap grub in New York if you look hard enough. For a while it was almost as if we forgot we were on tour, but then we bumped into Gordon and Jay, with John dragging behind. They seemed to be having a hard time deciding on where they were going or what they were doing. Kev and I fucked off quick smart, giving Gords a wry smile as we did so. I had the feeling he'd rather be walking about on his own. Fuck knows where Daz and Lasse were, they were still asleep in the van when the others had left. We decided we'd meet up later and go for dinner and some beers together anyway. Bianchi was flying in today for some other business, the flash fucker has always got business over here it seems, and was going to catch up with us later. It was always great to see Bianchi, especially out at a bar when he had his company credit card with him. It usually always ended in chaos. Bianchi may be a high flying business man these days, but like the rest of us, he's from Corby, and when Corby collides with Corby, the worst in you normally comes to the surface.

By the time we headed back to the van, sometime around six pm, we were fucking beat. We'd been walking around all day. The rest of the guys were already back. Daz had been in a bar for the best part of the afternoon and the others had joined him there for a couple later on. Lasse had been walking around the city on his own, putting the camera he'd finally gotten around to buying into use. Dutch was nowhere to be seen. After putting our feet up for a half hour we decided we'd head out for a drink and some grub.

After some dinner I took the metro up to mid-town and met up with Bianchi at his hotel for a “meeting”. It was basically an excuse to have a drink and talk shit. He was staying at some fancy gaff overlooking the park, of course. We drank a round of ridiculously expensive Manhattans, what else? and then headed up to his room and had a couple from the mini bar, whilst Bianchi played us some songs from his latest find, some pop band I can't remember the name of that were going to be the next big thing. Before long the old white powder came out, but not being into that shite, in fact it fucking winds me up, I was soon up for heading back out and meeting up with the rest of the boys. I didn't like it that all of a sudden I find myself in some bullshit, seedy little scene and it makes me uncomfortable. Just the cliché of it all is enough to make me puke.

We're soon out of there though and heading in a cab to meet up with the rest of the boys who have found themselves in an Irish bar somewhere around 20^th. This scene is just what I was hoping for. A quiet, easy going little place, in fact the only customers were our lot, a friendly bartender and a good pint. We sat at the bar chatting away to the Irish guy who was tending it whilst the drinks slowly slipped down. Bianchi is getting pretty drunk and telling me about some crisis he's going through, whilst Lasse has that cheeky look on his coupon and lobbying for a round of shots. I hadn't really noticed since I'd been sat at the other end of the bar from him, but Daz has slowly and silently gotten himself wankered, although now he wasn't being so silent about it. I don't know what he's said, but the bartender, who we've been getting on royally with all night, is now really pissed off with him. Knowing Daz he's probably called him a cunt and offered him outside, all in the name of humour of course. The bartender is well and truly fucked off with him though and tells him he has to leave. We all sit there in awkward silence as Daz and the bartender have a bit of a stand-off. Daz is refusing to leave. The bartender then comes around the bar, takes a hold of him and starts marching him out of there. Daz looks at us, smarmy grin on his face and calls for us to follow him. The bartender looks at us and says, “No no lads, you are all alright, it's just this prick that has to go.” Chuffed, we all stay where we're sat as Daz is unceremoniously thrown out. The bartender calmly walks back behind the bar and then lines up a row of complimentary shots for us. This is too fucking good to be true! I'm thinking. The bartender now has a broad smile across his face, as do we. We take the shots in hand, look down the length of the bar to the large window that looks out on the busy street, which Daz has his face pressed up against, looking like a sad puppy. We toast him and knock the shots back, the bartender joining us. We then all burst out laughing as Daz slunks off into the night. Fuck knows what Daz had done to offend him but we were chuffed enough. We really were a bunch of cunts when I think about it.

It's pretty late by the time we leave the bar, by which time we're all a bit sauced up. Gords, John and I go by a late night deli on the way back to the van and grab some sandwiches to munch on, the others head to another bar for “one last pint”. When we get back to the van Daz is sat there waiting for us. He looks pretty pissed off. I guess he's been sat here drinking on his own because he hasn't sobered up any. “Alright Daz?” Gords inquires, barely containing the smirk it's shot from. We sit down at the table and tuck into the sarnies. Before long Daz pipes up and let's us know we're a bunch of cunts for deserting him. John reasons that he was being a twat and that he felt it would have been an injustice if we'd all been made to suffer. The two of them start to bicker until eventually Daz mutters those famous last words, “Me and you outside.” He gets up and heads for the door, exuding an unshakable air of confidence. John barely stirs before he's finished off his food. When he's done he wipes the corners of his mouth for crumbs and then calmly stands up and walks out.

Gords and I barely think anything of it until about five minutes later when Dutch appears sleepily from his bunk, wearing nothing but his boxer shorts and looks out of the still open door out on to the street. “What the fuck is wrong with you guys!?!? Your singer is beating your bass player to death!” Me and Gords look at each other, look at the remaining mouthfuls of our food and then continue to eat. “Argh they'll work it out” Gords assures Dutch.

“Seriously guys, for fuck sake!” Dutch implores. Only when our grub is polished off do we get up to inspect the cause of Dutch's worry. We find John sat on top of Daz, who is sprawled out looking fucked, punching Daz repeatedly in the face. “John, leave it now mate, he's done.” John stops, looks up at us, and begrudgingly gets to his feet, leaving Daz lying there in the street. “Fucking prick!” snorts John as he climbs back into the van. Gords and I help Daz to his feet, checking he's not too bad. He's got a bloody scalp and a few scrapes and bruises but otherwise he's ok. The amazing thing about Daz is that he doesn't hold a grudge very long. “I guess I deserved that...” We crack up. It seems John has literally knocked some sense into him.

