Woke up at seven am this morning. Slept from midnight, completely undisturbed. Normally I'm up a few times a night to tend to Polly crying in her room before I'll eventually cave in and bring her into our bed. You get used to the non-sleeping side of being a parent though, as long as you've got plenty of coffee. Funny thing is, whenever I do manage to get a good night's sleep I usually find I'm more tired than normal. And as much as it was pure luxury having the bed to myself last night, I still missed Polly's little feet prodding me in the head this morning.
The girls slept at my mother in law's place last night which was really cool of Jen since I'm taking a couple of nights off as it is, and that to go to Norway, play punk rock and drink beer. Jen knows all too well how tiring playing in a DIY band can be though and I guess she figured I was worth a good night's sleep in my own bed before a couple of nights of laying down fuck knows where. It's great being married to someone who plays in bands too. I don't know how it would work otherwise...
Kev flew in last night and we had a good practice for a few hours. Went through the set a couple of times and it sounded tight. The new songs from the upcoming tape sounded a lot better than I expected. Can't help feeling it's a shame we don't get to practice with Kev more often though. I feel bad for him that he gets to practice new songs like, one time, before we head off and play them live. He does really well with the situation I have to say.
We practised until around ten and then headed back to my place with some chocolate and candy bought from the garage to accompany a couple of documentaries on the Third Reich I had recorded. Me and Kev have been enjoying a long tradition of late tv nights since way back in the Speedhorn days. Top of the list is anything about World War Two or UK's Most Haunted (old episodes with Derek Acorah), failing that When Animals Attack or anything with thick as shit criminals hurting themselves will do. I made it about half way through the first of the documentaries, a one hour program about Albert Speer, before falling asleep. Kev had nodded off before me.
It's been quite a while since I enjoyed seven hours of straight sleep and I didn't want to get out of bed this morning but our flight is at ten thirty and rush hour traffic can be a bastard so leaving anything after eight would be asking for trouble. As it turns out, we breezed through and made it to the airport with a couple of hours to go. We sat down to coffee and/or beer and a couple of airport priced sandwiches, although these would be cheap in comparison to where we're going.
The journey was pretty smooth, except for a little bit of unnecessary stress at Oslo airport where we had to retrieve our equipment and check it in again for the second leg to Trondheim. We only had an hour between flights and it took a while for our stuff to show up, and when it did it appeared neither on the belt allotted for our flight or the Oversized Luggage belt at the other end of the room but another belt entirely. No time to moan we made it quickly through customs and checked in again. I was starting to worry for a little while there... Bad memories from Chicago O'Hare with Speedhorn seeping in.
I have to say, the Norwegian people seem to be a very friendly race. They seem to have a lot of time for you. The guy at the Oversized Luggage check in belt was a very jovial looking man with an impressive moustache. If only we'd had more time for him. If only he realised we were in a hurry. He had a young girl working with him who from the pace of things I'm guessing was an intern and Moustache was guiding her slowly step by step through the process whilst I nervously kept an eye on the lines for the security check. We dump our gear on the belt one by one and then they check our passports. “Garret?” Yes, I give a friendly smile. He then turns to Lucas and asks him if he's Billy the Kid. It goes totally over Lucas' head.
The queue through security isn't too bad and we're through in five minutes. My bag gets checked twice trough though since first off I forget a half full bottle of Coke and then I have two guitar pedals in there. Normally I hate people like me, when I see them farting around holding the line up I snigger contemptuously. The only people I was holding up today though was myself and the rest of the band.
The flight to Trondheim is basically up and then down although I do find time for the first beer of the day and a packet of Pringles. Even if it is Carlsberg it's still pretty satisfying. I have to keep in the back of my mind that I do get drunk really easily these days though and have to think about what I'm doing. It's a long way to go until show time.
When we land the sun is shining and we have a couple of hours to spare until the sound engineer will be at the venue. We take the bus into town, again greeted by friendly people working on the bus who are only too happy to tell us when our stop is coming up and direct us to where the venue is at. You ask a bus driver in the UK for such a service and chances are the answer you'll get will be preceded by an annoyed sigh, if you get an answer at all that is.
When we arrive we follow the directions to the club where the sound guy, a quiet, long haired chap, is rolling cables and pottering about his business. The venue is a small cellar bar, almost dungeon like, with huge, thick walls and a low ceiling. The stage is small and compact at the one end of the narrow room where the entrance is. This will do nicely. Always good to play a room where fifty people would fill it. The sound guy seems to keep himself to himself, save for asking about a drum kit. We're starving and since the other bands aren't here yet and neither is any drum kit, we dump our gear and head off in search of food.
I'm really in the mood for falafel but the place I had my eye on is closed so I earmark it for later, I'm sure I'll be hungry after the gig. We check out a couple of places but nothing really tickles our fancy so we decide to get some food from a mini-market and sit in a park somewhere to eat. It's a beautiful day after all. I remember last time I was here, when I was tour managing the country singer Mary Gauthier, that I went and checked out the old cathedral which is situated at the top of the city centre. It's really quite stunning and I thought the guys should see it. I buy some bread rolls and cheese, Luk picks up some salad that at first we mock him for but later it turns out to be a good idea, and Vik picks up a six pack of Tuborg Grön. I figure it'll cost the same as the food so we should be about even. Well... four bread rolls and a pack of sliced cheese comes to about eight quid. When Vik walks out of the shop to where we're all waiting for him, he looks like he's just seen a ghost. The six cans of beer came in at about fifteen quid, one hundred and fifty Norwegian kronor. He's fucking gutted.
Still, when we sit down to our little picnic in the grounds of the church the price has been forgotten..kind of. It really is a glorious spring day and our spot underneath the spectacular view of the western wall of Nidaros Cathedral is a perfect setting to enjoy a couple of beers and some cheese salad rolls. We're not sure if you're allowed to drink in public here so we keep it subtle. I'd like to see someone attempt to take Vik's beer away from him though...
We sit there for a half hour or so and then head back to the venue via a music store to pick up some small bits. The Paranoid guys are just parking up their car when we get back. It's good to see them again. It's always nice to hang out with Jocke, who besides playing in some great bands like Paranoid and Desperat, puts out our records on his label, D Takt och Råpunk. I don't really know the other two guys but they seem like nice people. Jocke laughs and tells us that they've sat and listened to an audio book during the entire six hour drive from their home town of Östersund. Not everyone's a talker like myself I guess.
The Mörkt Kapittel guys are also here now. It's great to see Atle and Oystein again. I've kept in touch with these guys since they brought Victims here to play a few years back at the punk house, UFFA. We had a great time then and we've been trading records and mailing on the odd occasion since then.
I'm not sure what the playing order is yet but we do the honours and sound check. It's very quick and pain free, in fact, the sound guy asks me to turn my amp up at one point, that doesn't happen very often I can assure you. It sounds really great on stage though, you can hear everything perfectly and it fills me with confidence for the show. We play a couple of songs and during the second song a big clock falls off the wall and smashes on the floor. I guess we're pretty loud. Everybody laughs except the sound guy who looks gutted as he sweeps up the broken glass.
When the other bands are done we head off in convoy to get some food. Atle has suggested a place over in Svartlamo, which is a kind of bohemian/anarchist part of town. It reminds me of Kreutzberg or even Kristiania a little. There is graffiti everywhere and by the looks of it a lot of squatted houses. Luk had been talking about this area earlier, having being tipped off by his girlfriend about it. We eat a place called Ramp which is a really cool, kind of thrown together sort of deal. The food looks good. The guy serving us is a tattooed guy with a shaven head who apparently plays in the punk band, Brutal Kuk. You don't have to be Norwegian to figure that one out. Atle had actually given me their record last time, so amused was I by the band name I had to have it. He's a really nice guy anyway and it's fun to meet him.
The three bands sit down to dinner, most of us having the veggie pasta, that although is rather shy in portion, tastes great. It's grand sitting down with all the bands and having a chat over dinner and a beer. I had no idea what kind of a deal we're getting from these shows but I was very surprised that Atle sorted the bill out for everyone. I tell him there's no need but he insists, saying that he'll take back expenses from any money we get in. He tells me that they'll give us the money for our flights too, which I really hadn't expected! Atle tells me, not for the last time tonight, that some people buy expensive cars with their money, others invest it in punk rock and having a good time with their friends. What a fantastic attitude.
When we're done with the food we head outside to some chairs to have another beer in the sun, just as the sun is fucking off behind some clouds. Fuck it, it's nice sitting here anyway, although Kev doesn't look too chuffed. He'd been telling us earlier how he doesn't like hanging out in the sun drinking beer. Strange old sod. Still, now that the sun has momentarily hidden itself he should be a little happier. I take myself to the bar and see what's on offer. I had a pint of lager with dinner and fancy something with a little more taste in it now. My eyes almost pop out of my fucking head when I notice that a pint of Pale Ale costs about fifteen quid! A seven quid Ringnes it is tack...
As always whilst sat around talking with fellow punks, we're treated to a pair of interesting stories. A usual theme on such tale telling occasions is old gigs, or more precisely, weird gigs one has played over the years. It turns out that Emil and the MK guys have a common acquaintance. Atle tells us of a show they played up in the north of Norway that was booked by this flakey guy who lives up there. The gig was this weird little festival that took place on an army barracks, if I understood correctly. The attendance is pretty piss and the gig not much better and at the end of the night they're just looking to get out of there. The guy tells them that they have beds available in one of the military huts but Atle says no thanks, they just want to get home. When he asks for some money for the gig, namely for petrol, the guy looks flabbergasted. “Petrol money? There isn't any. You guys got food!” Shit gig...
Funny thing is Emil not only knows the guy, it turns out he actually played in a band with him! The worst gig he ever booked them, probably the worst gig Emil ever played I imagine, was at some junior school that was having a party for the end of spring term, before the Easter holiday. Emil tells us that he's sat there, looking like he does (face tattoos, crazy mohawk etc) playing drums in this crust band behind this ridiculous perspex wall, humiliating as fuck he notes, to a bunch of small kids running about the place. The gig is of course in the middle of the afternoon and the daylight is shining through into the school assembly hall, just to add to the atmosphere. If that isn't bad enough, the only payment they receive for the show is a fucking Easter egg! I fucking piss myself at that! I've done some shit gigs down the years but that just about takes it.
Now on to the theme of funny punks we've met down the years, Atle tells us a story that frankly leaves us in a state of amazement, as well as laugh induced stomach pain. He tells us about this bloke, a real drunk punk, who garnered national attention a few years back after he made a trip to the Philippines. Apparently he'd been sat one day with his daughter watching tv, listening to the horrifying news of the Indian Ocean Tsunami that devastated so many countries in 2004. They were watching a particular piece about the Philippines when his daughter innocently asks her dad why they can't help somehow? A real doer, he tells her that they can help and before you know it he's booked a flight to the Philippines and is on his way to help the villagers rebuild houses. Very noble indeed, in fact, quite astonishing. But then it gets weird... I'm not sure how it happened but whilst he's there, he gets drunk one night and insults the mayor of the town he's in and gets thrown in jail! Fuck knows what he said but I guess it was pretty bad because he ends up sitting there a while, not in prison-prison I might add but in the holding cells. After a somewhat exaggerated detention he's released but upon leaving jail he's convinced that he's made some enemies and is shitting himself, paranoid that he's going to get done in. He purchases a gun in case he needs to protect himself. Thing is, he's never owned or even fired a gun before so he takes it down to a quiet area of town and practices firing it into a skip. As he's doing this it just so happens a cop car comes driving by and he's thrown back in jail, now on even more serious charges! By now, people back home both in the punk community and the community in general have heard of his plight and start a support group for him, their mission obviously to get him released. One of the people involved is your man here at Ramp, Brutal Kuk. Anyway, whilst this is going on Drunk Punk does an interview with a Norwegian newspaper, from jail, talking about his plight. Seemingly completely unable to keep his Doc Martin's out of his mouth, he tells the journalist that the situation is under control and the fact is that the Filipino money isn't worth shit and he can easily buy his way out of prison. It just so happens that The Filipino ambassador to Norway reads the piece in the newspaper a few days later and is incensed by the insult to his country, so he contacts the judge taking care of his case and suggests he makes the fine for his misdemeanour much, much higher. It turns out to be an absurd amount of money that the guy has no fucking chance of paying. Fuck knows how long he's over there, but it takes the support group back home quite a while longer to raise the extra money, and they must have wondered why they were even bothering. By the time Atle is done, I'm literally in tears of laughter. The waiter guy from Ramp is across the street in a skip, pounding down cardboard with his boots. “Ahh, Brutal Kuk”...Oystein wistfully remarks.
The sun is making no sign of reappearing and the night is pulling in so we finish up our beers and head over to a squat where the Paranoid guys are sleeping, to check in with the guys there. As we're stood outside waiting around, a couple of punks come running out of this tunnel at the end of the alley and chase each other around for a bit. I don't really think too much about it but Lucas tells me one of them had a syringe in his hand. The squat seems pretty cool though and the people there are friendly. We head back to the venue via the supermarket to get some beers in for the night, again Atle pays up, very kind of him.
It's Friday and Atle tells me that most people won't come until later on, so there's no rush for anyone to start playing. We spend the next couple of hours sat around in the bar or in the back room, playing pool, lying down, chilling out, listening to music, chatting, drinking beer... By the time Paranoid are due to start, around ten thirty, I've probably had as many beers as I should before a gig. Actually, I've had more than I should but they're only medium strength so I'm okay.. Just about. Vik cracks me up, he said a couple of hours ago that the beer he had in his hand then would be his last until after the show. The fucker is standing with a beer in his hand as Paranoid begin and tells me that he's stopping drinking when there's an hour left until we play... which would be about the time he's telling me this. Kev is more pissed than anyone though. I notice this when he runs up side of me and takes a close up photo of my mug, before laughing and shooting off again. In fact, it's only Luk who seems to have it completely together and noticing the vibe he suggests we take a walk around the block to get some air before we play. Kev tells him he'll be right behind and then walks the other way. Luk doesn't seem to find that too funny.
There still aren't that many people here but that doesn't make any difference to me enjoying the Paranoid set. The noise they make is pretty insane, full on chaos punk. I love it. You play the kind of music we do, you can't let playing to a small crowd bother you... That said, by the time they finish up the room has filled a little more, maybe thirty people, including band members and it looks ok.
The noise Mörkt Kapittel make is simply immense. They have a huge guitar sound that drowns the entire venue and I enjoy every minute of it. They are so fucking tight it's unreal. And considering they don't play that often that's quite amazing. Atle, the fucking man mountain that he is, has a solid voice and even if he has the friendliest of faces he still kicks the shit out of the gig. By the time they're done I'm raring to go, which is a fair barometer of how much I enjoyed their set.
There are still around thirty people in the small bar by the time we're ready, which is about five minutes after MK since we're all using the same equipment. These are my favourite kind of stage set ups, small, no monitors, no need for them. Everything sounds solid when we kick into D?B!. It's a little on the fast side, but not uncomfortable. Into Nausea and everything is under control, now I can relax and enjoy the set. The stage is pretty fucking compact though and there isn't much room to move. I feel Kev's presence in my close proximity a few times and every now and then we're banging in to one another. After a while it starts getting on my tits so I give him a kick up the arse onto the floor space. Thing is, you never really think about what you're doing when you're playing a show and soon enough I'm on the floor with him and then I've gubbed him in the jaw with my headstock. Sorry buddy. The set goes well anyway and it's a lot of fun to play. There aren't loads of people here but then when did that ever matter? We put a couple of new songs from the upcoming tape in the set tonight, Good Strong Hand and Hypnotic Eye. GSH goes a little fast but sounds generally tight but then HE gets pretty fucked up. The song is the only slower song we've written and the whole thing starts with Vik playing a 4/4 intro, that just randomly starts up through a load of feedback, the whole idea being that it sounds like the set has just come to a grinding halt and then out of the feedback we blast in to the big riff... Well, all goes to plan until said big riff is about to kick in. When the moment arrives I stand on my lead and pull it out of my tuner pedal leaving me with no sound, it's only Luk's bass playing and I'm stood there feeling like a prize turd. I quickly rectify the situation and plug the lead back in and join in with the song.. Only I don't because the pedal is set to go straight to tuner mode when you plug in so I've still got no fucking sound. I guess you could say the impact of the song is kind of lost. When I finally get it going the rest of the song continues to it's end undeterred. At least it's a new song and nobody has knows any better. Guess not many know the older songs either...Still, bit of a fucking brass.