This is a scene we'd all witnessed many a time, although it was pretty rare during this period of the band. Dutch seemed disgusted with us though. John is still pretty fuming and when we sit Daz down on the sofa in the van, John tells us to keep him the fuck away from him. We check out the top of Daz's head, which is bleeding quite a bit. Gords has a bit a go at John then, “Fuck sake mate, was that really necessary?”

“I barely fucking touched the cunt! He swung at me as soon as I stepped off the van but the daft cunt missed, fell to the ground and hit his head. That's what that cut is! And after that I was pretty much tickling him. Believe me, if I'd gone at him for real the cunt would be on his way to hospital by now!” I throw a glance at Dutch who is stood there looking at us all like we're filth. I try to assure him it's ok, that these things happen now and again. He's just shakes his head and goes back to his bunk.

The rest of the night is pretty much spent in silence, John only muttering now and again the grievances he has with Daz. “A few nights ago I risked getting stabbed for the wanker and now he's offering me out for a fight! Fuck him...” I get the idea though that by now he's starting to feel just a slight pang of guilt..

We play the next night at a big venue right off of Times Square called B.B.King's something or other. The rumours of the fight have spread around the touring party and the Soilent guys are enthusiastically checking out Daz's scalp, which Daz seems to be showing off as some sort of trophy. All is apparently forgotten. Even John is laughing about it now. The SG guys are loving it. A representative from our label comes down to the show, full of the usual fucking hot air about how good things are going with the new album. I don't care. I simply don't care to hear it. He seems worried about the fight we'd had last night, but Bianchi assures him it won't be the last time something like that will happen and that it's nothing to worry about. “These things happen now and again me old mucker!” laughs Bianchi in his usual Del Boy tone.

Being that this is a large club in a major city, and given the experience we've had on similar occasions up to now on this tour, we're all expecting a less than approving response from the crowd. For once though, we're pleasantly surprised. The New York crowd kick off big time. We have a great show and by the time we come off we're all buzzing. We're buzzing after every show, although most of time it's because we're pumped up on the disdain that's been thrown our way from the crowd. Every now and again though, it is nice to get a positive buzz from a show.

We have a drink or two afterwards and talk some mundane shit with the label guy, “We're really going to get behind this album, bring you guys back over on a better bill and blah, blah fucking blah.” I've heard it all so many times that it doesn't even piss me off any more, it simply bores me.

After that we head off to a bar with a couple of friends for a couple of drinks, although the mood is a lot more relaxed tonight. The pair we're out with are a married couple called Sally and Adrian. Sally is from Nottingham, she used to work for Earache and moved out here when Digby set up the doomed-to-fail New York office. She's good friends with Bianchi and she's Kev's ex. To put it mildly she's a bit eccentric, and she gets fucking mental when she's had a few to drink, but I like her all the same. Her and Kev have a sensitive relationship though. Her husband Adrian is a big, quiet guy and no harm to anyone, and since he's always buying the round in we lap the fucker up. After a couple of pints and an oral bombardment from Sally and Bianchi chatter we head back to the van, having made plans to meet up with the three of them the next night.

We spend the next day buying records, Converse shoes and whatever else Manhattan has to offer, you have to take advantage when the dollar is on it's arse... and then we meet up with Bianchi at a bar near his hotel. Before we've even sat down Gords is instructing Bianchi to get his credit card behind the bar. Bianchi just shakes his head, calls Gords a cunt and then gets a round in. Sally and Adrian show up a while later and then Gords goes to work on Adrian's wallet, to the benefit to us all, of course. We're discussing what we should do with our night off in New York City when Sally announces she has got us on the guest list of some low key fashion show over in the Meatpacking District. We all scoff at first and tell her to get to fuck. “Argh! You're such a bunch of twats! Listen, there's a free bar at the do...” Say no more Sally, we're there!

We split up into a couple of taxis and head over. We pull up outside some shady looking warehouse with a line of pretentious looking wankers queuing up outside and immediately I feel a sense of regret at coming here. I'd much rather just be in a pub with a bunch of old boys having a natter. Sally senses my trepidation and gently nudges me towards the cliché knucklehead bouncer stood proudly at the door. We're in without any bother though, Sally's guest list coming good. I can almost feel the people in line horrified by the state of us, looking on in disbelief as we waltz right past them. They must be fucking gutted.

I've barely gotten through the door and located the direction of the bar when some ponce in sunglasses and a scarf approaches me and wraps his arms around me in a loving embrace. “Hey man! Great to see you! I just loved your last film!” For a second I think he's taking the piss out of me but he quickly recoils in embarrassment when he sees the scobbied look on my coupon and I understand he's just made a right knob of himself. We both kind of stand there nervously laughing for a couple of seconds and then go our separate ways. John asks me the fuck that was about. I have no answer.

The place we're in is a dim, narrow room with a bar at the end of it. Off to the side of the bar is another room about the same size, although this room is empty. This is where the fashion show will be held apparently. There are a lot of good looking people in the place. We must stand out like a sore thumb. We converge a few feet away from the bar where we bicker over who is going to find out the crack with the free drinks situation. After a few minutes I'm elected...against my will. I approach the bar and the rest of them shuffle in behind me. The bar staff all look like they're in the modelling industry. I nervously ask this film star looking bartender if it's true that the bar is free, to which she tells me that it's only Jack and Coke and Voddy and Coke that are gratis. Chuffed, I order in a round of Voddy and Cokes.

Now that we've been given the green light, we happily spend the next couple of hours necking free drinks. I completely miss the fashion show. I remember there being a lot of people crowded around in the adjacent room and the modelling taking place on the floor instead of a catwalk. I guess it's kind of like a DIY/punk style fashion show. We spend the next couple of hours getting pissed up on the free bar, the event simply passing us by. The only thing I remember about the whole thing is a slight buzz of excitement in the camp when the rumour goes around that Chloe Sevigny is at the club. Jay goes on about finding her and chatting her up for a while but nothing comes of it. We're locked like flies on shit to the free bar and it's handsome staff.

By the time the fashion show is over and everyone begins to pile back into the bar room where we're still stood, we're all pretty sauced up. I head to the bar for another round of Voddy Cokes. Before the barmaid sets about pouring the drinks she says to me with a condescending look, “You know the bar is no longer free?”. I tell her to hold up with the drinks, that I'll be back in a minute. I can tell she's not holding her breath.

I head back to the guys and deliver the bad news. I get the exact response I'm expecting. The same response I've heard a thousand times from the cunts, “Fuck that then!”. Sally is pretty drunk by now and she's doing her best to convince us to stay. But with the drinks now costing ten dollars a pop we tell her there's no chance. She moans at us for a while, calls us a bunch of cliché small town aresholes, but to no avail. Adrian then pipes up and informs us there's a bar down the road where you get a free hot dog with every drink you order. “Fucking sound!” laughs Gords and in a flash the lot if us are heading to the exit. Sally gives her husband a look that tells him he's in for it later but he's soon washed along in the tide that is the six of us enthusiastically heading towards this new bar.

This next place is far more suited to my tastes. Small place, small crowd, friendly bartender, decent enough jukebox and free grub with every beer purchased. We spend the next hour or so here, devouring hot dogs and beer as if we'd just come from a month in the desert. AC/DC on the jukebox, we're all chuffed.

Sally is a rake thin woman and it doesn't take much for her to get pissed. And when she's pissed she gets wild. Bang on form she starts arguing first with Adrian and then Kev. Before long she's punching Kev, calling him a bastard whilst at the same time telling him she still loves him and that he broke her heart. Kev is having a hard time of it. Adrian just stands there with a weird smirk on his face that's doing a bad job of deflecting the expression of defeat in his eyes. I'm sure he's seen it all before. Bianchi is now in the middle of it, trying to settle things down but being pissed up himself can't really handle the job. Before long it's pretty obvious from the look on the friendly bartender's face that we should get to fuck. Sally continues to fight with Kev out on the street, Kev still looks completely baffled by it all. We grab the first cab that comes our way and pull Kev inside. “Every fucking time...” he mutters as we pull away from a tearful Sally as she now turns her attention to Adrian's poor mug. Whilst this is going on Bianchi is waving us off with a broad smile, seemingly oblivious to the scene behind him.

It's late and it's probably just as well we head back to the van. Our little holiday in New York City coming to an abrupt, if not entertaining end. There is only a few shows left of the tour now. We're heading south again, down through Virginia, Georgia and then back to Texas. New York was the last highlight of the tour for me, and now it's over I'm ready to go home...  

New York/New England

Rochester, New York... One of those places I'd never heard of before coming here, and if it wasn't for this tour then I'd probably have spent the rest of my days ignorant of it's presence on this planet of ours.

Americans often get the piss taken out of them for their geographical ineptitude, for that they don't know things like Sweden and Switzerland aren't the same place, or what the name of the capital city of Belarus is, as an example... But in truth, such piss taking is a little unfair. A little.. Obviously not all Americans are this inept, at the same time it's not like all Europeans know what the state capital of Kentucky is, or where Rochester, New York is on the map, as an example.. One thing I've learnt to appreciate more and more each day on this tour is that the USA is a big fucking country! Indeed, it is almost the same size as the entire continent of Europe so maybe it's not so weird that a lot of it's inhabitants horizons don't expand past their own borders. To be fair, a lot of people I went to school with probably couldn't tell you what the capital of Belarus is either...

Anyway, I'd never fucking of heard of Rochester, New York before. And that's shameful in itself since apparently after New York City and Buffalo, it's the third largest city in the state...

Of course, when we pulled up to the venue in the van, we could have been anywhere. It was mid afternoon, it was grey and it was cold. We were on the shore of the lake, it's water so still and dark it looked like it was in the throes of depression. The city must have been far from wherever we were right now. All there was here was the lake and a few lonely streets lined with houses in varying degrees of regress.

We were a little early so we decided to go down to the lake and check out the views from a closer vantage point. We didn't last much longer than five minutes though, such was the cold. We headed back inside the venue and “hung out”, by which I mean we sat around and did the sum of nothing for about an hour. All this free time on tour and all you do is sit around and wait for the fun of loading in the gear. The venue was basically a large bar with a high stage up against the back wall. It was a good size place. If experience was anything to go by then it should make for a good show tonight.

Nile and the other bands turned up in dribs and drabs over the course of the late afternoon and by the time we were loaded in and set up there was still another couple of hours to kill before doors. There was no food on offer at the venue so we decided to go to a local bar for some grub, check in with the locals. There happened to be a place only a couple of hundred meters down the road, so most of us headed there.

It was an old wooden building and the door creaked as we walked in. It was like a scene from many a film, where the out-of-towner's walk into the room and meet the glaring eyes of the three locals sat at the bar as the music abruptly grinds to a halt. Well, it was almost like that. At least, that's how it felt under the weight of the hangover we were all carrying on our backs. We shuffled to the bar and were taken a little by surprise at the friendly tone of the old guy I assume was the landlord. We ordered some beer and some food, all of us taking burger and chips. To the delight of Lasse and Kev, they actually had a veggie burger on the menu. As we paid the man and took our beer to a table against the opposing wall, the gaze of a haggard, middle aged looking woman who was sat at the bar, followed us all the way to our destination, and stayed with us for quite some time afterwards. The two bikers playing pool couldn't give much of a shit about us, thankfully...