We're all pretty pleased with the set anyway and there are calls for an extra song but we dither about on the side of the stage too long and eventually the PA music comes on. Fuck it, didn't really feel like an encore moment anyway. We pack down, cool off and then hang out by the merch, which, nobody bar the guys from MK purchases. The beer has ran out now so we take ourselves to the bar and buy a well earned cold pint that costs a fortune. I enjoy the fucker all the same. I get chatting to Hendrik, the guitarist from Paranoid for a bit. He's a really nice guy, although he seems a little on the shy side. We're talking about the Paranoid/I LIKE BUGS tour the guys just did in the UK and he tells me it's the first time he's been abroad. I'm not sure I hear him right but then he tells me he's only nineteen years old. For a second I feel old but then I think of Kev, it's comforting to know that he's always ten years ahead of me, even if sometimes to look at us you'd think it was the other way around...it's also comforting to know that the younger generation is still coming through and continuing to drive the scene. Hendrik not only plays in bands but writes a blog called Lockyard. Good man.
It's getting late and I'm both hungry and tired. We're staying at Eirik's place tonight and we have to be up at seven to catch the eight thirty train to Oslo tomorrow. We take the gear over to Eirik's office which is just across the water from the station and then head off to get some food. Now it really is time for falafel. Except it's not, because of course the place Eirik takes us too is all out. I end up munching through an incredibly salty bag of fries whilst the others tuck into a veggie roll that costs about a tenner. It tasted good though and I wish I'd bought one.
When you're tired, it's late and you have no idea where you're walking to, it feels like you're never going to arrive at your destination, no matter how often Eirik tells you it's not far now. We seem to walk the streets of Trondheim forever and it's almost three am when we arrive at Eirik's fifteen minutes later. He's been telling us about his bread baking machine all night and right enough he heads to the kitchen to sort some out for the morning. The rest of us grab any spot we can in his living room, I opt for a camper bed that has a few springs popping out here and there but will do just nicely all the same. It's three thirty by the time the lights go out. Up in three and half hours... It's funny, I take a break from the sleepless nights at home with Polly and end up with less sleep than ever. It's not exactly what you'd call a relaxing getaway but it's the life we choose. And sleep isn't part of the deal I guess...
Monday, May 12, 2014
Monday, April 14, 2014
The Crew: The Sound Guys
One of the many things I've noticed over the years is that in the sub-world of touring there are a lot of “Dave's”. It must be the most popular roadie name there is. Of course, we had Bianchi, our manager, commonly known to many as Corby Dave, we had Little Dave who was our “drum tech” for a while, I add the inverted commas since very little drum teching was done, he just used to hang out with Gordon, get pissed a lot and chat up girls. He was commonly referred to by Gordon as Bitch Dave because although a lot of teching wasn't seen to Gordon would make him carry out countless other chores and generally treat him like his butler. Bitch Dave would later go on to play bass with us after Darren left.
For a while there we did actually get to the size where we could justify taking a big crew on tour with us. Well, I'm not sure we could justify it, or maybe we could, but in truth we probably wasted a lot of money paying people to help us carry gear just because they were our mates and we wanted to party. But fuck it, why not? It was a long time ago and the money is long gone and it's nothing worth regretting now. I'll never be in that position again so fuck it.
Although we did piss a lot of money away in our time, when we could afford it, paying a sound engineer was always money well spent, if they were good at their job of course. We went a long time without one, we held the belief that the in-house person at the club most likely knew the PA better than anyone else and not only that, if we happened to be touring with another band that did have an engineer then the “in-houser” would always want to do a better job than the “professional”. This proved to be true a lot of the time (although you always encounter the odd wanker) as long as we were playing smaller clubs but when we started getting shows at places like the Astoria, and then later on the big festivals, it became apparent that we needed someone working our sound. We had a few over the years and a couple of those just happened to be called, Dave...
Long before the days of hiring a full time engineer, our first try out was actually a guy called Lee, or Fat Lee, ingeniously christened so because he was a big old boy. He came out with us for a few shows in the early days for what must have been very little money. Roddy had picked him up after a show in Northampton where he'd impressed whilst doing the in-house sound. Roddy seemed to suddenly insist we needed a Sound Guy, although it was nothing the rest of us seemed particularly bothered about. That said, we didn't really bother about anything in those days and with Roddy doing all the sorting out we were happy to go along with his suggestion, we really weren't arsed either way as long as we didn't have to take care of paying him. We left Roddy to deal with that. We left Roddy to deal with pretty much everything in those days. It was funny looking back on it, there was the six of us in the band and Roddy, who did everything for us then, and then for a while there was Fat Lee, who as far as we were concerned, was Roddy's own little employee. Roddy seemed to be chuffed.
Lee was actually a really nice guy, although nothing like the rest of us. He was polite and quiet, a really mild bloke who wouldn't harm anyone. He did used to sweat a lot though and wasn't all that keen on changing his clothes from day to day. Don't get me wrong, our personal hygiene back then was nothing to be applauded but Lee was on a slightly worse level. Again, we weren't really that arsed but this soon began to be an issue for Roddy and before long he was lobbying to have him fired. I think the truth of the matter is though that Roddy had grown disillusioned with Lee soon after taking him on, not only had they been arguing a lot about the sound but it was pretty obvious Lee just wasn't like us. He was a good sound engineer I'm sure but he just didn't really get us. The fact he sat in the back of the van stinking and eating like a horse was just a minor detail.
I'll never forget one occasion when we were driving along the M11 on a gloriously sunny day, heading somewhere south, and the back tire of the van, right underneath Lee's arse, exploded! Fucking bits of rubber all over the motorway behind us. We fucking shat ourselves as Roddy swerved into the hard shoulder. Of course, Roddy got it into his head this was somehow Lee's fault. He'd only been out with us about a week and it had already reached that point.. Roddy finally decided that Lee was for the chop and when we turned up a few days later at a gig in Colchester, Roddy dropped him off at the train station and bought him a ticket. And that was that. Never did see Lee again. I hope he's doing ok. It would be a few years until we employed another Sound Guy.
We were rapidly assembling a crew from the old Nottingham scene, through the contacts Bianchi and Roddy had. We had Tall Paul out for a while, drum teching, and Doug was living in Nottingham at the time and a big part of the scene there, and then we had Dave Stokes. Stokesy as he was known to all. Stokesy was the first real sound guy we employed and the longest serving too.
Stokesy was a quiet guy really, although you had the feeling there was some darker, more mischievous side bubbling under the surface there somewhere. He was part of the old goth/punk scene in Notts, I think he used to crew for the cult band Every New Dead Ghost. That was how he knew Bianchi. He had a skinhead although looked friendly with it. He was a bit of an enigma really. He just got on with his job quietly and professionally, would never refuse a beer after his job was done and would always be close to hand if the scent of a fight arose, which it inevitably did. I liked the fact that he blended in with the gang mentality we had, which was always us against the rest of the world. The thing I liked most about Stokesy was that he almost always wore a smile upon his face, just a pretty content kind of guy. But like I say, if there was a confrontation he would be there, somewhere thereabouts anyway.
My favourite memory of Stokesy was when we were playing the Tattoo the Planet travelling festival, which was something like five shows in the UK. It was one of those festivals that never really seemed like it was going to last. It started off the first year with crap like Pantera and Soulfly headlining and about another fifteen or sixteen similarly rubbish bands in support, and by the time we played it a couple of years later it was basically a Slayer gig. Besides us there was Biohazard and Cradle of Filth, there were maybe a couple of others at the London show, but this particular night it was just the four of us, playing the NIA in Birmingham.
It was a big show, maybe four or five thousand in attendance. My mum and dad had come up to see us. I think it was the only big indoor show my mum ever came too. I remember looking over at the two of them, sat in the dark beside the stage on a flight case as we played, nobody else around, just really chilled out watching us. It was weird how playing shows of this size had come to feel completely normal, that they had lost all sense of awe, and my mum and dad being there watching as if it was just any other gig seemed to sum it up really. I guess when I look back now I realise that it had all began to feel like just another job. I digress... The thing is, for being a big show and all, there was no sense of party, everything was pretty relaxed. We had the tour bus outside which was were we'd be sleeping for the night and we'd be waking up in London the next day. Just another week at work.
After the show my mum and dad left for the short drive home, not really arsed about seeing Slayer. Neither was I to be fair, I'd seen them a few times already by that point and as much as I love the early records, if you've seen them live once you've seen them a hundred times. And let's face it, Kerry King looks like a right tosser these days and there's only so much you can stomach. As is always the case at these events, the backstage area is completely over the top, with each band having their own Porta Cabin dressing room, a full on canteen for band and crew catering etc. etc. All very luxurious and at the same time completely soulless. We of course received our food tickets earlier in the day which were duly exchanged for a plate of grub but come the end of the night, after a couple of beers, we were hungry again. Stokesy told us that some runners had just taken a load of pizza into Slayer's cabin, which would be their after-show grub. “Why the fuck weren't we getting after-show grub?” Stokesy wanted to know, a half pissed frown/smirk on his coupon. Of course we weren't getting any pizza, we weren't the guys on stage right now that six thousand people had come to see, we were simply the first band of the night. Still, with some gentle encouragement from Stokesy we were soon robbing Slayer of their pizza, pissing ourselves laughing while we were at it. Fuck em. We weren't even drunk, just bored, if anything. Stokesy seemed to be on one though. He had that look in his eye. The Biohazard boys had witnessed the whole thing and found it hilarious. “What I love about you guys is that in ten years time, when it's you that are up on that stage headlining, you fuckers will still be stealing pizza!” laughed Danny. I guess he'd prove to be half way right.
We headed back to the tour bus, satisfied on pizza and ready to chill out on the bus with a film and a couple of beers. Billy Biohazard and Stokesy had other ideas though. Billy is a trouble maker of the highest order, one of the reasons we got on so well with him, and Stokesy, as Doug would often comment, was a “dark horse”. Billy had found his way on to our bus and seemed determined to get a party going, whether we wanted one or not. “What the fuck's going on with you guys?” he enquired, seeming genuinely shocked by the sight of us lazing around the top lounge of the bus watching a film whilst John sat at the back, rolling a joint. I'm not really sure how it happened but within five minutes chaos had broken out. Somehow Billy and Stokesy had gotten into a “toy fight” that, as is usually the case, soon escalated into something a little more serious, not really a full on fight but neither would back down. We sat there, pretty amused at the sight of Stokesy wrestling with Billy, and before we fucking knew it, something, I guess it was a bottle of some sort, had been launched and gone straight through the back window! The window just shattered into a million pieces and a good section of it rained down on John. I looked over at him and he was sat there, with little pyramids of shattered glass on his head and shoulders, still rolling his joint, “Argh for fuck sake..” he moaned.
I can't really remember how the situation resolved itself although Bianchi was far from amused. Billy was though. Or at least, he made out he was, not really wanting to admit to feeling any guilt. He'd committed worse crimes through the years I'm sure. Stokesy got pretty quiet afterwards though as our bus driver read us the riot act. John carried on with his joint.
I still don't know exactly who threw the bottle though...
Stokesy actually left our service a little while later. No big break up or anything like that, he just had a more regular gig with another band he was doing sound for, InMe. A rubbish grunge/metal/indie band that I couldn't understand for the fucking life of me. The last time I remember seeing Stokesy was at show in London where we happened to be on the same bill as InMe. I remember thinking to myself, “What the fuck are you doing with these guys?” but I guess Stokesy had his reasons. Maybe they were less trouble than we were. They probably paid better anyway.
After Stokesy we had another Dave, Dave Lamb. Now I liked Dave, he was a happy guy, kind of posh, very enthusiastic and a decent soundman. But, as was often the problem, he was nothing like us. He came from a more indie background, which was by no way a problem for me, in fact he'd worked with one of my favourite bands of that era in Swervedriver, something I was really impressed with and I would gladly listen to some of the stories he had to tell from his time with them. I could tell the rest of the guys weren't really feeling the same connect though. And I had the feeling he got on Doug's tits, being that he was a bit of a whittler.
As friendly as Dave was he too gave the impression that there was a darker side in there somewhere and one thing I did notice is that as soon as there was a whiff of the white stuff around he'd be off. And to make matters worse he seemed to be rapidly racking up debts with everyone. It wasn't long before the tension started to tell and some of the guys were wanting rid of him. It's a really hard situation when you have to sack someone, especially if as in the case here, it was someone I liked personally. As it happens Gordon took care of the situation with typical Morison efficiency. He threw a stink bomb into his bunk one night and in the morning Dave was gone. Gordon said he'd lobbed it in and then jumped into his bunk and hid whilst Lamb came crawling out in shock, cursing and ready to vomit, shouting at the rest of the bus. I'd slept through the whole thing. The next time I met Dave he was doing sound with the band Oceansize and we were sharing the bill at an awful gig in Redhill. We spoke a little but it was bit awkward, to say the least.
The last soundguy we had of note was Mole. Mole was a lot older than the rest of us, very experienced and again, a good engineer. He'd been doing in house sound at Nottingham Rock City for a few years and was a fixture of the scene there. He had long grey hair and looked like Killer Bob from Twin Peaks, although a slicker version. I remember one time my friend Erik was hanging out on tour with us and the first time he met Mole he was pretty pissed up and when he set eyes on him he got really freaked out and hid, screaming, “It's Bob!”. Mole thought the whole thing was hilarious.
Mole was a real gentleman and had a calmer head on his shoulders than everyone else. He liked to party and hang out, have a drink and all, but his main interest seemed to be the girls. He was a right slick talking fucker when it came to that. As calm and collected as he was though, like everyone else I've ever met, there was another side to him. It's a good thing that Mole had quit the band before Kev joined us because there was a bit of history between them. A long time before when they were all living in Notts, Kev had had his jaw broken by the bouncers at Rock City. The reason being that he'd walked up to one of them and called him a cunt. The reason he did such a ridiculous thing is because he was steaming and Bianchi and the lads had egged him on to do so. Of course, Kev can be a danger to himself when he's drunk but still, this was stupid, even for him. The thing is, after calling said bouncer a cunt and then getting into a scuffle with him, he was taken a hold of by a few of them and none other than Mole held him from behind in a Full Nelson headlock while the insulted bouncer lined up and took a shot at him. Bianchi and the lads went to visit Kev the next day in hospital and found him with his jaw wired together. “Er, sorry mate” they said, trying not to giggle. Kev doesn't hold a grudge to be fair and admits he got what he deserved. I doubt whether Mole would even remember, that kind of thing went on at Rock City all the time.
Mole took his job very seriously and was good for us for a while. Of course, it started to erk him a little that we didn't take our band as seriously as he seemed to. I remember one night after a gig at the Astoria, a euphoric Mole came into the backstage, praising the gig and was gushing about the sound he'd worked for us. He had been on at me and Tony about adjusting our guitar sounds and backing off the bass a little, something we were not entirely on board with. But we'd tried it this night and after the show Mole was buzzing about it to me and Darren, “You guys sounded brilliant tonight! It was so much better, you could hear everything, but it was still as heavy as fuck. But you know, everything sat so much better, and the guitar sound, awesome! You could hear notes, you could hear tone...” at which point Daz cut him off and turned to me, “You must be Notes!” The pair of us pissed ourselves laughing, kind of missing Mole's point and pissing on his onions a little. Still, I thought it was one of the funniest things Daz had said.
What I admired most about Mole though was his love for Metallica. He adored them so much that he had his own tribute band (he was the drummer) called Moletallica. Fucking genius name! They were kind of a big deal in Nottingham, playing to big crowds at Rock City now and then. I remember probing him one night about the band and about the setlist, enthusiastically going through the old classics and wondering which ones they played. We all started to crack up though when we saw a pattern emerging. “Battery?” No... “Hit The Lights?” No, not that one. “Fight Fire With Fire?” No, too fast, the boys can't keep up. It seemed that the only songs the old boys played was the slower paced ones. The thing is Mole is one of those Metallica fanatics, just like our old mate from Corby Metallica Bob, who stands by everything Metallica have ever released. Such is their devotion to the band that they will look you in the eye and tell you Reload is a great record. I just don't get it. But they are not alone.