We sat there drinking the standard American lager and chatted over the hushed tones of the standard hard rock on the jukebox, the lady at the bar looking over and smiling every once in a while. When the friendly old landlord came with the grub, the woman followed him and sat down at our table, cosying up to Kev. She was fucking boats. We all grinned as Kev got a chatter-full of bad teeth in his ear. She was cackling whilst babbling something barely comprehensible, the whole while her hand flirting with Kev's thigh. Kev's laughter barely disguised how nervous he was, ours barely disguised how chuffed we were. Eventually the landlord came to Kev's rescue and ushered the old drunk back to the bar, where he duly poured her another drink. Weird scene.

The food was good anyway, just what the hangover needed. Everyone seemed to be in better spirits by the time the plates were taken from the table, except Lasse, who's hangover seemed to have a tighter grip on him than the rest of us. He was complaining of having a pain in his guts, that he was desperate for a turd but dared not go to the toilet in this place. By the time the second and third beer had been drunk he could no longer hold out and so he slurked off to the bog. He was gone a while, maybe ten minutes or so. I imagined how he must be suffering in there and needing a piss myself, I decided to go see how he was getting on.

I walked past the bikers at the pool table to the door with “Gents” scribbled on it. I almost pissed my jeans with laughter when I walked in to find Lasse sat on the toilet in the middle of the room, kecks around his ankles, a woefully sad expression on his coupon. After a quick glance, I realised that it was one of those classic American set ups. The toilet was in the middle of the room, completely in the open, no door or even cubicle around it. On the wall beside it was a single urinal and there was of course no lock on the one and only door, the door I was presently holding open as I pissed myself laughing at his sad, little face. I scurried back to the lads and assured them they had to go check Lasse out.

By the time Lasse was back with us, the lady had rejoined the group, and she was now working her way on to Daz. It soon came to the fore that we were a band, playing down the road. She obviously wanted to come along. Daz told her he'd put her on the list as we were fucking off out of there. She never turned up. Well, maybe she did but she didn't make it past the beef head security guards on the door at any rate.

The place was pretty packed by the time we played, maybe three hundred people in the place. It was certainly more people than I ever imagined I'd be playing to in Rochester, New York. It's amazing really, because I never thought we'd end up here with this band. We never thought this far ahead in the beginning. I certainly never thought we'd ever play outside of the UK. So to be stood there on stage to three hundred people in a city in the States I'd never heard of before was really quite mind blowing. Shame that almost everyone in there hated us.

It was a bastard as well because it was one of those high stages which made the crowd feel all the more comfortable in giving us shit. We played as hard as we could, which with our short hair and non-death metal clothing really seemed to piss the crowd off all the more. One great thing happened on stage tonight though. Actually two great things happened, although they spawned from the same incident. Brian from Soilent Green/Eyehategod got up on stage and played EHG's 30$ Bag with us. The same song we would later do a cover of on the tribute record Chris was releasing. I've rarely been so buzzed. I felt like a fucking kid up on that stage, a kid getting to play with one of his heroes.

The other great thing that happened is that what I was thinking John said aloud as he introduced Brian on stage, namely that we'd stick it to the crowd, who obviously were into Soilent Green but hated us. With great pride John announced that we had a “very good friend” coming up on stage with us and then he grandly gestures the arrival of Brian from Soilent Green. If we were expecting this to win us over a few punters, we were sadly mistaken. “Yeah, you're still shit though!” comes an immediate reply from some wise ass. Most of the band cracked up laughing, partly due to the cheek of the bastard in the crowd and the genuine appreciation of the quick wit with which he delivered his response and partly because we usually found it funny when one of us was made to look a cunt.

Still, it was amazing playing 30$ Bag with Brian... After the show we actually found one guy who was a massive fan of the band and he insisted on buying us all a drink. We happily accepted his offer, of course. He went on to apologise for the gig and explained that it's the wrong scene for us tonight. We explained that we'd gotten used to it by now and that it was usually a good crack anyway. The funny thing was, this guy was really into the latest record, which at the time was How The Great Have Fallen, a record that we weren't that pleased with. By the time we released the following album we were no longer playing any songs from HTGHF, such was our disdain for it. Still, it was nice to meet a genuine fan for a change. “Man, the song Slay The Coward, it's a fucking masterpiece!” Ok buddy, I don't know if I'd go that far but mine's a IPA if you're buying...

The next day we were in Poughkeepsie, which is a place I'd heard of, although all I knew of the place is that it had a funny sounding name. I'd always had the impression that upstate New York was a rich area, I don't know why exactly, I guess I'd assumed it was like the “countryside” in England, where the “elite” had their summer homes. I was in for somewhat of a surprise when we jumped out of the van in Poughkeepsie. We literally fell right into a scene from that horrible tv show, Cops. A young, “African American” in ludicrously baggy tracksuit pants and a basketball top as long as a frock was bent over a cop car with his hands cuffed, shouting at some mean looking “European American” cop who was roughing him up across the car's bonnet. Everyone stood around staring at the scene in shock for a minute or so before Dutch ushered us inside the venue. “Yeah, upstate New York isn't a great place to hang out...”

I don't remember much of the show, it was probably shit. The only thing I remember is the lot of us going for a walk after soundcheck, before the sun went down, and only getting as far as the back of the block that the club belonged to. We got to a big roundabout, which was a peculiar site in the USA, looked at that for a minute and then walked back. I also remember watching Nile from the closed off balcony in the venue, the lot of us taking the piss out of Ghost Tramp's hair... And that's about it.

The next day we were in Worcester, Massachusetts. We were there early and the venue was huge, probably the biggest of the entire tour. Aside from the venue, the part of town we were in seemed to offer nothing but a typically long, faceless street that's main point of interest seemed to be a kebab shop. Fuck that! With the whole day to kill, Lasse, Kev and I decided we'd take the train into Boston, which was about a half hour ride away. I was literally stunned when everyone else decided they couldn't be arsed...

So the three of us took off for the day. The journey was actually closer to an hour than the thirty minutes advertised but it was pretty cool riding the train all the same. It really was just like you see on tv, with the old guy in the hat and the ticket machine hung over his shoulder, shouting the stations out as we approached them. It was a gorgeously sunny day when we arrived in Boston. One day you're walking around in a thick jacket, shoulders hunched over in an attempt to keep out the cold air of Lake Ontario, a couple of days later you're walking beside the Charles River in a t-shirt...

We had a great day walking around the beautiful city of Boston, the three of us doing our best impression of the European tourist. We checked out the harbour and then went to the Cheers bar, both a tourist theme version of it and the original façade they used for the show's title credits. We had some amazing vegetarian food in China town and we took a coffee at some cosy place by City Square Park. The only thing I didn't get to check off the list was a visit to Newbury Comics, the famous record shop, but there's a limit to what you can fit into four hours. All the same, it turned out to be a relief just to break away from the rest of the pack.

We returned to Worcester around five pm, it was already getting dark by the time we made it back to the huge venue we were playing. There was a large communal dressing room where we found our boys sitting about looking bored. I asked Gords what they'd done with the day, not wanting to go full on about our pleasant excursion to Boston. “We went to that kebab shop,” was Gords' sullen reply. I left the conversation there...

The venue was a weird one. It was this gigantic town hall looking building, all tired white concrete on the outside. Inside it was basically just a large, brightly lit, elongated room that must have held about three thousand people. There was a massive stage at the far end and a bar area at the back and that was about the only features I remember.

The venue was no more than half full all night though, and even then it was another one of those occasions where the punters left in droves after Hypocrisy finished. Our show was just another nothing affair, neither good nor particularly bad, it just seemed to melt in with the rest of them. There were probably a good six hundred people watching as we played as hard as we could up on that big, high stage, but there was plenty of space for each one of those six hundred to swing the proverbial cat. Playing big, half empty venues is always a weird experience. I'd rather play a basement show to sixty people any day of the week. It doesn't help things when the huge venue you're playing seemingly refuses to turn the fucking house lights off. What can I say? We got up on stage, got the odd head nodding, the odd face sneering, kicked the fuck out of the set list for twenty minutes and fucked off again.

I remember later on in the night, being stuck in a stairwell side stage with Ghost Tramp and one of Nile's techs before they went on to play. Ghost Tramp was sucking on a cig and looked at me and grinned, “Fucking Worcester, tough crowd!” I just nodded in agreement. You don't know the half of it mate, I thought to myself. He went on stage shortly afterwards, I went over to that kebab shop to see if they had any falafel...

Ohio

After the long escape from the van the day before in Chicago, I was really in the mood for some more sightseeing, now that we'd had a taste.  It's not even so much the sightseeing, I can spend long periods of time looking at the most banal things, it's more the chance to take in some fresh air and stretch the legs.  What a difference a day and a couple of hundred miles make though.

When we stepped out of the van behind the club in Cincinnati it was mid afternoon, although the grey sky could have fooled you into believing it was later.  We were parked up in a small, public car park that belonged to a block building that housed the club as well as a few shops.  It looked like Canada Square up the Exeter estate in Corby, and anyone who's been there will know that that particular place is a hell hole...

Still, I was up for a walk so I asked Dutch how far we were from the city, downtown or wherever the action was.  “You're in it” he replied without a hint of sarcasm.  I told him that I was going to go for a walk, he warned me not to go on my own and not to talk to anyone who approached us in the street.  “This is not a nice place...”.  He was deadly serious.  What the fuck?

Even though it was great walking around Chicago with the boys yesterday, taking in the sights and all, sometimes it is nice to break away from the pack and just head off on your own.  It didn't seem like that would be a wise choice today though so I convinced Kev to follow along with me.  I couldn't believe that the area we were walking around was the downtown area of Cincinnati, I had the feeling Dutch just couldn't be arsed with us all fucking off before load in.  I've since learned though that not all US cities are like New York.  A lot of the time the downtown area is just where the corporate district is, the skyscrapers are just tall office buildings and at night time the place is dead.  I was learning more about this country every day.  I don't know where the nightlife or the shopping was at in Cincinnati, but these streets we were walking were truly uninviting.

One thing I've learned about the USA is that behind all the gloss there is a lot of poverty.  It was there before our eyes as we walked the blocks that lay in the venue's radius, the area seemed to be bleeding poverty from it's veins.  The streets were lined with dilapidated terraced houses, the sidewalks were cracked and defeated.  It looked more like Poland during the Nazi occupation than the streets of a city that belonged to the planet's wealthiest nation.  The “American Dream” must be the biggest fucking scam a government has ever pulled on it's people.

We walked around for a half hour or so, but every corner turned seemed to reveal the same depressed expression.  As if feeling a need to at least do something with our venture we went to a petrol station and bought a snack, and then headed back to the venue.  On our way back some young guy with his hood pulled up crossed the street towards us and mumbled something about drugs.  I don't know if he was buying or selling but we got the fuck out of there without saying a word.

We'd been getting the Eyehategod song together during soundcheck and it's starting to sound good.  I was looking forward to pulling it off at a show and getting Brian up on stage with us to play it.  It wasn't quite ready yet though.  The club tonight was a large, basic room with a floor sloping down towards the stage and a long bar along the right hand wall.  I had a hard time imagining where the people would come from to fill the place but sure enough, it was pretty packed by the time we went on.  We had a pretty good show too, we didn't take a lot of abuse and there were a few hardcore kids down the front moving about.  There was of course a contingent of death metallers stood towards the back looking bored or worse, smirking at us, but that was standard by this point.  The margins for what classes a good show had been widened somewhat...