As was often the case with the guys we had crewing for us, our relationship with Mole started to fray a little after a while. To be fair, it was mostly our doing. OK, Mole was probably way too serious for us but we did nothing but moan, about everything, all the time, and after a while it started getting on Mole's nerves. Can't say I blame him, looking back. It was becoming apparent this was the case when Mole's frustration started to manifest itself in petty little arguments. As in one night when we were on the bus and Gordon was moaning about wanting some food. I don't remember exactly what happened, just that at one point Mole and Gordon were in a bit of a stand off and Mole was rabidly clenching an egg sandwich, “You fucking lot don't know how lucky you are! Do you know how fucking long most bands have to work for this? Most bands never get to this level!” To be fair, I think Mole was referring to the tour bus. “Fuck me! An egg sandwich? If you think that's luxury mate then you've had a harder life than I have!”
I thought it was great but the whole thing boiled over and the two of them very nearly got into it. Doug stepped in of course and took Mole to the side for a quiet word. Before long he was apologising to us and the thing was done. Except for Gordon. Gordon had decided Mole was a prick and was now on a mission to wind him up... It escalated a few nights later. The air conditioning on the tour bus was fucked and it was insanely warm at night. You'd be lying in your coffin-like bunk with sweat pissing out of you. I think I slept naked most of the time. It was fucking horrible, waking up in the middle of the night, drunk and dehydrated, gagging for water. Well of course, Gordon thought it would be funny to empty Mole's water bottle while he slept and replace it with vodka. Mole got quite a fucking shock I can tell you. I'll never forget him crawling out of his bunk in agony, sweat pissing out of him, having just downed a shit load of Smirnoff. Mole wasn't around much longer. From what I can tell, he seems to be doing better without us.
Apart from the odd one off occasion when we'd play a big show, we didn't really have any other sound engineers. As I've documented, things tailed off a bit and we couldn't really afford them any longer. And who in their right mind would want to work for us anyway? When we got things up and running again, after Frank had quit and left us in the shit, things were on a different level. It started well enough, with a show to a huge crowd in the tent at Donnington, but apart from a couple of big Euro festivals, the crowds slowly started to erode and we were back to playing small clubs and gig spaces. We couldn't afford anyone to crew for us any more. Except for Wee Lee, and he was like a seventh member of the band. We didn't deserve him...He certainly deserved better than us...
For a while there we did actually get to the size where we could justify taking a big crew on tour with us. Well, I'm not sure we could justify it, or maybe we could, but in truth we probably wasted a lot of money paying people to help us carry gear just because they were our mates and we wanted to party. But fuck it, why not? It was a long time ago and the money is long gone and it's nothing worth regretting now. I'll never be in that position again so fuck it.
Although we did piss a lot of money away in our time, when we could afford it, paying a sound engineer was always money well spent, if they were good at their job of course. We went a long time without one, we held the belief that the in-house person at the club most likely knew the PA better than anyone else and not only that, if we happened to be touring with another band that did have an engineer then the “in-houser” would always want to do a better job than the “professional”. This proved to be true a lot of the time (although you always encounter the odd wanker) as long as we were playing smaller clubs but when we started getting shows at places like the Astoria, and then later on the big festivals, it became apparent that we needed someone working our sound. We had a few over the years and a couple of those just happened to be called, Dave...
Long before the days of hiring a full time engineer, our first try out was actually a guy called Lee, or Fat Lee, ingeniously christened so because he was a big old boy. He came out with us for a few shows in the early days for what must have been very little money. Roddy had picked him up after a show in Northampton where he'd impressed whilst doing the in-house sound. Roddy seemed to suddenly insist we needed a Sound Guy, although it was nothing the rest of us seemed particularly bothered about. That said, we didn't really bother about anything in those days and with Roddy doing all the sorting out we were happy to go along with his suggestion, we really weren't arsed either way as long as we didn't have to take care of paying him. We left Roddy to deal with that. We left Roddy to deal with pretty much everything in those days. It was funny looking back on it, there was the six of us in the band and Roddy, who did everything for us then, and then for a while there was Fat Lee, who as far as we were concerned, was Roddy's own little employee. Roddy seemed to be chuffed.
Lee was actually a really nice guy, although nothing like the rest of us. He was polite and quiet, a really mild bloke who wouldn't harm anyone. He did used to sweat a lot though and wasn't all that keen on changing his clothes from day to day. Don't get me wrong, our personal hygiene back then was nothing to be applauded but Lee was on a slightly worse level. Again, we weren't really that arsed but this soon began to be an issue for Roddy and before long he was lobbying to have him fired. I think the truth of the matter is though that Roddy had grown disillusioned with Lee soon after taking him on, not only had they been arguing a lot about the sound but it was pretty obvious Lee just wasn't like us. He was a good sound engineer I'm sure but he just didn't really get us. The fact he sat in the back of the van stinking and eating like a horse was just a minor detail.
I'll never forget one occasion when we were driving along the M11 on a gloriously sunny day, heading somewhere south, and the back tire of the van, right underneath Lee's arse, exploded! Fucking bits of rubber all over the motorway behind us. We fucking shat ourselves as Roddy swerved into the hard shoulder. Of course, Roddy got it into his head this was somehow Lee's fault. He'd only been out with us about a week and it had already reached that point.. Roddy finally decided that Lee was for the chop and when we turned up a few days later at a gig in Colchester, Roddy dropped him off at the train station and bought him a ticket. And that was that. Never did see Lee again. I hope he's doing ok. It would be a few years until we employed another Sound Guy.
We were rapidly assembling a crew from the old Nottingham scene, through the contacts Bianchi and Roddy had. We had Tall Paul out for a while, drum teching, and Doug was living in Nottingham at the time and a big part of the scene there, and then we had Dave Stokes. Stokesy as he was known to all. Stokesy was the first real sound guy we employed and the longest serving too.
Stokesy was a quiet guy really, although you had the feeling there was some darker, more mischievous side bubbling under the surface there somewhere. He was part of the old goth/punk scene in Notts, I think he used to crew for the cult band Every New Dead Ghost. That was how he knew Bianchi. He had a skinhead although looked friendly with it. He was a bit of an enigma really. He just got on with his job quietly and professionally, would never refuse a beer after his job was done and would always be close to hand if the scent of a fight arose, which it inevitably did. I liked the fact that he blended in with the gang mentality we had, which was always us against the rest of the world. The thing I liked most about Stokesy was that he almost always wore a smile upon his face, just a pretty content kind of guy. But like I say, if there was a confrontation he would be there, somewhere thereabouts anyway.
My favourite memory of Stokesy was when we were playing the Tattoo the Planet travelling festival, which was something like five shows in the UK. It was one of those festivals that never really seemed like it was going to last. It started off the first year with crap like Pantera and Soulfly headlining and about another fifteen or sixteen similarly rubbish bands in support, and by the time we played it a couple of years later it was basically a Slayer gig. Besides us there was Biohazard and Cradle of Filth, there were maybe a couple of others at the London show, but this particular night it was just the four of us, playing the NIA in Birmingham.
It was a big show, maybe four or five thousand in attendance. My mum and dad had come up to see us. I think it was the only big indoor show my mum ever came too. I remember looking over at the two of them, sat in the dark beside the stage on a flight case as we played, nobody else around, just really chilled out watching us. It was weird how playing shows of this size had come to feel completely normal, that they had lost all sense of awe, and my mum and dad being there watching as if it was just any other gig seemed to sum it up really. I guess when I look back now I realise that it had all began to feel like just another job. I digress... The thing is, for being a big show and all, there was no sense of party, everything was pretty relaxed. We had the tour bus outside which was were we'd be sleeping for the night and we'd be waking up in London the next day. Just another week at work.
After the show my mum and dad left for the short drive home, not really arsed about seeing Slayer. Neither was I to be fair, I'd seen them a few times already by that point and as much as I love the early records, if you've seen them live once you've seen them a hundred times. And let's face it, Kerry King looks like a right tosser these days and there's only so much you can stomach. As is always the case at these events, the backstage area is completely over the top, with each band having their own Porta Cabin dressing room, a full on canteen for band and crew catering etc. etc. All very luxurious and at the same time completely soulless. We of course received our food tickets earlier in the day which were duly exchanged for a plate of grub but come the end of the night, after a couple of beers, we were hungry again. Stokesy told us that some runners had just taken a load of pizza into Slayer's cabin, which would be their after-show grub. “Why the fuck weren't we getting after-show grub?” Stokesy wanted to know, a half pissed frown/smirk on his coupon. Of course we weren't getting any pizza, we weren't the guys on stage right now that six thousand people had come to see, we were simply the first band of the night. Still, with some gentle encouragement from Stokesy we were soon robbing Slayer of their pizza, pissing ourselves laughing while we were at it. Fuck em. We weren't even drunk, just bored, if anything. Stokesy seemed to be on one though. He had that look in his eye. The Biohazard boys had witnessed the whole thing and found it hilarious. “What I love about you guys is that in ten years time, when it's you that are up on that stage headlining, you fuckers will still be stealing pizza!” laughed Danny. I guess he'd prove to be half way right.
We headed back to the tour bus, satisfied on pizza and ready to chill out on the bus with a film and a couple of beers. Billy Biohazard and Stokesy had other ideas though. Billy is a trouble maker of the highest order, one of the reasons we got on so well with him, and Stokesy, as Doug would often comment, was a “dark horse”. Billy had found his way on to our bus and seemed determined to get a party going, whether we wanted one or not. “What the fuck's going on with you guys?” he enquired, seeming genuinely shocked by the sight of us lazing around the top lounge of the bus watching a film whilst John sat at the back, rolling a joint. I'm not really sure how it happened but within five minutes chaos had broken out. Somehow Billy and Stokesy had gotten into a “toy fight” that, as is usually the case, soon escalated into something a little more serious, not really a full on fight but neither would back down. We sat there, pretty amused at the sight of Stokesy wrestling with Billy, and before we fucking knew it, something, I guess it was a bottle of some sort, had been launched and gone straight through the back window! The window just shattered into a million pieces and a good section of it rained down on John. I looked over at him and he was sat there, with little pyramids of shattered glass on his head and shoulders, still rolling his joint, “Argh for fuck sake..” he moaned.
I can't really remember how the situation resolved itself although Bianchi was far from amused. Billy was though. Or at least, he made out he was, not really wanting to admit to feeling any guilt. He'd committed worse crimes through the years I'm sure. Stokesy got pretty quiet afterwards though as our bus driver read us the riot act. John carried on with his joint.
I still don't know exactly who threw the bottle though...
Stokesy actually left our service a little while later. No big break up or anything like that, he just had a more regular gig with another band he was doing sound for, InMe. A rubbish grunge/metal/indie band that I couldn't understand for the fucking life of me. The last time I remember seeing Stokesy was at show in London where we happened to be on the same bill as InMe. I remember thinking to myself, “What the fuck are you doing with these guys?” but I guess Stokesy had his reasons. Maybe they were less trouble than we were. They probably paid better anyway.
After Stokesy we had another Dave, Dave Lamb. Now I liked Dave, he was a happy guy, kind of posh, very enthusiastic and a decent soundman. But, as was often the problem, he was nothing like us. He came from a more indie background, which was by no way a problem for me, in fact he'd worked with one of my favourite bands of that era in Swervedriver, something I was really impressed with and I would gladly listen to some of the stories he had to tell from his time with them. I could tell the rest of the guys weren't really feeling the same connect though. And I had the feeling he got on Doug's tits, being that he was a bit of a whittler.
As friendly as Dave was he too gave the impression that there was a darker side in there somewhere and one thing I did notice is that as soon as there was a whiff of the white stuff around he'd be off. And to make matters worse he seemed to be rapidly racking up debts with everyone. It wasn't long before the tension started to tell and some of the guys were wanting rid of him. It's a really hard situation when you have to sack someone, especially if as in the case here, it was someone I liked personally. As it happens Gordon took care of the situation with typical Morison efficiency. He threw a stink bomb into his bunk one night and in the morning Dave was gone. Gordon said he'd lobbed it in and then jumped into his bunk and hid whilst Lamb came crawling out in shock, cursing and ready to vomit, shouting at the rest of the bus. I'd slept through the whole thing. The next time I met Dave he was doing sound with the band Oceansize and we were sharing the bill at an awful gig in Redhill. We spoke a little but it was bit awkward, to say the least.
The last soundguy we had of note was Mole. Mole was a lot older than the rest of us, very experienced and again, a good engineer. He'd been doing in house sound at Nottingham Rock City for a few years and was a fixture of the scene there. He had long grey hair and looked like Killer Bob from Twin Peaks, although a slicker version. I remember one time my friend Erik was hanging out on tour with us and the first time he met Mole he was pretty pissed up and when he set eyes on him he got really freaked out and hid, screaming, “It's Bob!”. Mole thought the whole thing was hilarious.
Mole was a real gentleman and had a calmer head on his shoulders than everyone else. He liked to party and hang out, have a drink and all, but his main interest seemed to be the girls. He was a right slick talking fucker when it came to that. As calm and collected as he was though, like everyone else I've ever met, there was another side to him. It's a good thing that Mole had quit the band before Kev joined us because there was a bit of history between them. A long time before when they were all living in Notts, Kev had had his jaw broken by the bouncers at Rock City. The reason being that he'd walked up to one of them and called him a cunt. The reason he did such a ridiculous thing is because he was steaming and Bianchi and the lads had egged him on to do so. Of course, Kev can be a danger to himself when he's drunk but still, this was stupid, even for him. The thing is, after calling said bouncer a cunt and then getting into a scuffle with him, he was taken a hold of by a few of them and none other than Mole held him from behind in a Full Nelson headlock while the insulted bouncer lined up and took a shot at him. Bianchi and the lads went to visit Kev the next day in hospital and found him with his jaw wired together. “Er, sorry mate” they said, trying not to giggle. Kev doesn't hold a grudge to be fair and admits he got what he deserved. I doubt whether Mole would even remember, that kind of thing went on at Rock City all the time.
Mole took his job very seriously and was good for us for a while. Of course, it started to erk him a little that we didn't take our band as seriously as he seemed to. I remember one night after a gig at the Astoria, a euphoric Mole came into the backstage, praising the gig and was gushing about the sound he'd worked for us. He had been on at me and Tony about adjusting our guitar sounds and backing off the bass a little, something we were not entirely on board with. But we'd tried it this night and after the show Mole was buzzing about it to me and Darren, “You guys sounded brilliant tonight! It was so much better, you could hear everything, but it was still as heavy as fuck. But you know, everything sat so much better, and the guitar sound, awesome! You could hear notes, you could hear tone...” at which point Daz cut him off and turned to me, “You must be Notes!” The pair of us pissed ourselves laughing, kind of missing Mole's point and pissing on his onions a little. Still, I thought it was one of the funniest things Daz had said.
What I admired most about Mole though was his love for Metallica. He adored them so much that he had his own tribute band (he was the drummer) called Moletallica. Fucking genius name! They were kind of a big deal in Nottingham, playing to big crowds at Rock City now and then. I remember probing him one night about the band and about the setlist, enthusiastically going through the old classics and wondering which ones they played. We all started to crack up though when we saw a pattern emerging. “Battery?” No... “Hit The Lights?” No, not that one. “Fight Fire With Fire?” No, too fast, the boys can't keep up. It seemed that the only songs the old boys played was the slower paced ones. The thing is Mole is one of those Metallica fanatics, just like our old mate from Corby Metallica Bob, who stands by everything Metallica have ever released. Such is their devotion to the band that they will look you in the eye and tell you Reload is a great record. I just don't get it. But they are not alone.
As was often the case with the guys we had crewing for us, our relationship with Mole started to fray a little after a while. To be fair, it was mostly our doing. OK, Mole was probably way too serious for us but we did nothing but moan, about everything, all the time, and after a while it started getting on Mole's nerves. Can't say I blame him, looking back. It was becoming apparent this was the case when Mole's frustration started to manifest itself in petty little arguments. As in one night when we were on the bus and Gordon was moaning about wanting some food. I don't remember exactly what happened, just that at one point Mole and Gordon were in a bit of a stand off and Mole was rabidly clenching an egg sandwich, “You fucking lot don't know how lucky you are! Do you know how fucking long most bands have to work for this? Most bands never get to this level!” To be fair, I think Mole was referring to the tour bus. “Fuck me! An egg sandwich? If you think that's luxury mate then you've had a harder life than I have!”