We hung out Chris at the merch stall as Soilent Green played their set.  They truly impressed every single night.  Chris is a nice guy, we'd gotten to know him pretty well by now and it felt like he'd taken us under his wing a little.  He was telling us that he thought we were a great band and that he'd be interested in helping us out in the States.  He told us that he thought we should get Bianchi to fuck and get someone else involved.  He couldn't believe we were wasting our money coming to the States only to play on a tour that was so obviously ill fitting for us.  To be honest though, we didn't fit whatever bill we played on.  We knew what we were getting ourselves into on this tour and we couldn't blame Bianchi for that.  We all jumped at the chance to travel around the States getting pissed for free.  We knew fine well we'd be fighting the audience every night.  It wasn't the first time I'd heard people from other bands advising us on how we should steer ourselves, but in all honesty, I was starting to feel lost and disillusioned.  I was sick of the fighting.  And even though we might not have been battling with each other as regularly by this stage, now that Frank and Tony had left the band, it seemed we were still fighting everyone else.  I was growing tired of it.  I didn't mind fighting the blockhead, death metal crowds, that was fun, but there were small signs that things were once again going sour with the label and that was fucking taxing.  Some of the guys seemed to be chuffed at the thought of Chris helping us out, but I was just feeling jaded.  Maybe it was just the tour, the booze and the lack of sleep taking it's toll, I don't know...

We sold a bit of merch tonight anyway and Lasse was far happier.  It was a lot easier for him on night's like this when the merch table was in the actual room we're playing and everyone is hanging out.  We had a few beers after the show and by the time the show came to a close the heavy atmosphere we'd experienced earlier on the streets of Cincinnati had washed away.  Dutch was still on his toes though.  He'd been sat in the van all night, saying he didn't trust leaving it out back with nobody to guard it.  He sure as fuck wasn't planning on staying the night and told us in no uncertain terms that we'd be leaving as soon as we were loaded in.

We headed off with a pack of beer from Nile's van and chilled out in front of a film as Dutch drove a couple of hours down the highway.  Sean, the singer from With Passion joined us, telling us he was sick of travelling with his band.  We told him it was cool to hang out with us for the night.   Dutch pulled into a service station an hour outside of Cleveland.  We were staying here for the night since the club was in a busy area of the city and there was no parking until load in.

Of course, the Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame is in Cleveland, so Dutch took us there for the afternoon.  I wonder how many times he's been there with bands?  I have to say, I didn't think I'd give that much of a shit but truthfully, it was a pretty great museum.  The first thing I saw hanging on the wall was Johnny Cash's guitar.  I guess I am a  music geek deep down because that impressed the fuck out of me!  There was a lot of other fun stuff to look at too.  What is really cool about the place is that if you have a tour pass with you, you get in for free, and free is always good.  As an added bonus, it was situated on the shore of the lake as well as right next to the Cleveland Browns stadium.  Water and sports stadiums are two things that I always love to look at, there is just something about them that brings a certain harmony to my being...  So far I was liking Cleveland a lot more than Cincinnati...

The club was in the middle of the downtown area, right in the middle of everything.  The place was buzzing.  Nice to be back in civilisation again.. The club itself was right up our alley as well, small stage in a small room that fit around four hundred people inside.  It was more a bar than a club in actual fact.  The room where the gig would take place was one of a few different rooms housed within the same complex, with an upstairs bar and a smaller games room beside.  I was looking forward to the coming evening, it had party written all over it.  I could sense that everybody in the band was on the same wavelength...

One very weird rumour doing the rounds tonight was that Will Smith and his wife would be coming to the show.  Apparently they were big fans of Soilent Green!  Fucking bizarre.  It seemed to be the subject on everyone's lips for the early part of the evening.  Of course, they didn't show... but it was funny how everyone seemed to be buzzing about it when they thought it was happening.

After load in was done and Nile were finished soundchecking, Jay had wondered into the sex shop beside the venue to check it out.  This is not something he does to gain a laugh, and it's not something he is embarrassed by.. the boy likes sex and everything to do with it, simple as that.  Hilariously whilst he was in there browsing some scud mags, he noticed Ghost Tramp from Nile shadily walking about the joint, obviously not wanting to be seen.  Jay joyfully slides up beside him as he's stood in an aisle looking at something or other and greets him, “Alright mate!  Nice place eh?”  Ghost Tramp looks mortified and for a moment Jay thinks he's actually going to pull the classic Woah, where am I?!  line, or whatever else would quickly spring to his rescue, but he doesn't.  He just puts his head down, red face burning a hole in the floor at his feet, mumbles back a hello and makes a sharp exit.  Jay is obviously delighted by this.  After picking up a couple of mags, he hurries back to the club to tell us and we all piss ourselves laughing.  Poor Ghost Tramp...

The show tonight is one of the best of the tour, definitely up there with Orangevale and San Antonio.  These smaller places normally help us out.  The room is packed when we play and the crowd kicks off.  Nothing like a small, sweaty show to rejuvenate the soul.  We've pretty much got the Eyehategod cover together by now, although it wasn't quite ready for tonight.  We're hoping it will be ready for tomorrow.  Shame, it would have went down a storm tonight.

When Soilent play I can barely get in the room to see them.  It's fucking wild in there and the wake of the mosh pit seems to be lapping all the way to the back of the room.  It really has been theirs and Hypocrisy's tour for the most part.  Ben is furious after the show since yet again Nile have commented on how many different designs of shirt they're selling.  The Nile merch guy, this big guy who looks like Sloth from The Goonies, has been pretty cool up to now, but it's obvious his employees have been on his back about keeping the other bands it tow.  You can tell as he awkwardly asks the Soilent guys to take a few shirts down.  What the fuck is this all about really?

At the end of the night we all head to the bar upstairs where there is an after show party going on.  It seems like all of the bands are in attendance and most nearly everybody is having a good time.  We're letting loose on some cocktails that we're getting at a very friendly price.  I end up pretty steaming as do the rest of the boys.  This girl called Sarah is at the party.  She used to play drums in Kelly Osborne’s band, before Osbourne was forced by her manager to fire her.  It was all filmed and shown on the Osbournes tv show.  Anyway, she's here and unbelievably Kev has hooked up with her.  It all gets a bit hazy late on in the night, but I remember Kev and this girl making out with each other in this little pink, den room off to the side of the bar.  It turns out it's some VIP booth.  We're denied access by some meathead security guys but we all stand by the entrance, pissed and pointing at Kev as he sits there with this girl on his lap, the usual stupid grin on his face.