I thought it was great but the whole thing boiled over and the two of them very nearly got into it. Doug stepped in of course and took Mole to the side for a quiet word. Before long he was apologising to us and the thing was done. Except for Gordon. Gordon had decided Mole was a prick and was now on a mission to wind him up... It escalated a few nights later. The air conditioning on the tour bus was fucked and it was insanely warm at night. You'd be lying in your coffin-like bunk with sweat pissing out of you. I think I slept naked most of the time. It was fucking horrible, waking up in the middle of the night, drunk and dehydrated, gagging for water. Well of course, Gordon thought it would be funny to empty Mole's water bottle while he slept and replace it with vodka. Mole got quite a fucking shock I can tell you. I'll never forget him crawling out of his bunk in agony, sweat pissing out of him, having just downed a shit load of Smirnoff. Mole wasn't around much longer. From what I can tell, he seems to be doing better without us.
Apart from the odd one off occasion when we'd play a big show, we didn't really have any other sound engineers. As I've documented, things tailed off a bit and we couldn't really afford them any longer. And who in their right mind would want to work for us anyway? When we got things up and running again, after Frank had quit and left us in the shit, things were on a different level. It started well enough, with a show to a huge crowd in the tent at Donnington, but apart from a couple of big Euro festivals, the crowds slowly started to erode and we were back to playing small clubs and gig spaces. We couldn't afford anyone to crew for us any more. Except for Wee Lee, and he was like a seventh member of the band. We didn't deserve him...He certainly deserved better than us...
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
The Crew: Bianchi
“If you name your band Raging Speedhorn, I swear, I'll manage it!”
And history was made...
This was maybe the second or third time I'd met David Bianchi. We were sat around a camp fire at Reading Festival, must have been ´98 I guess, and he'd just been recounting the story of an acquaintance who had had a rather rough night on speed. The guy had taken a shit load of the stuff, come home as randy as a dog on heat, only to recoil in horror at the realisation his wife was away from home. With no other alternative available, he climbs into bed and starts rabidly beating off. Of course, speed may well make you horny but it can also turn you anorgasmic, the guy, whoever he was, was not to be beaten, or actually he was, and he went at it all night until he chaffed his bobby ruby red. “He had a right raging speed horn!” laughed Bianchi at the climax of this non-climaxing story. I knew right then what I'd be calling the band, I knew the guys back home would love it. And so it was.
Bianchi was Roddy's best mate from back in the day when they both attended Lodge Park School together, the very same hell hole I went to. I hear it's a lot better these days. The first time I'd seen him he was playing bass in Roddy's band Krust, at the annual Battle of the Bands that took place at The Welfare in Corby. I say “playing bass”, he was actually just jumping around the stage like a tit playing very little from what I could hear. Still, you couldn't take your eyes off him.
The first time I met him officially was at a show my old band Soul Cellar were playing, at the old Mean Fiddler in London, sharing a bill with Cathedral and Acrimony. Bianchi had come down to meet us, via Roddy, to talk about the possibility of managing us, or at least helping us out. At the time he was working on the tv show TFI Friday, working with the music side of it I think. This was around about the time Napalm Death had appeared on the show and it was a huge thing, given that the usual fare appearing at the time were the likes of Paul Weller and Ocean Colour Scene.
Bianchi had left Corby with Roddy and moved to the punk scene in Nottingham, where he was known as Corby Dave, and still is to most of that crowd, before moving down to London to make his way in the music business. Roddy and Dave were always top value entertainment, always bickering about what was better, metal or goth, sometimes the bickering cranked up a notch, but they were as thick as thieves and always will be I reckon.
Bianchi always cut an impressive figure. The man can fucking talk for England, confidence oozing from his every word, bullshit or not, it doesn't matter, the man can make you listen and what's more, he can make you believe. When I met him the first time I was really unsure. I mean, I liked him, you couldn't doubt he was funny and he commanded respect, but being the little hardcore kid who was shit scared of the music industry, I didn't quite trust the guy. This was nothing personal, I just had an ingrained mistrust of anyone in the “business”. But trust him or not, you couldn't help being drawn to him. I didn't know if he was going to manage Soul Cellar and I really didn't know if he could do anything for us, but certain members of the band were convinced we were going to be huge with this loud talking southerner (he was originally from Kent) taking care of us.
It didn't work out. Bianchi sorted us out with a gig at the old George Robey Club, an opening slot on the Terrorizer Magazine Christmas Bash, incidentally the night I first saw Iron Monkey and my life changed forever, but the band soon disintegrated thereafter, for one reason or another. We were never going to cut it if the truth is told, we were ok, we could play, but we didn't have that spark. What we were in fact, was a perfect band to be in and learn from, the band before the band that does something. And besides, after seeing Iron Monkey my head was already turned. I knew I no longer wanted to be in a “metal” band, I wanted to do what they were doing.
As it happens, Dave's head had also been turned that night and shortly afterwards he was indeed managing Iron Monkey. This was the state of play when Roddy brought him over to that camp fire at Reading 98´. Being that we were sat around a camp fire drinking beer as opposed to sat around a table in a club having a semi-formal meeting, me and Dave hit it off a lot better in this relaxed atmosphere. Well, I liked him a lot more I guess you can say. He still had all that big shot thing going on, and his tongue could still tie you in knots, but I realised he was also funny as fuck. Unsure before, I was now desperate for him to manage my band.
Roddy, well aware of what was going on, kept Dave up to date on events and told him that we were calling the band Raging Speedhorn and recording a demo pronto. Would he keep his vow I wonder? Roddy assured me if the demo was up to scratch then he would because Corby held a huge place in his heart and he would love nothing more that to manage a gang of twats from his beloved home town, providing there was something to work with..
We recorded four songs at Premier Studios with our old friend Iain Wetherell and the rest is history. We sent it off to Dave via Roddy and within a couple of days Bianchi was our manager. It just happened to be that he'd started working for a Jamaican R&B guy, not actual rhythm and blues I must stress but the piss that stole it's name in the Nineties, i.e. cack like Mark Morrison, Destiny's Child et al. Anyway, this Jamaican, a charming gangster by the name of Johnny Laws, was Bianchi's boss at this management label called Green Island. Somehow Bianchi managed to talk Johnny into funding a subsidiary label called Black Island that he would run with the help of his mate Andrew Carter. Black Island of course would be more geared towards rock and metal.. I have to admit, once again I was pretty fucking freaked out by meeting these other industry people and Laws scared the piss out of me when I first met him, but I now fully trusted Bianchi, and Carter, and knew they'd look after us.
The plan was simple. Get out and play. Here, there, every fucking where. Don't matter who with, just get out and tour your arse off. They'd provide a van and money for petrol out on the road and little else. We didn't need much else, it was a dream deal for us. All we wanted to do was escape Corby, play our ten songs every night and get pissed. I didn't think it would last forever, I didn't care. I didn't care that we had no money for food and that we played to around ten to twenty people a night. It all beat the shit out of working in a warehouse in Corby and it was all part of a bigger plan hatched by Bianchi and co.
And for a few years it worked. Brilliantly. Like us or hate us, you couldn't go anywhere in the metal scene in the UK and not hear our name. And we played so fucking much that we became a tight unit live. We also began to hate each other but that's another story.
Funnily enough, during all the groundwork days of the band, when we were touring the infamous “toilet scene” in the UK, Bianchi rarely came out on the road with us. It was mainly just the band and Roddy, and then later Big Doug. Sometimes Carter would show up but he soon got pretty sick of us demanding his money for beer and then not allowing him to sleep in the van with us. Bianchi would show up to the bigger stuff, which at the time usually meant support slots in London, but he kept away from the van. And then when we hit the road in Europe, travelling on a night-liner for the first time, he decided it was appropriate for him to come out on the road with us, stating that now things were getting bigger he needed to come and help Doug out with the tour managing since he was still learning his trade. It was a pretty see-through move to be fair, but we were all chuffed nonetheless. Bianchi was always good for a laugh and everything always felt that little bit safer with him around, or should I say, we felt like we could get away with anything because no matter what situation we got ourselves into, he would be able to talk us out of it.
Bianchi travelled with us around Europe, Japan and the States for the next couple of years and they were some of the best years of my life, without any doubt. Bianchi was a huge part of that.
As much as he was a business man, determinedly making his way up the industry ladder and hungry for success, he absolutely loved coming out on tour with us. He loved a piss up as much as we did, in fact, he could drink us all under the table, which he did on many an occasion, although Roddy has always stated that he must cheat somehow, and as much as his manager head came on whenever needed, he was as usually in the middle of the nonsense right along with the rest of us. More than anything though, you really felt he was a genuine fan of the band, it was like the songs were as much his as ours. It's a wonderful thing to have that kind of support.
During that first European tour, supporting Biohazard, we had a bit of an icy relationship with their tour manager, Bob Bulldog. It was the general consensus that he was Evan's man, and he treated him like a fucking God. He treated us with an ever so subtle air of condescension and you could tell that he didn't really trust us one hundred percent. Fair enough I suppose. But Bianchi and Doug were determined to out tour manage him, which they did it's fair to say. Bob was very loud and very American, Dave was very gabby and assured, but in a more charming, southern lad way. I remember a night in particular when we played in the Bavarian town of Lindau and Bulldog had some beef with the promoter over money. I don't know the exact crack, but I'm guessing he wasn't being paid the full amount. The situation got heated for a while but eventually it was sorted. The thing is, Bianchi was calm the whole time. He spoke to the promoter with respect and at the same time authority and needless to say we were paid what we were owed. Whilst Bulldog was stomping around shouting his mouth off but not really getting much achieved, Bianchi was getting us our money. Not only that he was somehow charming the promoter into giving us a load more booze and by the end of the affair the promoter was telling him we'd be welcome back any time. I remember being sat on the bus with Doug and Bianchi afterwards, Bianchi smug a fuck, explaining to Doug the cruciality of knowing when the need for talking over fighting comes into play. An hour or so later we're having an after party in one of the backstage rooms with all the newly acquired booze and Bianchi is off his fucking nut! He goes on the rampage with a broom, sweeping a table full of booze and glass onto the floor, laying waste to the place, and a couple of hours after that he's brought a skinhead onto the bus to ride with us after we've just had a full on riot with some Nazi's. Weird situation. But that's another story that will be explained later... In fact almost all of those major stories involve Bianchi, such as the jail incident in Spain and the hash cake affair in Holland, and they deserve their own dedicated time to be told in full. They will be at some point.
The thing I loved about Bianchi though, is no matter how business like and serious he needed to be, the Corby boy in him was never far from the surface and never needed much convincing to come out and play. I remember one time on the bus, one of those decadent nights where we'd all drank a ridiculous amount of booze, after watching Daz down a third of a bottle of Grouse, not completely willingly if I'm honest, Bianchi went one better and drank a huge gulp of aftershave. I remember him choking on his own poisonous saliva and shouting he's gone blind. Fucking nonsense.
As with all the guys involved with the band in those days, Bianchi didn't just work with us, he also became a good friend, and for a while we were pretty close. His wife Alison was a huge Liverpool fan and that alone was enough for me. And as with all good friends, they can tell you when you're being a prick. Bianchi never had a problem telling you how it was, which is exactly what a gang of idiots like us needed a lot of the time. Like the second time we went to the Kerrang Awards... The year before had been an absolute disgrace, the year of Eklandgate, and I was determined not to let the same thing happen again. In fact, I was wholly against going at all. I'd gotten it into my head that I despised such events and all the people who went to them. I couldn't stand c-list arseholes in their shit indie bands telling me that they loved my band when clearly they didn't. I determined that this time if I was forced to go then I would be in no way forced to drink or indeed enjoy myself. I stood there in the lobby beside Bianchi, explaining this to him, over and over, sniggering at different cretins in amongst the crowd, “Look at that fucking wanker! Fuck this place!” and so on, sipping at my martyrical glass of water. Another five minutes or so of this and I was actually beginning to bore myself, and is if reading me like a book, Bianchi cut me off, “Oh for fuck sake Gaz, shut up and have a fucking drink!” as he whipped a pair of champagne flutes from a passing waiter. Two hours later I was lying in a bush outside the venue. Bubbly gets me every time... Thanks boss.
Another classic Bianchi tale, yet another that is actually part of a bigger story was the day after a very bad night in Vienna. We'd met at breakfast in a café just down the road from the hotel, all of us in sombre mood. A bad crack had gone down the night before... Bianchi was very serious. He told us in no uncertain terms that if we didn't start reigning things in immediately then he would no longer want to manage us. It was a bit of a bombshell at the time. We're all hungover to fuck and one by one assure him that we'll sort things out. With that we finish breakfast and with a whole day to kill, head to the Tivoli for a day of roller coasters and fun. We convince a boastful Roddy to go on that daft fucking ride that shoots you up into the air at stomach emptying speed, like the Freefall, but opposite. Roddy agrees to take the ride on for a collection of our money, which we agree to. The thing is, the whole time we've been watching the ride, it's only been going up the once. Whilst Roddy is awaiting his turn in the queue, just as he's about to go on, the ride suddenly goes up and down twice. “What the fuck?! It's only supposed to go once!” shouts Roddy, failing to hide his concern. We all convince him to proceed, wafting what amounts to about a tenner in the air as bait. Roddy alights the ride, by which time we're all pissing ourselves laughing at his pale face. The ride does indeed shoot up and down twice. When Roddy comes sinking down to the ground after the second time, looking a little sad, he catches sight of Bianchi stood at the cabin that houses the guy controlling the ride with a wod of money in his hand...”No... No Dave! Dave!! Daaaaavvvvvve!!!” screams a terrified Roddy as he flies back up into the air, Bianchi peeling off the notes and placing them in the Controller's hand. I almost threw up laughing! Poor Rods didn't find it so funny and when he was finally able to disembark, a couple of rides later, he told us he had to go off and be on his own for a while. We later found him in a crowded area, sat eating a cheeseburger looking gutted. Only a few hours earlier Bianchi had been threatening us with quitting.. but how could he?
Well, eventually he did. In a way. In fact, things just fizzled out between us, just like they did with the first era of the band really. We actually parted ways with Johnny Laws and Black/Green Island after our relationship became unfixable and we were left in a bitter mess with our record label. It was a horrible affair in truth, for six months I did nothing but speak to our lawyer, we didn't even set foot in our practice room, I just lay low in Sweden, constantly on the phone. How the breaks had been stepped on.. The sad thing is, amongst all this chaos we were forced to cut ties with Bianchi and Carter, which really did hurt at the time. They were bound to Johnny and we couldn't be any longer. Of course a short while later Dave and Andrew were off as well as things went rapidly pear shaped for Laws, but by then we had a new manager, which turned out to be another disastrous episode. But that's another story...
A couple of years after parting with Green Island, Dave came back. I'd bumped into him at a record release party we were having in London and he told us he missed us. Fuck me did we miss him! We booted our manager, a nice enough woman called Lisa who just couldn't handle us, in spectacular fashion in Japan, again another story, and Dave was back! Carter had left for the States by this point which was too bad. The truth is though, things weren't the same the second time around. They rarely are... We'd gone missing from the touring circuit for too long and a large part of the fan base had turned their attention elsewhere. And we were becoming increasingly hard to manage, with Frank finally quitting having threatened to do so for a long time. The timing was shit though, right before a UK tour for our new album. I kind of took over the manager's role in the band, with Dave there to help me when needed, but we became more and more distant. He did manage to sort us out a full scale tour of the United States, which was amazing in many ways, not all good/amazing but something I'll never forget, or regret. The thing is as Doug before him, Bianchi was on to bigger and better paying things and we were heading in a more DIY direction, which is all I'd ever wanted anyway. Don't get me wrong though, I'm thankful we got to do what we did for those few years, and we're in debt to Dave and Andrew for that. Changed my life forever.
I don't think Bianchi ever really officially stopped managing the band, just one day he didn't any more. I was disappointed at the time but in hindsight I know it was fair enough. We'd been a ridiculously thankless band to manage and we got far more out of it than he ever did I'm sure. We don't see each other much any more, although there is always the odd catch up. On the rare occasions I have hooked up with him I've ended up fucking steamboats, he still has that nack of getting you. One time he was in Stockholm on business, it was a Tuesday night and I went out to meet him for a few drinks. I promised Jen I'd get a cab home since she was worried I'd end up sleeping on the suburb train travelling back and forth all night, and she knew how things normally went when Bianchi is in town. Needless to say I was awoken by Jen calling me at six am, very confused finding myself lying next to Bianchi in his hotel bed. We were both fully clothed, I might add. And I did get a cab home..
The last time we actually saw each other was at a Victims show in London a year or so later but we had to leave early for a ferry back to the mainland and although he managed to get one shot of Tequila down me I resisted any more. My lasting memory of Dave though always makes me smile, whenever I think of it. Just a silly little memory, but I like it. We're sat on the tour bus driving somewhere through the night across Europe, we're all in good spirits and the booze is flowing. I remember how happy I felt at that time. We're singing old kids tv theme tunes and at one point somebody starts up Button Moon. We all softly sing along to that song's strangely melancholic tones, all of us together. When we come to the end of the verse we fade out as one, all except Bianchi, who blasts into the next verse, eyes closed, with all the enthusiasm of an opera singer.
Funny how all the things you go through together and it's little memories like that you hold most dear.
And history was made...
This was maybe the second or third time I'd met David Bianchi. We were sat around a camp fire at Reading Festival, must have been ´98 I guess, and he'd just been recounting the story of an acquaintance who had had a rather rough night on speed. The guy had taken a shit load of the stuff, come home as randy as a dog on heat, only to recoil in horror at the realisation his wife was away from home. With no other alternative available, he climbs into bed and starts rabidly beating off. Of course, speed may well make you horny but it can also turn you anorgasmic, the guy, whoever he was, was not to be beaten, or actually he was, and he went at it all night until he chaffed his bobby ruby red. “He had a right raging speed horn!” laughed Bianchi at the climax of this non-climaxing story. I knew right then what I'd be calling the band, I knew the guys back home would love it. And so it was.
Bianchi was Roddy's best mate from back in the day when they both attended Lodge Park School together, the very same hell hole I went to. I hear it's a lot better these days. The first time I'd seen him he was playing bass in Roddy's band Krust, at the annual Battle of the Bands that took place at The Welfare in Corby. I say “playing bass”, he was actually just jumping around the stage like a tit playing very little from what I could hear. Still, you couldn't take your eyes off him.
The first time I met him officially was at a show my old band Soul Cellar were playing, at the old Mean Fiddler in London, sharing a bill with Cathedral and Acrimony. Bianchi had come down to meet us, via Roddy, to talk about the possibility of managing us, or at least helping us out. At the time he was working on the tv show TFI Friday, working with the music side of it I think. This was around about the time Napalm Death had appeared on the show and it was a huge thing, given that the usual fare appearing at the time were the likes of Paul Weller and Ocean Colour Scene.
Bianchi had left Corby with Roddy and moved to the punk scene in Nottingham, where he was known as Corby Dave, and still is to most of that crowd, before moving down to London to make his way in the music business. Roddy and Dave were always top value entertainment, always bickering about what was better, metal or goth, sometimes the bickering cranked up a notch, but they were as thick as thieves and always will be I reckon.
Bianchi always cut an impressive figure. The man can fucking talk for England, confidence oozing from his every word, bullshit or not, it doesn't matter, the man can make you listen and what's more, he can make you believe. When I met him the first time I was really unsure. I mean, I liked him, you couldn't doubt he was funny and he commanded respect, but being the little hardcore kid who was shit scared of the music industry, I didn't quite trust the guy. This was nothing personal, I just had an ingrained mistrust of anyone in the “business”. But trust him or not, you couldn't help being drawn to him. I didn't know if he was going to manage Soul Cellar and I really didn't know if he could do anything for us, but certain members of the band were convinced we were going to be huge with this loud talking southerner (he was originally from Kent) taking care of us.
It didn't work out. Bianchi sorted us out with a gig at the old George Robey Club, an opening slot on the Terrorizer Magazine Christmas Bash, incidentally the night I first saw Iron Monkey and my life changed forever, but the band soon disintegrated thereafter, for one reason or another. We were never going to cut it if the truth is told, we were ok, we could play, but we didn't have that spark. What we were in fact, was a perfect band to be in and learn from, the band before the band that does something. And besides, after seeing Iron Monkey my head was already turned. I knew I no longer wanted to be in a “metal” band, I wanted to do what they were doing.
As it happens, Dave's head had also been turned that night and shortly afterwards he was indeed managing Iron Monkey. This was the state of play when Roddy brought him over to that camp fire at Reading 98´. Being that we were sat around a camp fire drinking beer as opposed to sat around a table in a club having a semi-formal meeting, me and Dave hit it off a lot better in this relaxed atmosphere. Well, I liked him a lot more I guess you can say. He still had all that big shot thing going on, and his tongue could still tie you in knots, but I realised he was also funny as fuck. Unsure before, I was now desperate for him to manage my band.
Roddy, well aware of what was going on, kept Dave up to date on events and told him that we were calling the band Raging Speedhorn and recording a demo pronto. Would he keep his vow I wonder? Roddy assured me if the demo was up to scratch then he would because Corby held a huge place in his heart and he would love nothing more that to manage a gang of twats from his beloved home town, providing there was something to work with..
We recorded four songs at Premier Studios with our old friend Iain Wetherell and the rest is history. We sent it off to Dave via Roddy and within a couple of days Bianchi was our manager. It just happened to be that he'd started working for a Jamaican R&B guy, not actual rhythm and blues I must stress but the piss that stole it's name in the Nineties, i.e. cack like Mark Morrison, Destiny's Child et al. Anyway, this Jamaican, a charming gangster by the name of Johnny Laws, was Bianchi's boss at this management label called Green Island. Somehow Bianchi managed to talk Johnny into funding a subsidiary label called Black Island that he would run with the help of his mate Andrew Carter. Black Island of course would be more geared towards rock and metal.. I have to admit, once again I was pretty fucking freaked out by meeting these other industry people and Laws scared the piss out of me when I first met him, but I now fully trusted Bianchi, and Carter, and knew they'd look after us.
The plan was simple. Get out and play. Here, there, every fucking where. Don't matter who with, just get out and tour your arse off. They'd provide a van and money for petrol out on the road and little else. We didn't need much else, it was a dream deal for us. All we wanted to do was escape Corby, play our ten songs every night and get pissed. I didn't think it would last forever, I didn't care. I didn't care that we had no money for food and that we played to around ten to twenty people a night. It all beat the shit out of working in a warehouse in Corby and it was all part of a bigger plan hatched by Bianchi and co.
And for a few years it worked. Brilliantly. Like us or hate us, you couldn't go anywhere in the metal scene in the UK and not hear our name. And we played so fucking much that we became a tight unit live. We also began to hate each other but that's another story.
Funnily enough, during all the groundwork days of the band, when we were touring the infamous “toilet scene” in the UK, Bianchi rarely came out on the road with us. It was mainly just the band and Roddy, and then later Big Doug. Sometimes Carter would show up but he soon got pretty sick of us demanding his money for beer and then not allowing him to sleep in the van with us. Bianchi would show up to the bigger stuff, which at the time usually meant support slots in London, but he kept away from the van. And then when we hit the road in Europe, travelling on a night-liner for the first time, he decided it was appropriate for him to come out on the road with us, stating that now things were getting bigger he needed to come and help Doug out with the tour managing since he was still learning his trade. It was a pretty see-through move to be fair, but we were all chuffed nonetheless. Bianchi was always good for a laugh and everything always felt that little bit safer with him around, or should I say, we felt like we could get away with anything because no matter what situation we got ourselves into, he would be able to talk us out of it.
Bianchi travelled with us around Europe, Japan and the States for the next couple of years and they were some of the best years of my life, without any doubt. Bianchi was a huge part of that.
As much as he was a business man, determinedly making his way up the industry ladder and hungry for success, he absolutely loved coming out on tour with us. He loved a piss up as much as we did, in fact, he could drink us all under the table, which he did on many an occasion, although Roddy has always stated that he must cheat somehow, and as much as his manager head came on whenever needed, he was as usually in the middle of the nonsense right along with the rest of us. More than anything though, you really felt he was a genuine fan of the band, it was like the songs were as much his as ours. It's a wonderful thing to have that kind of support.
During that first European tour, supporting Biohazard, we had a bit of an icy relationship with their tour manager, Bob Bulldog. It was the general consensus that he was Evan's man, and he treated him like a fucking God. He treated us with an ever so subtle air of condescension and you could tell that he didn't really trust us one hundred percent. Fair enough I suppose. But Bianchi and Doug were determined to out tour manage him, which they did it's fair to say. Bob was very loud and very American, Dave was very gabby and assured, but in a more charming, southern lad way. I remember a night in particular when we played in the Bavarian town of Lindau and Bulldog had some beef with the promoter over money. I don't know the exact crack, but I'm guessing he wasn't being paid the full amount. The situation got heated for a while but eventually it was sorted. The thing is, Bianchi was calm the whole time. He spoke to the promoter with respect and at the same time authority and needless to say we were paid what we were owed. Whilst Bulldog was stomping around shouting his mouth off but not really getting much achieved, Bianchi was getting us our money. Not only that he was somehow charming the promoter into giving us a load more booze and by the end of the affair the promoter was telling him we'd be welcome back any time. I remember being sat on the bus with Doug and Bianchi afterwards, Bianchi smug a fuck, explaining to Doug the cruciality of knowing when the need for talking over fighting comes into play. An hour or so later we're having an after party in one of the backstage rooms with all the newly acquired booze and Bianchi is off his fucking nut! He goes on the rampage with a broom, sweeping a table full of booze and glass onto the floor, laying waste to the place, and a couple of hours after that he's brought a skinhead onto the bus to ride with us after we've just had a full on riot with some Nazi's. Weird situation. But that's another story that will be explained later... In fact almost all of those major stories involve Bianchi, such as the jail incident in Spain and the hash cake affair in Holland, and they deserve their own dedicated time to be told in full. They will be at some point.
The thing I loved about Bianchi though, is no matter how business like and serious he needed to be, the Corby boy in him was never far from the surface and never needed much convincing to come out and play. I remember one time on the bus, one of those decadent nights where we'd all drank a ridiculous amount of booze, after watching Daz down a third of a bottle of Grouse, not completely willingly if I'm honest, Bianchi went one better and drank a huge gulp of aftershave. I remember him choking on his own poisonous saliva and shouting he's gone blind. Fucking nonsense.
As with all the guys involved with the band in those days, Bianchi didn't just work with us, he also became a good friend, and for a while we were pretty close. His wife Alison was a huge Liverpool fan and that alone was enough for me. And as with all good friends, they can tell you when you're being a prick. Bianchi never had a problem telling you how it was, which is exactly what a gang of idiots like us needed a lot of the time. Like the second time we went to the Kerrang Awards... The year before had been an absolute disgrace, the year of Eklandgate, and I was determined not to let the same thing happen again. In fact, I was wholly against going at all. I'd gotten it into my head that I despised such events and all the people who went to them. I couldn't stand c-list arseholes in their shit indie bands telling me that they loved my band when clearly they didn't. I determined that this time if I was forced to go then I would be in no way forced to drink or indeed enjoy myself. I stood there in the lobby beside Bianchi, explaining this to him, over and over, sniggering at different cretins in amongst the crowd, “Look at that fucking wanker! Fuck this place!” and so on, sipping at my martyrical glass of water. Another five minutes or so of this and I was actually beginning to bore myself, and is if reading me like a book, Bianchi cut me off, “Oh for fuck sake Gaz, shut up and have a fucking drink!” as he whipped a pair of champagne flutes from a passing waiter. Two hours later I was lying in a bush outside the venue. Bubbly gets me every time... Thanks boss.
Another classic Bianchi tale, yet another that is actually part of a bigger story was the day after a very bad night in Vienna. We'd met at breakfast in a café just down the road from the hotel, all of us in sombre mood. A bad crack had gone down the night before... Bianchi was very serious. He told us in no uncertain terms that if we didn't start reigning things in immediately then he would no longer want to manage us. It was a bit of a bombshell at the time. We're all hungover to fuck and one by one assure him that we'll sort things out. With that we finish breakfast and with a whole day to kill, head to the Tivoli for a day of roller coasters and fun. We convince a boastful Roddy to go on that daft fucking ride that shoots you up into the air at stomach emptying speed, like the Freefall, but opposite. Roddy agrees to take the ride on for a collection of our money, which we agree to. The thing is, the whole time we've been watching the ride, it's only been going up the once. Whilst Roddy is awaiting his turn in the queue, just as he's about to go on, the ride suddenly goes up and down twice. “What the fuck?! It's only supposed to go once!” shouts Roddy, failing to hide his concern. We all convince him to proceed, wafting what amounts to about a tenner in the air as bait. Roddy alights the ride, by which time we're all pissing ourselves laughing at his pale face. The ride does indeed shoot up and down twice. When Roddy comes sinking down to the ground after the second time, looking a little sad, he catches sight of Bianchi stood at the cabin that houses the guy controlling the ride with a wod of money in his hand...”No... No Dave! Dave!! Daaaaavvvvvve!!!” screams a terrified Roddy as he flies back up into the air, Bianchi peeling off the notes and placing them in the Controller's hand. I almost threw up laughing! Poor Rods didn't find it so funny and when he was finally able to disembark, a couple of rides later, he told us he had to go off and be on his own for a while. We later found him in a crowded area, sat eating a cheeseburger looking gutted. Only a few hours earlier Bianchi had been threatening us with quitting.. but how could he?
Well, eventually he did. In a way. In fact, things just fizzled out between us, just like they did with the first era of the band really. We actually parted ways with Johnny Laws and Black/Green Island after our relationship became unfixable and we were left in a bitter mess with our record label. It was a horrible affair in truth, for six months I did nothing but speak to our lawyer, we didn't even set foot in our practice room, I just lay low in Sweden, constantly on the phone. How the breaks had been stepped on.. The sad thing is, amongst all this chaos we were forced to cut ties with Bianchi and Carter, which really did hurt at the time. They were bound to Johnny and we couldn't be any longer. Of course a short while later Dave and Andrew were off as well as things went rapidly pear shaped for Laws, but by then we had a new manager, which turned out to be another disastrous episode. But that's another story...
A couple of years after parting with Green Island, Dave came back. I'd bumped into him at a record release party we were having in London and he told us he missed us. Fuck me did we miss him! We booted our manager, a nice enough woman called Lisa who just couldn't handle us, in spectacular fashion in Japan, again another story, and Dave was back! Carter had left for the States by this point which was too bad. The truth is though, things weren't the same the second time around. They rarely are... We'd gone missing from the touring circuit for too long and a large part of the fan base had turned their attention elsewhere. And we were becoming increasingly hard to manage, with Frank finally quitting having threatened to do so for a long time. The timing was shit though, right before a UK tour for our new album. I kind of took over the manager's role in the band, with Dave there to help me when needed, but we became more and more distant. He did manage to sort us out a full scale tour of the United States, which was amazing in many ways, not all good/amazing but something I'll never forget, or regret. The thing is as Doug before him, Bianchi was on to bigger and better paying things and we were heading in a more DIY direction, which is all I'd ever wanted anyway. Don't get me wrong though, I'm thankful we got to do what we did for those few years, and we're in debt to Dave and Andrew for that. Changed my life forever.
I don't think Bianchi ever really officially stopped managing the band, just one day he didn't any more. I was disappointed at the time but in hindsight I know it was fair enough. We'd been a ridiculously thankless band to manage and we got far more out of it than he ever did I'm sure. We don't see each other much any more, although there is always the odd catch up. On the rare occasions I have hooked up with him I've ended up fucking steamboats, he still has that nack of getting you. One time he was in Stockholm on business, it was a Tuesday night and I went out to meet him for a few drinks. I promised Jen I'd get a cab home since she was worried I'd end up sleeping on the suburb train travelling back and forth all night, and she knew how things normally went when Bianchi is in town. Needless to say I was awoken by Jen calling me at six am, very confused finding myself lying next to Bianchi in his hotel bed. We were both fully clothed, I might add. And I did get a cab home..
The last time we actually saw each other was at a Victims show in London a year or so later but we had to leave early for a ferry back to the mainland and although he managed to get one shot of Tequila down me I resisted any more. My lasting memory of Dave though always makes me smile, whenever I think of it. Just a silly little memory, but I like it. We're sat on the tour bus driving somewhere through the night across Europe, we're all in good spirits and the booze is flowing. I remember how happy I felt at that time. We're singing old kids tv theme tunes and at one point somebody starts up Button Moon. We all softly sing along to that song's strangely melancholic tones, all of us together. When we come to the end of the verse we fade out as one, all except Bianchi, who blasts into the next verse, eyes closed, with all the enthusiasm of an opera singer.