When we get back aboard the disco bus, ready to leave for our next destination, Kev is nowhere to be found.  He finally turns up and we give it the standard “Waheey!” chant, but Kev is having none of it.  It seems he really liked her and not only that, he got her number.  He swears she's a really cool girl, despite the Osbourne connotations.  Despite his protests, we spend the rest of the night taking the piss out of him.  I can't actually recall if he ever did see her again.. I have a vague memory of their paths crossing one other time but I'm not sure..

Having had a dose of the tour blues in Cincinnati, Cleveland had provided me with the boost I'd desperately needed.  That's touring for you I suppose.

Speedhorn in the USA: Chicago

Woke up bright and early in a neon lit, underground parking garage in Chicago. We were right underneath the venue for tonight, The House of Blues club, and we had about six hours to kill before load in. And for once, we were bang in the middle of the city. We all got up and changed as fast as we could and got the fuck out of there. Except John, who decided to hang out in the van for a while...

It was a beautiful winter's day. The sky was bright blue and the sun was shining harmoniously above as the fresh, crisp air gently breezed in from the lake. We had a great day walking around downtown Chicago, checking out some record stores and coffee shops, walking by the waterside, having a lengthy discussion in the lobby of the Sears Tower building about whether to pay for the lift up to the roof and eventually deciding against. My soul felt cleansed by an entire afternoon of walking, even if after five shower-less days, my body did not.

When load in beckoned we reluctantly headed back to the van that was still parked in the dull yellow abyss underneath the club. I was both saddened and amazed to find John laid out on the sofa watching a film we'd all seen together just a few days before. We were all buzzing from our excursion into the city, our new found enthusiasm for life washing over the van like a wave. I couldn't get a grip on the fact John had just hung out in the van all day, it almost made me angry.

I could barely believe the marvel before me as we loaded the gear in. The House of Blues is apparently no ordinary venue. I had no prior knowledge of the place, I'd only heard the name. I certainly had no idea that it was a chain company. The concert hall itself is like many other theatre venues the world over, it's not all that different from the old Astoria in London, although a brand spanking new, shiny, hi-tech version of it. Like the Astoria, it's a large room that probably holds about two thousand people with a full balcony. The stage is huge, it must be three times as big as anything else we've played on this tour. It's certainly a contrast from the venues we've played the last few days previous.

If the concert hall is impressive, it's nothing compared to the rest of the building. There are separate dressing rooms for each band, all of them decked out with cable tv and a monitor showing the stage. There is a telephone that connects straight to the promoter's runner in case there is anything you need ran after. And absolutely, most fantastically of all, each dressing room had it's own shower and bathroom. After five days without, it felt like the most luxurious shower I'd ever taken. I took one both before and after the gig just because I could. The grandeur wasn't limited to the backstage area either, even the sinks in the public toilets were decked out with gold chrome taps. The place even had it's own fucking souvenir shop! It felt more like a flashy hotel in Vegas than a venue for a death metal gig.

I told Kev about the public bogs and his face lit up. He took off straight away and was gone for some time. I went to check on him a while later. As I walked in to the long, empty room I heard Kev in a cubicle at the end, willing himself to shit, “Come on you little brown buggers!”. I don't know if he'd heard me come in or not, you never know with Kev, but I pissed myself laughing all the same.

This is one show when I really did feel bad for Lasse. The merch tables were set up in a long row against a wall in a foyer as you entered the building, completely disconnected from the concert hall and about a twenty minute walk from the luxury dressing room. I feel really bad about it now, but I kind of forgot about him sat there on his own. When I eventually went to check on him later in the evening, I found him right at the end of the line, forehead flat on the merch table, arms hanging by his side, pretty sauced up. He hadn't sold a thing, of course. The other merch guys seemed to be in a crazed selling frenzy, like a scene from a squabbling Egyptian market, all of them intent on out doing each other. Lasse was beyond caring by this point though. To be fair, so were we...

This was one show that was fucking doomed to failure before it even started. There was a good size crowd in, although not big enough to justify opening the balcony section of the venue, so there we sat with our feet perched over the edge, bottle of beer in hand, checking out With Passion and Decapitated. Jay, Gords and I had the entire balcony to ourselves, it was pretty cool to be honest. To be fair, the floor below was packed with metalheads which meant that the other bands on the bill were probably in for a good show. The reason I knew our show was fucked is that although With Passion came and went with a conservative yet relatively appreciative applause, Decapitated had the show of their lives. We'd gotten to know them a little by now, and although they obviously came from a completely different planet than ours, they were nice guys and I was happy for them.

The thing is, the stage had this big fucking theatre curtain that opened from the middle to the sides and of course they had it drawn between bands. Now for a start, I fucking hate this concept, I always feel like a right cunt being made to stand on stage, guitar strapped on, waiting for the curtain to draw. It was right up Decapitated's alley though. Indeed, as the curtain parted there are the band, waiting in silent, death metal pose, ready to slay. The singer is stood with fists clenched by his side, long hair hanging from bowed head, down over his face. The crowd erupted in elation at the same sight we fell off our seats laughing at. Decapitated were made for this tour, we most certainly were not.