Funny how all the things you go through together and it's little memories like that you hold most dear.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Sometimes Life Gets in the Way
I began this blog in late 2009 and have
written a lot of text in that time. There are few things that give
me more inner peace than when I'm sat in front of my laptop, lost in
the flow of typing, either in the van out on tour or late at night in
my kitchen whilst the rest of the household sleeps. But recently
life has stood in the way and I haven't had the time or indeed, will
to write.
I don't want to get into things too
deeply but at the start of January my mum lost a two year battle with
cancer. It's been a tumultuous couple of years, especially with me
living in another country and not always being able to be there. Of
course, I've had our daughter to concentrate on and she has given me
great strength but it's been hard being away from home during the
course of my mum's illness. We've always been a very close family
and when the news of mum's diagnosis came, it turned my world upside
down. We had just found out about Polly and were figuring out how to
surprise my parents with the news that they'd be having their first
grandchild when my dad called.
Anyway, my mum fought bravely for two
years and stuck around long enough to meet not only one but two
granddaughters, my sister falling pregnant five months after Jen had.
In general she kept in good form and kept her spirits high, although
I obviously didn't have to go through a lot of the darker days my dad
endured, and she was an inspiration to us all. When she realised at
the end of last year that her treatment was no longer working she
made a pact with herself to at the very least make it through her
first Christmas with her two granddaughters. She passed away
peacefully and unafraid on January 4th. We were all there
with her.
I don't want to linger sombrely on the
subject because this blog really isn't the place for it, I just
wanted to inform you why, recently, I've not been spending so many
late nights recounting old stories and typing up tour diaries. Of
course, Polly has also decided that five thirty am is a far more
reasonable hour to begin the day's activities than seven thirty am,
and that leaves one feeling kind of fucked come ten pm, and if there
is indeed any energy left by that time then it's just about enough to
watch a game of footy on the box.
On top of everything else we took off
on holiday to Mexico for a couple of weeks, right after mum's
funeral, which was exactly what I needed and could not have come at a
more suitable time. And then the day we come home from Mexico we
moved apartment and being on paternity leave, I've since been
spending any spare time whilst Polly sleeps, unpacking boxes.
Sometimes, life does indeed get in the
way..
There are of course plenty of plans
moving forward, both musically with Victims and Diagnosis? Bastard!
as well as something else new that me and Jen are starting up, we
figure we need some “we” time outside of chasing our laughing,
screaming baby daughter about the house, and there are plans for a
fanzine Lucas DB and I are starting up. It's all good.
Since last I wrote, DB played a show in
Stockholm with Institution, Paranoid and Parasit. It was a great
night with great bands, especially Institution and Paranoid. For
some reason, Parasit found it fitting to play an almost hour long set
and then even find time for an encore! For the life of me I fail to
understand why they would want to play that long and the fact that
there was a curfew and the mighty Institution were playing last makes
it all the more baffling, but maybe that's just me.
It was a good night though and we had a
fun time with some beers and some friends. Pungen, Institution’s
legend of a drummer, hung out with us for the evening, having met
Viktor earlier in the day and was absolutely steam boats before load
in. He's such an amazing drummer though that you would never have
known, and he did actually call his last beer a few hours before they
played..He then went on stage and blew us all away. Another fun note
was that UK hardcore legend Jim Whitby was in attendance. Don't know
who he was with or why he was there but Andy Victims was chuffed as
fuck!
In other news, we've just spent a very
relaxed couple of days in Studio Knaster here in Stockholm, recording
four songs for an upcoming DB/Hello Bastards split tape which will be
released by the lovely Ljudkassett Records. It's been in the
pipeline for over a year now so it's nice to finally have it done,
and fittingly, the day we went into the studio our new seven inch
came through the post. That will be coming out on D Takt och Råpunk
in a few days time. But all that you can read about at DB's own
page.
Victims is writing a new record, we're
up to around nine songs and who knows, we might just record it this
year. If we can all just get ourselves into the practice room at the
same time..
So what now, well, it's snowing, it
always comes back one last time, just when everyone starts to fool
themselves into thinking spring has arrived, and I still have four
months at home with Polly and Bonzo. When Polly goes to nursery in
August it will be time for me to start something new. We'll see. But
until then, I intend on enjoying our dad/daughter time together.
Anyway that's that. I'm sure I'll be
back at the kitchen table again, sometime soon, tapping away on the
keys. Whenever the rest of my life allows it.
Gx
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Stockholm
Playing the show without a hangover last night made a refreshing change. It makes a hell of a difference. It was nice getting to the half way point of the set and not feeling like you're going to pass out or throw up, instead you felt good, filled with energy, like you could play on for another hour, no problems. Vik said after the gig last night that it was the first time we'd played where he felt the set seemed a bit short, that it would have been perfect if we could have thrown in a few of the new songs. We'll have to try this sober lark more often. Tonight would not be such an occasion unfortunately. I can categorically say that I felt like fucking piss this morning.
I was surprised to find that I'd actually managed to get myself into my sweatpants before I went to bed and my clothes were folded neatly beside the mattress I was sleeping on, although I almost always manage that irrespective of the state I go to bed in to be fair, and I do have a very vague memory of brushing my teeth in the bogs before climbing up the wooden staircase that leads up to the hole in the ceiling that was the gateway into the dormitory. But still, no mistake, after barely four hours sleep I felt like I'd been dragged through the proverbial hedge backwards. After registering where I was, the next thing I realised was that Thin Lizzy's album Jailbreak was playing full blast in the venue below. I mean, loud as fuck. I pull the sleeping bag over my face in vain hope of drowning the noise out but it's no use. It occurs to me then that this has actually been going on since we went to bed, that some punk has obviously put the album on repeat and then passed out drunk. I recall, or I remember a feeling, stirring a few times to the sounds of Lizzy creeping into my dreams like a poisonous fog. I lay in bed for almost one full revolution of the album before kicking of the sleeping bag, aggrieved. I don't mind Lizzy, although I think they're criminally overrated, and like most self respecting record collectors I've got a few albums, but I simply don't understand the concept of putting on music, whatever it is, full blast through the PA and fucking off to bed. Even harder to understand is the fact that despite the fact that people are clearly up and about downstairs, nobody seems to bee inclined to turn the fucker off.
I pull myself up and shake myself down, the first thing I notice is Åke sleeping on the other side of the room with his jacket on. And then Kev, beside me, looking like he might actually have snuffed it in the night. I chortle to myself and head downstairs through the hole in the floor. There are indeed a few people moving about, zombie like, except Jocke who is fresh and ready to go. One day I actually will give up booze, I'm sure of it. I head over to the bar where there is some breakfast on the go and Jimmy, one of the main guys involved in the running of the venue, has put a pot of coffee on. I'm desperate for a cup and barely notice it's pale complexion as I lift it to my mouth. “That has to be the worst coffee I have ever made, I'm actually ashamed of it” Jimmy confesses. I have to agree with him. As desperate as I am I can not drink it. We'll have to stop as soon as possible to organise some caffeine.
One by one the boys rise like corpses from the dead and we sit about together and eat what we can. There are more than a few comments passed about Jimmy's coffee. And then, as if to save my day, as if he was put on this planet just to make me feel better about myself, Lucas appears from his slumber, no longer wearing his blouse. It's a wonderful thing how seeing someone that is so obviously far worse off than yourself can make you feel like a million quid.
It's time to go and after loading the van and saying goodbye to the guys we head off for Stockholm. I won't be listening to Thin Lizzy again for a good while...Kev tells me it's a good thing they didn't play the song Sarah as that would undoubtedly have reduced him to tears, that name having a special place in his heart. We stop almost immediately and grab some petrol station coffee and a few snacks for breakfast. The Desperat guys are all looking perky and are blatantly enjoying our state of affairs. Chrille is on at Luk, waving his little metal cup around and asking him if he wants a dram. Luk looks like he's going to throw up on him. Jocke is of course driving this morning, there is no way I would get away with sitting behind the wheel. The journey up to Stockholm is a little more subdued than the reverse trip yesterday. At least from the DB side of things. Luk hasn't even bothered to put product in his hair, a most unusual sight, and spends periods of time with his head in his hands cursing Chrille. Chrille and Johan are sat at the back with Kev, playing bizarre umpah style music with saucy lyrics, laughing to themselves, their laughter contaminating the rest of us. Outside it's grey and miserable, the rain pattering on the windows provocatively. It's going to be a long trip.
Jocke drives most of the way back to Stockholm, an effort I'm very thankful for. As the day rolls on though I do start to feel a little better, a couple of cups of coffee along the way helping somewhat. If I was at home and feeling like this then I wouldn't be fucking laughing but when you're out in the van you never really reach that same depth of awfulness, and plus, there's plenty to laugh about, not least my Brazilian friend sat beside me looking as pasty as a Scotsman in winter. At one point he lets go of a fart, doing his utmost to sneak the fucker out, and looks at me hopefully, “Maybe it will be one of those that doesn't smell..” he barely emits the words from his mouth before the stench engulfs the van, “No!” he panics whilst the rest of the van heaves in disgust.
The journey isn't as bad as I suspected it would upon leaving this morning and by the time Jocke pulls over for a coffee just outside of Nyköping I feel ready to take the wheel again and steer us down the final stretch into Stockholm. I spend the last couple of hours chatting away to Åke, a real diamond of a bloke who's grin never seems to quite leave his face. We're close to town when Lucas tells me he needs a piss and I end up pulling over into what I think are services but is in fact a narrow road into the dark countryside. It takes a while to find somewhere and when we do it's not the safest of places to stop, a tight turn in the road that leads to a little church path in the dark, car headlights coming the other way. Fuck this. My phone is starting to buzz too, that familiar buzz that accompanies a home town gig, except today is even worse since we're kind of organising the show. I wish we could just turn up ad play but instead I feel a little stressed, concerned that the gig will go well and everyone will enjoy themselves, that we can make enough to cover ours and Desperat's costs and that everyone else will be sorted out. Still, I'm confident it will be well attended, it's a good line up what with Tortyr playing their first show in ages and Red Doves who are always great. It should be a top night.
Claes Tortyr texts me as we're driving into the city, telling me they've dropped their gear off and have gone for a beer. I'm looking forward to seeing the guys. Tortyr are the same four boys that make up Tormented. Tormented are Tortyr's death metal alter ego if you like, they simply switch vocal duties between Claes and Drette respectively. Pretty cool. I saw this in full effect when we played a punk squat in Groningen with Tormented and about halfway through, catching the vibe a little, Claes took the mic and they changed to Tortyr. Left all the punk kids scoobied for about half a song and then when they understood what was happening they went mad. It was a lot of fun, I was right there in the middle of the crowd pumping my fist to Bombarna Faller. Great times. It will be brilliant to see the guys again.
We pull up to Kafé 44 around five pm, load in, talk a little with Bengtsson who is occupied with his computer playing Solitaire and not saying a whole lot, not giving much away about whether they're going to have a bar tonight, something a lot of people have been asking about this week, something which a lot of punks view as quite critical in determining their presence at the show. We've been telling people all week not to expect a bar but as it turns out Bengtsson grumbles that they're going to open one anyway and we have to scramble around the internet letting people know this fact, a half hour before doors. I wish it wasn't like this, that you didn't have to sell beer just to get the punks to come on a Saturday night but that's the way it is. Otherwise you end up with a best case scenario of a well sold show but nobody there when the bands start playing, being that they're all at the pub during intervals. For DB this would not be good since if you miss the first ten minutes all you've got left are the last five. One day we'll probably start playing a little longer, one day we'll get into the habit of not being hungover on stage and having the energy to do so, though as said, tonight is not the night.
I'm feeling a little better now anyway but Lucas is still feeling pretty piss by the looks of it. We head down to La Neta to get some good, cheap Mexican food with the Tortyr guys and catch up on old times. They're a great bunch, funny as fuck, they don't even mean to be a lot of the time it's just the way they are. I've never laughed as much on tour as the three weeks we spent in a van with Tormented. The Desperat boys have joined us as well and we sit down to a big communal enchilada feast together. Jocke has put out some Tortyr records along the way and as usual, everyone knows everyone.
Suitably filled and satisfied we head back to the Kafé and upon arrival I feel it's now time for my first beer, time to recover and shake this shit. I sound like a fucking alcoholic! In all honesty I don't actually drink that much anymore, only when we're out playing and even then it doesn't take much to get me pissed anymore. By the time we get back there are a good few people in and there is that buzz about the place that having the bar open creates. The first time I ever went out in Stockholm was to a party at this place and I've been enchanted by the old building ever since. A can of Norrlands Guld in hand, ironic name given that it tastes like piss, I head into the gig room to see Red Doves.
Henke is one of my favourite punk rock vocalists. I loved his singing in Trapdoor Fucking Exit and it's really fun to see him once again playing in another great band. It's been a while since Trapdoor split. Red Doves are a little more snotty California, early 80's style punk and their newer stuff seems to be reaching further into latter day Flag when they started weirding out. Nirre is a fucking great guitar player, again, I loved his work back in the Section 8 days, so with these two guys in the band it can't really go wrong. The room is almost full when they take the stage and I take my place near the front, looking forward to their set and to playing ours afterwards. They don't disappoint. I have to crack up, during their set I notice Luk has made his way to the stage to obtain a better view. Surrounded by punks clutching beer cans, Luk has a huge mug of 7 Eleven coffee, quite the contrast to last night. He ends up making his way over from the steadily rousing moshpit and landing just in front of me, although he hasn't noticed I'm stood there. I clunk my beer can to his coffee, “Cheers buddy!” Per automatic he raises his mug and gives me an enthusiastic “Cheers!” back without looking away from the stage, when he turns mid toast and realises it's me the façade drops and a look of sorry defeat washes over his face, “No” he groans, shaking his head. Again, I still feel pretty useless but this guy is helping me feel good about myself.
When Red Doves are done we slouch up on stage and set up. Set up, tune up and slurk off again, pick up some water and slouch back again. We must look a sorry, pathetic lot. Somehow though, as always, we find the energy from somewhere and give it all we've got. When I think about it, this can't be healthy. Feeling like a sack of shit all day and then going up on stage and going nuts for a quarter of an hour. They say you shouldn't exercise when you're hungover and doing what we do must be the equivalent of going on an all out sprint for fifteen minutes whilst feeling like dog turd. Saying that, it seems to work because I always feel a lot better afterwards and in due course I'm ready for a beer again. Funny that.
Our show flies by and it's an overall good vibe. It was almost exactly a year ago that we played the first DB show, at this very same venue, and the difference between the two is palpable. I thought then that that first show went well, for a first show, but a year later and I can now see how shaky we were. Tonight felt completely controlled. Strange, something that seems to be becoming a bit of a recurring theme is what Jocke Tortyr said to me afterwards, “You guys were great! Much better than I thought it was going to be!” I don't know what that means really but I'll take it as a compliment from my buddy. Anyhow, it's nice to be a year along and feeling a lot more comfortable about playing live with the band. The room was pretty full when we played and my mate Joran, my reliable, fellow immigrant who I buy coffee from every morning at Il Caffe, was down the front in his DB shirt going for it the whole show. Brought a smile to my face.
It's a real pleasure seeing Tortyr play a whole set this time around. Stood there watching them I longed to be back on tour with the guys. I feel a huge amount of love and respect for these boys. Just looking at Jocke's cheeky little face when he plays the drums tickles me, and fuck can he play the drums! It's been a long time since they played Stockholm and they get a good response from the crowd, especially when they play the song Piss Job which I guess resonates with quite a few of us in the room.
Desperat close the show tonight and the first thing I notice is how much clearer Jocke's vocals are compared to last night. The second thing I notice is what a great vocalist Jocke really is. He has that thing going on where he can scream, hold it forever without breaking and still bring a melody to it. I mean, it's harsh as fuck but there is tune in there somewhere too. Desperat top off a really solid night of bands. I'm completely satisfied with how everything has gone, it couldn't really have been any better. This considering the legendary Sham 69 are in town! What a joke. Not really conflicting crowds I guess, for the most part, although once person that gig did steal from us is Jon Victims who was playing in the band Stilet who were opening up for them. But that's another story...
Once Desperat are done Bengtsson takes a hold of me and gives me a wad of cash, thank you very much sir. The bar is now closed and it's time to get everyone out of here but after all the worries about tonight and the costs being covered it turns out Bengtsson is now in a very good mood, as am I, because I can give Claes more than enough money for Tortyr's petrol and nobody in the DB/Desperat camp ended up having to fork out any money to play these two shows. We settle up and everyone is happy, shit, DB and Desperat actually have a thousand kronor to split between ourselves, about fifty quid each, not bad for two nights work. Jocke laughs as he informs Åke of our profits, Åke seems chuffed as always.
We sold pretty good on merch tonight too, so after packing away the gear and saying a long goodbye to the Desperat guys, plans for a UK leg already beginning to hatch, we take our winnings and head to the nearest bar with the Tortyr guys. I say nearest bar, it's not quite that, but it's the cheapest option, where all the other punks have gone to. It's a new place on Folkungagatan called No Name Bar, Drette mentioned it earlier but I didn't have a clue what he was going on about. It turns out to be quite an odd place.
It's a sports bar that sells cheap beer and there are loads of punks hanging out in it. Kev is delighted with the prices, saying that it's even cheaper than back home, each time he comes back from the bar with a new beer he looks more chuffed than the last. We're sitting at a table with the Tortyr guys and Andy Victims, having a good old chin wag over a couple of pints, when some young chav kid stoats by our table carrying a round of drinks stops, a look of confusion on his face, “Sorry, have to ask, but is there some sort of hard rock event going on tonight? This place seems to have been invaded.” Or something along those lines. I don't know if he's trying to be a wise cunt and start trouble or if he's just genuinely curious. I tell him there was a punk gig on at Kafé 44 and that seems to clarify things for him. “Ahhhh..” He then says something about there being some artsy after party on at the studio besides 44, or something, I don't quite catch it. Turns out Luk is there anyway...Luk actually turns up a little later with some of his hip crowd, hip as in young and happening as opposed to the old farts that are we sat around our table drinking beer and talking about “the old days”.
It's great catching up properly with the Tortyr guys and it's too bad they're not sticking around tonight. We had organised places to stay for them but Robban was happy enough to hang out for a while and then drive home. We say goodbye to them and talk about seeing each other more often but in truth it's never that easy. They live a couple of hours drive away and these days I barely see my mates in Stockholm, outside of those I play in bands with, more than a few occasions a year. I guess that's life when you grow up and start a family and everyone else is doing the same.
By the time they turn the lights on in the bar I'm ready to go home but Kev and Vik are really up for another beer and as Kev is going home tomorrow and Jen is staying at her mum's with Polly tonight I decide to go with. Andy is pretty pissed and declares it's time for him to call it a night. I can't help thinking I should follow suit.. But then, I'm sober, the way you are after a heavy session the night before, when it seems you can drink all night long without being affected. Andy is actually on a whole other level to that I'm on it must be said, his eyes are going, the way they do when he's pissed, and his parting shot is a cracker. He's stood talking with Luk and his mate Philly Bee, quite a hip left-winger, and somehow manages to knock Philly Bee's red wine out of his hand and down his shirt. Andy slowly looks down at the red stain on his shirt and then up again and by way of explanation offers, “I'm sorry, I'm very drunk” and then turns back to Luk and continues his conversation. I hear Philly Bee, stood by Luk's other ear, “Who's this guy?” Luk does his best to explain..Andy heads home.
Luk ends up coming along with me, Kev and Viktor, as well as our friend Ragnar, a brilliant and respected artist who designed one of our shirts, the white one with the red skull on it, for one last/two last drinks. The options in this part of town at this time of night are pretty shite though. Actually the options in any part of town at this time of night are pretty shite. We try the hotel bar at Malmen first, fuck knows why, it's a hell hole with utter tripe for bouncers. As it turns out, the particular walking steroid on the door on this occasion takes one look at Ragnar and tells him he's not coming in, informing him he's too drunk. Arguing is completely and utterly pointless of course. We turn around and try the next place, although Kev is bitter, convinced they only knocked Ragnar back because he's got long hair. “I fucking hate cunts like that! Turning Ragnar away just because he looks like he does, fucking fascist!” To be fair, I'm sure Steroid was only to happy to turn Ragnar away...
We end up in an equally horrid establishment a little further down the road called Charles Dickens, where apparently everyone is welcome irrespective of how drunk they are. The place is absolutely rammed, uncomfortably so. We shuffle our way to the bar and after a good twenty minutes manage to order some beers and find an air pocket in the corner by the bogs to drink them in. We stand there blethering for an hour or so and despite the shocking surroundings we find ourselves in, venture back to the bar for a refill. The night deteriorates into slurred words and bleary eyes and Kev telling Ragnar about our friend Robbie from London who isn't gay but sucks old man's cocks, Ragnar's jaw agape, Robbie is a special guy it's fare to say, and it's three thirty by the time I decide enough is enough. We head down to the tube station and there I say my goodbyes, a little sad to see Kev leave as always but there will be plenty of other good times to come I suppose. I'm still nowhere near drunk, just knackered and a little disappointed I haven't take advantage of a good night's sleep since the girls are away and I've got the flat to myself tonight.
But the I figure... fuck it, you can sleep when you're dead, as they say, or in my case, when Polly is a teenager and I'm too old to be playing in punk bands anymore. Or?...
I was surprised to find that I'd actually managed to get myself into my sweatpants before I went to bed and my clothes were folded neatly beside the mattress I was sleeping on, although I almost always manage that irrespective of the state I go to bed in to be fair, and I do have a very vague memory of brushing my teeth in the bogs before climbing up the wooden staircase that leads up to the hole in the ceiling that was the gateway into the dormitory. But still, no mistake, after barely four hours sleep I felt like I'd been dragged through the proverbial hedge backwards. After registering where I was, the next thing I realised was that Thin Lizzy's album Jailbreak was playing full blast in the venue below. I mean, loud as fuck. I pull the sleeping bag over my face in vain hope of drowning the noise out but it's no use. It occurs to me then that this has actually been going on since we went to bed, that some punk has obviously put the album on repeat and then passed out drunk. I recall, or I remember a feeling, stirring a few times to the sounds of Lizzy creeping into my dreams like a poisonous fog. I lay in bed for almost one full revolution of the album before kicking of the sleeping bag, aggrieved. I don't mind Lizzy, although I think they're criminally overrated, and like most self respecting record collectors I've got a few albums, but I simply don't understand the concept of putting on music, whatever it is, full blast through the PA and fucking off to bed. Even harder to understand is the fact that despite the fact that people are clearly up and about downstairs, nobody seems to bee inclined to turn the fucker off.
I pull myself up and shake myself down, the first thing I notice is Åke sleeping on the other side of the room with his jacket on. And then Kev, beside me, looking like he might actually have snuffed it in the night. I chortle to myself and head downstairs through the hole in the floor. There are indeed a few people moving about, zombie like, except Jocke who is fresh and ready to go. One day I actually will give up booze, I'm sure of it. I head over to the bar where there is some breakfast on the go and Jimmy, one of the main guys involved in the running of the venue, has put a pot of coffee on. I'm desperate for a cup and barely notice it's pale complexion as I lift it to my mouth. “That has to be the worst coffee I have ever made, I'm actually ashamed of it” Jimmy confesses. I have to agree with him. As desperate as I am I can not drink it. We'll have to stop as soon as possible to organise some caffeine.
One by one the boys rise like corpses from the dead and we sit about together and eat what we can. There are more than a few comments passed about Jimmy's coffee. And then, as if to save my day, as if he was put on this planet just to make me feel better about myself, Lucas appears from his slumber, no longer wearing his blouse. It's a wonderful thing how seeing someone that is so obviously far worse off than yourself can make you feel like a million quid.
It's time to go and after loading the van and saying goodbye to the guys we head off for Stockholm. I won't be listening to Thin Lizzy again for a good while...Kev tells me it's a good thing they didn't play the song Sarah as that would undoubtedly have reduced him to tears, that name having a special place in his heart. We stop almost immediately and grab some petrol station coffee and a few snacks for breakfast. The Desperat guys are all looking perky and are blatantly enjoying our state of affairs. Chrille is on at Luk, waving his little metal cup around and asking him if he wants a dram. Luk looks like he's going to throw up on him. Jocke is of course driving this morning, there is no way I would get away with sitting behind the wheel. The journey up to Stockholm is a little more subdued than the reverse trip yesterday. At least from the DB side of things. Luk hasn't even bothered to put product in his hair, a most unusual sight, and spends periods of time with his head in his hands cursing Chrille. Chrille and Johan are sat at the back with Kev, playing bizarre umpah style music with saucy lyrics, laughing to themselves, their laughter contaminating the rest of us. Outside it's grey and miserable, the rain pattering on the windows provocatively. It's going to be a long trip.
Jocke drives most of the way back to Stockholm, an effort I'm very thankful for. As the day rolls on though I do start to feel a little better, a couple of cups of coffee along the way helping somewhat. If I was at home and feeling like this then I wouldn't be fucking laughing but when you're out in the van you never really reach that same depth of awfulness, and plus, there's plenty to laugh about, not least my Brazilian friend sat beside me looking as pasty as a Scotsman in winter. At one point he lets go of a fart, doing his utmost to sneak the fucker out, and looks at me hopefully, “Maybe it will be one of those that doesn't smell..” he barely emits the words from his mouth before the stench engulfs the van, “No!” he panics whilst the rest of the van heaves in disgust.
The journey isn't as bad as I suspected it would upon leaving this morning and by the time Jocke pulls over for a coffee just outside of Nyköping I feel ready to take the wheel again and steer us down the final stretch into Stockholm. I spend the last couple of hours chatting away to Åke, a real diamond of a bloke who's grin never seems to quite leave his face. We're close to town when Lucas tells me he needs a piss and I end up pulling over into what I think are services but is in fact a narrow road into the dark countryside. It takes a while to find somewhere and when we do it's not the safest of places to stop, a tight turn in the road that leads to a little church path in the dark, car headlights coming the other way. Fuck this. My phone is starting to buzz too, that familiar buzz that accompanies a home town gig, except today is even worse since we're kind of organising the show. I wish we could just turn up ad play but instead I feel a little stressed, concerned that the gig will go well and everyone will enjoy themselves, that we can make enough to cover ours and Desperat's costs and that everyone else will be sorted out. Still, I'm confident it will be well attended, it's a good line up what with Tortyr playing their first show in ages and Red Doves who are always great. It should be a top night.
Claes Tortyr texts me as we're driving into the city, telling me they've dropped their gear off and have gone for a beer. I'm looking forward to seeing the guys. Tortyr are the same four boys that make up Tormented. Tormented are Tortyr's death metal alter ego if you like, they simply switch vocal duties between Claes and Drette respectively. Pretty cool. I saw this in full effect when we played a punk squat in Groningen with Tormented and about halfway through, catching the vibe a little, Claes took the mic and they changed to Tortyr. Left all the punk kids scoobied for about half a song and then when they understood what was happening they went mad. It was a lot of fun, I was right there in the middle of the crowd pumping my fist to Bombarna Faller. Great times. It will be brilliant to see the guys again.
We pull up to Kafé 44 around five pm, load in, talk a little with Bengtsson who is occupied with his computer playing Solitaire and not saying a whole lot, not giving much away about whether they're going to have a bar tonight, something a lot of people have been asking about this week, something which a lot of punks view as quite critical in determining their presence at the show. We've been telling people all week not to expect a bar but as it turns out Bengtsson grumbles that they're going to open one anyway and we have to scramble around the internet letting people know this fact, a half hour before doors. I wish it wasn't like this, that you didn't have to sell beer just to get the punks to come on a Saturday night but that's the way it is. Otherwise you end up with a best case scenario of a well sold show but nobody there when the bands start playing, being that they're all at the pub during intervals. For DB this would not be good since if you miss the first ten minutes all you've got left are the last five. One day we'll probably start playing a little longer, one day we'll get into the habit of not being hungover on stage and having the energy to do so, though as said, tonight is not the night.
I'm feeling a little better now anyway but Lucas is still feeling pretty piss by the looks of it. We head down to La Neta to get some good, cheap Mexican food with the Tortyr guys and catch up on old times. They're a great bunch, funny as fuck, they don't even mean to be a lot of the time it's just the way they are. I've never laughed as much on tour as the three weeks we spent in a van with Tormented. The Desperat boys have joined us as well and we sit down to a big communal enchilada feast together. Jocke has put out some Tortyr records along the way and as usual, everyone knows everyone.
Suitably filled and satisfied we head back to the Kafé and upon arrival I feel it's now time for my first beer, time to recover and shake this shit. I sound like a fucking alcoholic! In all honesty I don't actually drink that much anymore, only when we're out playing and even then it doesn't take much to get me pissed anymore. By the time we get back there are a good few people in and there is that buzz about the place that having the bar open creates. The first time I ever went out in Stockholm was to a party at this place and I've been enchanted by the old building ever since. A can of Norrlands Guld in hand, ironic name given that it tastes like piss, I head into the gig room to see Red Doves.
Henke is one of my favourite punk rock vocalists. I loved his singing in Trapdoor Fucking Exit and it's really fun to see him once again playing in another great band. It's been a while since Trapdoor split. Red Doves are a little more snotty California, early 80's style punk and their newer stuff seems to be reaching further into latter day Flag when they started weirding out. Nirre is a fucking great guitar player, again, I loved his work back in the Section 8 days, so with these two guys in the band it can't really go wrong. The room is almost full when they take the stage and I take my place near the front, looking forward to their set and to playing ours afterwards. They don't disappoint. I have to crack up, during their set I notice Luk has made his way to the stage to obtain a better view. Surrounded by punks clutching beer cans, Luk has a huge mug of 7 Eleven coffee, quite the contrast to last night. He ends up making his way over from the steadily rousing moshpit and landing just in front of me, although he hasn't noticed I'm stood there. I clunk my beer can to his coffee, “Cheers buddy!” Per automatic he raises his mug and gives me an enthusiastic “Cheers!” back without looking away from the stage, when he turns mid toast and realises it's me the façade drops and a look of sorry defeat washes over his face, “No” he groans, shaking his head. Again, I still feel pretty useless but this guy is helping me feel good about myself.
When Red Doves are done we slouch up on stage and set up. Set up, tune up and slurk off again, pick up some water and slouch back again. We must look a sorry, pathetic lot. Somehow though, as always, we find the energy from somewhere and give it all we've got. When I think about it, this can't be healthy. Feeling like a sack of shit all day and then going up on stage and going nuts for a quarter of an hour. They say you shouldn't exercise when you're hungover and doing what we do must be the equivalent of going on an all out sprint for fifteen minutes whilst feeling like dog turd. Saying that, it seems to work because I always feel a lot better afterwards and in due course I'm ready for a beer again. Funny that.
Our show flies by and it's an overall good vibe. It was almost exactly a year ago that we played the first DB show, at this very same venue, and the difference between the two is palpable. I thought then that that first show went well, for a first show, but a year later and I can now see how shaky we were. Tonight felt completely controlled. Strange, something that seems to be becoming a bit of a recurring theme is what Jocke Tortyr said to me afterwards, “You guys were great! Much better than I thought it was going to be!” I don't know what that means really but I'll take it as a compliment from my buddy. Anyhow, it's nice to be a year along and feeling a lot more comfortable about playing live with the band. The room was pretty full when we played and my mate Joran, my reliable, fellow immigrant who I buy coffee from every morning at Il Caffe, was down the front in his DB shirt going for it the whole show. Brought a smile to my face.
It's a real pleasure seeing Tortyr play a whole set this time around. Stood there watching them I longed to be back on tour with the guys. I feel a huge amount of love and respect for these boys. Just looking at Jocke's cheeky little face when he plays the drums tickles me, and fuck can he play the drums! It's been a long time since they played Stockholm and they get a good response from the crowd, especially when they play the song Piss Job which I guess resonates with quite a few of us in the room.
Desperat close the show tonight and the first thing I notice is how much clearer Jocke's vocals are compared to last night. The second thing I notice is what a great vocalist Jocke really is. He has that thing going on where he can scream, hold it forever without breaking and still bring a melody to it. I mean, it's harsh as fuck but there is tune in there somewhere too. Desperat top off a really solid night of bands. I'm completely satisfied with how everything has gone, it couldn't really have been any better. This considering the legendary Sham 69 are in town! What a joke. Not really conflicting crowds I guess, for the most part, although once person that gig did steal from us is Jon Victims who was playing in the band Stilet who were opening up for them. But that's another story...
Once Desperat are done Bengtsson takes a hold of me and gives me a wad of cash, thank you very much sir. The bar is now closed and it's time to get everyone out of here but after all the worries about tonight and the costs being covered it turns out Bengtsson is now in a very good mood, as am I, because I can give Claes more than enough money for Tortyr's petrol and nobody in the DB/Desperat camp ended up having to fork out any money to play these two shows. We settle up and everyone is happy, shit, DB and Desperat actually have a thousand kronor to split between ourselves, about fifty quid each, not bad for two nights work. Jocke laughs as he informs Åke of our profits, Åke seems chuffed as always.