It was if the rumours had been spreading through the death metal community on whatever geeky message boards these idiots languish on, culminating in a ravenous lava of hate that would greet our arrival on to this stage tonight. It's not paranoia if everyone is out to get you right?... I asked the stage hands to open the fucking curtain before we took to the stage, but they refused out right. Fuck you then, we put the amps on and placed our guitars feedbacking against them and then left the stage again. One of the stage hands starts panicking after a minute or so of this, and tells us to get on with our set so they can pull the curtain. We tell him that our performance has started. He's baffled, clearly. This goes on for about five minutes and the crowd has already started booing. We finally take to the stage but let the feedback continue. The curtain draws and we're stood facing a lot of pissed off looking metalheads. There is one, who has made his way down to the very front, right up against the head high stage, who is standing with his back to us, right arm lofted high in the air, giving us the middle finger. We feedback for about another thirty seconds and then start the set as usual with The Hate Song, John's opening line, “I hate you all”, fitting like a fucking glove on this particular occasion.

We blast through what is left of the twenty minute set, all of us putting more into this show than any other so far on this tour. We go fucking nuts on stage. Between every song we simply ring out and feedback, which seems to just piss the crowd off even more because we're drowning out their booing. Some of these idiots have veins that look ready to explode from their strained necks as they scream their disdain in our direction. It's pure fucking hate. The more violently we play on stage, the more it seems to anger them. And the tit down the front holds that finger aloft for the entire twenty minutes we're on stage. As we get near the end I look at him and actually feel a certain respect, I mean, it must have taken some effort to hold his arm in the air for that long. As the last song ends, we put the guitars back up against the amps, leaving them to feedback as we exit. Kev on the other hand, walks up behind Robo Arm, who of course is still flipping us off, and boots him in the back of the head. “Good gig!” laughs Kev as he walks towards the rest of us waiting for him in the wings as the curtain draws to a close.

I check on Lasse once I've dried off, he begs me to let him pack up the merch early. John is up for manning the station though, so we leave him to it. Good times. We watch Soilent's set but spend the rest of the time taking advantage of the dressing room and it's amenities and since the promoter has no problem with re-filling the fridge with beer, we have him do just that.

The hospitality we enjoy at the House of Blues unfortunately comes to an abrupt end as soon as the stage is cleared after Nile's set. The people working at the venue make it clear that they want us packed up and out of the dressing room pronto. It comes as a bit of mood zapper but at the same time I understand them, I've been there myself many a time. Of course, when you're on tour it's easy to forget that everyone else is leading a normal life whilst you're taking a break from yours.

No matter, it's a short enough drive to Cincinnati tomorrow that we don't have to leave immediately, the night is still young and we're all half pissed. Dutch has set a bus call time for two am and right now he's happily sleeping in his bunk in the van. We head to the nearest bar, intent on sampling a bit of Chicago's night life.

We end up in some Irish bar where there a few people from the show hanging out, drinking Guinness and shooting Jameson's. The whole of our crew is there, along with Chris and Brian and a couple of the other SG guys, as well as our friend John, Nile's stage manager. To our amazement, Ghost Tramp and Fat Jeff are sat at the bar too.

Stage Manager John has a couple of friends in tow with him, guys who live in the city. He's in high spirits and insists on buying a round of something called an Irish Car Bomb, which he supervises as we individually take turns to drink. As lethal as it sounds, it's actually a pint of Guinness with a shot glass of Bailey's dropped in it. The crack is you down it, obviously, although it's not that much of a challenge. John seems chuffed enough though. Of course, we all end up pretty fucking wasted a few rounds later. It's fun to see John taking some time off to relax, since most of the time he's running around stressed out, looking after Nile. When the booze starts to hit him he opens up and tells us that he really likes us guys, loves our attitude. He admits that he doesn't understand our music, but he loves the way we don't give much of a fuck about anything. The night starts to get blurry...

It's funny, because I was happy to see Ghost Tramp and Fat Jeff sat at the bar when we'd walked in but they've sat in the same position the whole time. I thought for a moment this might be the night when we do the drunken hang out thing with them, but it doesn't really happen. Daz and I make an effort an one point and we approach them at the bar. But we're both boats and obviously have a foolishly heightened sense of our diplomacy skills. We walk up behind them and start slobbering something in their sober ears, which they return with an awkward smirk that screams PISS OFF as they attend to the plate of nachos they've ordered in. Realising we're getting nowhere with the conversation our attention soon turns to their grub and before I know it I've got my paw in Ghost Tramp's food, helping myself to a free snack. Daz is attending to Fat Jeff's on the other side. They must have thought we were a right pair of wankers.

A little later on in the night, after another round or two of Irish Car Bombs, we fall in to some chat with a young mother and daughter team who were at the gig. The pair of them are done up in standard denim, hard rock attire. It's hard to tell who has what role in the team since they both look about the same age. They're flirting with the whole gang, telling us our accents are funny and that we're cute.  They must have been the only people in attendance tonight who didn't think we sucked.  Or maybe they did... Anyway, when the time comes to leave they want to hang out on the bus and come to the next show in Cincinnati with us. We tell them that's not possible, that Dutch simply wouldn't allow it. 

I'm not sure how Kev ends up involved in the middle of it, but the mother now has her sights set firmly on him. By the time we stumble back to the van, Dutch is up and making himself a coffee before we set off. Kev is the only person who's missing. We all crack up at the thought of Kev getting it on with Hard Rock Mom. We rush up and stick our heads out of the van door to see where he is and find him running towards us with the woman chasing him across the busy street, “Start the fucking van!”, he's shouting, panic spread across his face. Even Dutch, still brushing the dust from his sleepy eyes, pisses himself laughing at that one.

Victims Tour Diary Part II

The second half of my tour diary from the Black Breath/Victims/Tormented tour will be in the December edition of Maximum Rocknroll.

Although the good ol' record store is sadly, slowly receeding into the annals of history and fond memory, the truly great ones that still exist will almost certainly be stocking your favourite punk zine.  If you're not lucky enough to have a shop in your town then you can find it online at www.maximumrocknroll.com

Again, greatly honoured to be on this fine magazine's pages!