We sold pretty good on merch tonight too, so after packing away the gear and saying a long goodbye to the Desperat guys, plans for a UK leg already beginning to hatch, we take our winnings and head to the nearest bar with the Tortyr guys. I say nearest bar, it's not quite that, but it's the cheapest option, where all the other punks have gone to. It's a new place on Folkungagatan called No Name Bar, Drette mentioned it earlier but I didn't have a clue what he was going on about. It turns out to be quite an odd place.
It's a sports bar that sells cheap beer and there are loads of punks hanging out in it. Kev is delighted with the prices, saying that it's even cheaper than back home, each time he comes back from the bar with a new beer he looks more chuffed than the last. We're sitting at a table with the Tortyr guys and Andy Victims, having a good old chin wag over a couple of pints, when some young chav kid stoats by our table carrying a round of drinks stops, a look of confusion on his face, “Sorry, have to ask, but is there some sort of hard rock event going on tonight? This place seems to have been invaded.” Or something along those lines. I don't know if he's trying to be a wise cunt and start trouble or if he's just genuinely curious. I tell him there was a punk gig on at Kafé 44 and that seems to clarify things for him. “Ahhhh..” He then says something about there being some artsy after party on at the studio besides 44, or something, I don't quite catch it. Turns out Luk is there anyway...Luk actually turns up a little later with some of his hip crowd, hip as in young and happening as opposed to the old farts that are we sat around our table drinking beer and talking about “the old days”.
It's great catching up properly with the Tortyr guys and it's too bad they're not sticking around tonight. We had organised places to stay for them but Robban was happy enough to hang out for a while and then drive home. We say goodbye to them and talk about seeing each other more often but in truth it's never that easy. They live a couple of hours drive away and these days I barely see my mates in Stockholm, outside of those I play in bands with, more than a few occasions a year. I guess that's life when you grow up and start a family and everyone else is doing the same.
By the time they turn the lights on in the bar I'm ready to go home but Kev and Vik are really up for another beer and as Kev is going home tomorrow and Jen is staying at her mum's with Polly tonight I decide to go with. Andy is pretty pissed and declares it's time for him to call it a night. I can't help thinking I should follow suit.. But then, I'm sober, the way you are after a heavy session the night before, when it seems you can drink all night long without being affected. Andy is actually on a whole other level to that I'm on it must be said, his eyes are going, the way they do when he's pissed, and his parting shot is a cracker. He's stood talking with Luk and his mate Philly Bee, quite a hip left-winger, and somehow manages to knock Philly Bee's red wine out of his hand and down his shirt. Andy slowly looks down at the red stain on his shirt and then up again and by way of explanation offers, “I'm sorry, I'm very drunk” and then turns back to Luk and continues his conversation. I hear Philly Bee, stood by Luk's other ear, “Who's this guy?” Luk does his best to explain..Andy heads home.
Luk ends up coming along with me, Kev and Viktor, as well as our friend Ragnar, a brilliant and respected artist who designed one of our shirts, the white one with the red skull on it, for one last/two last drinks. The options in this part of town at this time of night are pretty shite though. Actually the options in any part of town at this time of night are pretty shite. We try the hotel bar at Malmen first, fuck knows why, it's a hell hole with utter tripe for bouncers. As it turns out, the particular walking steroid on the door on this occasion takes one look at Ragnar and tells him he's not coming in, informing him he's too drunk. Arguing is completely and utterly pointless of course. We turn around and try the next place, although Kev is bitter, convinced they only knocked Ragnar back because he's got long hair. “I fucking hate cunts like that! Turning Ragnar away just because he looks like he does, fucking fascist!” To be fair, I'm sure Steroid was only to happy to turn Ragnar away...
We end up in an equally horrid establishment a little further down the road called Charles Dickens, where apparently everyone is welcome irrespective of how drunk they are. The place is absolutely rammed, uncomfortably so. We shuffle our way to the bar and after a good twenty minutes manage to order some beers and find an air pocket in the corner by the bogs to drink them in. We stand there blethering for an hour or so and despite the shocking surroundings we find ourselves in, venture back to the bar for a refill. The night deteriorates into slurred words and bleary eyes and Kev telling Ragnar about our friend Robbie from London who isn't gay but sucks old man's cocks, Ragnar's jaw agape, Robbie is a special guy it's fare to say, and it's three thirty by the time I decide enough is enough. We head down to the tube station and there I say my goodbyes, a little sad to see Kev leave as always but there will be plenty of other good times to come I suppose. I'm still nowhere near drunk, just knackered and a little disappointed I haven't take advantage of a good night's sleep since the girls are away and I've got the flat to myself tonight.
But the I figure... fuck it, you can sleep when you're dead, as they say, or in my case, when Polly is a teenager and I'm too old to be playing in punk bands anymore. Or?...
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Göteborg
We were supposed to play in Malmö yesterday. The show was cancelled. Or should I say, the venue, Svalvet, was closed down. Hårda Tider had their release party there a couple of months ago and according to hearsay the punks at the gig had pissed and puked all over the place afterwards, the landlord then received complaints the following day from neighbouring tenants and the punks running the place were duly kicked out. This is just hearsay of course...
This was the first punk house the Malmö scene had owned since Utkanten. Strangely enough, Kev and I were present when that place was raided by the pigs and closed down, we were there to play a show with Victims, Regimes and Pyramido and the cunts had raided the place like they were busting an Al Qaeda hiding hole, the whole thing was absolutely pathetic. We were literally sat there eating cinnamon buns and drinking coffee when these idiots bust through the door with a battering ram and march in dressed in full riot gear. It was fucking surreal.
Malmö doesn't seem to have much luck with housing it's punk scene. I've always found it strange that a city with arguably the strongest scene in Sweden, with such a wide array of bands adhering to the DIY ethic has so little to offer in the way of gig venues. When Svalvet closed we still had a couple of months to find something else but the efforts of an assortment of various friends in the city had failed to materialise into a gig, for one reason or another. So we're just left with Göteborg and Stockholm for this little “tour”. Shame, we have a few costs to cover, I'm hoping we can make that work from just two shows. We've paid to play a few times with Diagnosis, by which I mean our costs have heavily outweighed our income, and we'll do it again if it feels worth it, but it would be nice to just have the money go round, just once...
It's also a shame that we couldn't make more of a weekend of it with the Desperat guys. I'd been really looking forward to sharing a van with them for a few days but now with just the two shows, and with tomorrow's being Stockholm, we'll just have to make the most of hanging out tonight in Göteborg.
Something I love about being involved in punk rock is the friends you make along the way. Jocke, the singer in Desperat and the man behind D Takt och Råpunk, the label that has been kind enough to release our records, has become a good friend of mine since I first got in touch with him via email about releasing our first seven inch, a little over a year ago. The thing is, today would be the first time we'd met in person. I never had a pen friend as a kid but Jocke has become something of one to me in adulthood. We first wrote back and forth about the record, but soon enough we started corresponding about a whole load of other stuff, personal stuff. We just kind of clicked, realising we have a lot in common. I was almost nervous as we drove over to their practice room to pick them up. A strange situation meeting an already good friend for the very first time.
As it turns out, Jocke was just as easy to talk to as he is to write to and the other guys in the band, Chrille and Johan, we're just as easy going too. I'd been mailing back and forth with Chrille this last week, just about the usual planning stuff for the shows and it turns out both he and Johan live down the road from me. Some people just give you a really good impression upon first meeting them, and that was definitely the case here. As we set off in the van we'd barely gotten out of Stockholm before the laughter in the back of the van behind me erupted. I really wish we were doing a few more shows with these guys...
So, everyone in the van, except Åke who plays guitar in Desperat and lives in Malmö and will meet us at the venue tonight, we head off on the four hundred and fifty kilometre journey towards Göteborg. This is actually the first time I've driven a van, well, a van full of band members at least, and I'd been a little trepidatious about the whole thing, but by the time we stopped for the first coffee break, just after Södertälje, I felt like I'd been driving band vans all my life. Piece of piss. Except when it came to parking the fucking thing in a tight space at said coffee break, that got a bit sweaty.
At the start of a tour when you're sharing a van with another band the two bands usually stay segregated. One band sits up the front, the other at the back. I remember thinking about this when Victims did a three week tour sharing a van with Tormented. It was exactly that in the beginning. After a week or so, a long time on tour, usually everyone has mixed, for the good of everyone's enjoyment. If things go well that is. Can't actually imagine how shite sharing a van with a band you didn't get on with would be. As it was today, Jocke, Chrille and Johan were occupying the back bench and Kev and Vik were in front of them, me and Luk up front. Give it a few days and this would change but we only have tomorrow. Shame because I know given the time we'd have a blast with these boys as Victims did with our now close friends, Tormented.
I'm sure every time I've travelled south by road in Sweden, towards Göteborg or to Europe, I've stopped at Max about half way there and eaten a veggie burger. Today was no different. It's almost like an unwritten rule. We normally stop in Jönköping but today we went a little further and ended up in some sort of roadside burger emporium. It had every burger joint Sweden had to offer and on the way in we were greeted by a huge sculpture of a potato in the middle of a roundabout. The place looked more like Mid West United States than Swedish bible belt. Really, we should have taken Sibylla, which has a soya burger and is way better than Max's deep fried vegetable patty, but unwritten rules are unwritten rules. I can get a little tired of Max's veggie burger though.. At least they exist I guess, I shouldn't moan. When I think back to the time I was in Stavanger with Santiago a while back and drunkenly ordered a veggie burger from “Burger King” only to receive a bun, some salad, onions and fucking ketchup, no sign of any sort of burger, and still had to pay about four fucking quid for this piece of shit, it still fries my piss!
We all sit down to our meals, once I've timidly parked the van in a seemingly very tight parking space, and begin the process of getting to know each other, talking old times and other bands and different faces. I always love talking to other punks about their experiences in the scene. Meals eaten we're back in the van and heading down the last stretch of motorway towards Göteborg, the sky already darkening and it's only three pm. We make one last coffee and piss stop around forty kilometres away and then Jocke takes over the wheel, I sit beside him and we chat our way to the venue.
It's so easy these days, now that everybody has GPS on their phones. This place would have been a classic victim for fucking Google Maps back in the day. How many times I've been in a van on the way in to a big city, rabidly following the list of directions printed off the computer and then you miss that crucial exit on the motorway and you're fucked! Had a horrible experience in Munich one time but that's another story. Anyway, without GPS this place would have been a fucker to find, out in the middle of Hissingen in an industrial estate. Viktor had warned us there would be no point in us turning up early as there was the sum total of fuck all to do in the area. He wasn't joking. As it is, we turned up bang on time, just as the guys running the place were getting some food ready for us.
The venue, named 128 A, is housed in a warehouse unit that they've done up into a very cool punk house. The stage is a perfect size, the room is big but set up so that forty people in front of the band will give the place a good vibe. There are sofas spread about the room, a kitchen area behind the bar where they do all the cooking, a free shop where people can leave and pick up clothes, books and whatever else and also a stall where information about the Punk Illegal movement is on display. It's these people who are behind the running of the place. A very good set up indeed, although one wonders if people can really be fucked coming all the way out here from town? If this was Stockholm it wouldn't stand a chance! No tube station, no go.
We walk in and Johan and Chrille's first priority is figuring out where the nearest off licence is. They needn't worry, we're told there are more than enough beers in the backstage room and if we do manage to drink them then the beer is only twenty kronor a pop in the bar. It turns out Chrille has a quart of whisky in his pocket anyway! That cracks me up. I already love this guy. As we wait for the food the guys take beers to one of the sofa areas and quench their thirst whilst waiting for dinner to be served. Even though Jocke doesn't drink it doesn't exactly feel fair to just assume he's going to want to drive the van after the gig to wherever we're staying so I hold off on the beer, weakly attempting to convince myself and everyone else that I'm not in the mood for a brew just yet. When it turns out that we're actually sleeping at the venue tonight though, in a dormitory above the stage I crack a beer open immediately. Guess I was thirsty. We spend the next half hour or so sitting around having the crack, taking the piss out of each other. I like Chrille, he has a constant, cheeky look on his coupon...
The Desperat guys head off to pick up Åke from the train station and when they return the food is ready. And fuck me is it good! A vegan potato granting with a smoked tofu salad. Absolutely superb. Nothing like great grub to get your night going. I'm looking forward to playing tonight. Not sure how many people are going to turn up but since Mob 47 are playing, which is everyone from Desperat bar Jocke, and they haven't played Göteborg for a very long time, I'm guessing it should be a healthy turn out. Mob 47 are a legendary Swedish punk band who split up in the eighties and reformed a few years back, one of the fastest of the d-beat bands back in the day. My first show with Victims was actually with Mob at Kafé 44. Another of the many things I love about punk rock is that there are no fucking rock stars, well, not in the scene we're involved in anyway, and even legends like these guys are easy going, humble people. It's funny, Åke is one of Jon Victims' idols, not so much for his punk rock status but for his bowling skills. Åke is right up there with the best and is a bowling freak just like Jon. He actually moved down to Malmö to open his own alley. He's one of those people that just make you smile, he always looks absolutely chuffed and it's contagious.
After dinner we tuck into the twenty four pack of beer and gear up for the night ahead. The other band playing tonight is an all girl band called Svärta, who are all really friendly. The guitarist knows Viktor from the Stockholm scene and seems really easy to get along with, they all do. It's their first show tonight and they're playing after us and before Mob, meaning Desperat play first. Svärta are a completely different kettle of fish from the rest of us and it breaks the bill up nicely. By the time Desperat start, about nine pm, there are a good lot of punks already in.
They play a blinding show. Jocke is a great vocalist and frontman, going crazy on stage with his now liberated hair, which has been hidden under an Entombed beanie hat all day, flying about all over the place. The only downside is that his vocal mic sounds pretty muddy and it's a little hard to pick out what he's saying between songs but overall the sound when they play is great. Jocke spends a good part of the show on the floor, which is just a low step down from the stage. Always love seeing a singer right in the crowd. They get a great reception and I get a real buzz watching them. I love it when the band playing before you really gets you psyched up to play your own show.
We're set up and ready to go a short while after they finish and I'm chuffed with the amount people stood in front of the stage. First time in Göteborg with DB, well, most places we play are our first time, but this is a perfect first gig in the country's second city. It sounds great on stage and I'm exploding with energy as we rake through the first two songs. So this is what it feels like to play a show non-hungover? I'll have to try it more often.
The set goes off without a hitch, well I break the one string, but that's a given, and the carpet underneath Viktor's drums, which takes up a large area of the stage, is sliding all over the floor every time I stamp on it, causing my thigh muscles to tense up and giving them a good work out in the process, and my tuner pedal is still on the piss, but everything else is great. I love looking across the stage and seeing my buddies having a great time. And the large amount of punks down the front seem to be enjoying it as much as we are. There is another DB first tonight.. When I start the guitar intro to No Exit this one punk kid pumps his fist in the air and shouts “Yes!!!” and then proceeds to sing along to all of the words, or at least, scream along to Kev's indecipherable howls. It's a great feeling having a record out and somebody recognises one of the songs when you play it live.
Fifteen minutes later and we're done. We pack up immediately, sweaty and out of breath. Some young punk kid grabs me as I'm coiling leads and asks me the name of the band. He tells me he loved it and seemingly he wants to talk for a while. Always a tricky business trying to be polite to an enthusiast whilst at the same time doing your best to clear the stage for the next band. When we're packed down me and Viktor head outside to get some fresh air whilst Lucas and Kev take the merch table. It's a cold night and for about five minutes it feels fucking heavenly standing in just a t-shirt, beer in hand, cooling off. This must be the gig equivalent of a sportsman’s post event, ice bath. Åke and the other boys are all outside, as is a large contingent of punks from inside. I get talking to Åke, who has a beaming smile across his face and a can in his hand, about the Mob 47/Desperat tour of the US west coast they did in September. It was the first time either band had been there. It blows me away that Åke, Chrille and Johan, all boys in the vintage years of their lives, can go and play two shows a night for a couple of weeks without a break. No tour bus, no hotels, no fucking frills, they just do it because they love it. Fucking inspiring.
There are shit loads of people in the house now, and the beers are flowing down my neck like a triumphant river. Svärta play a good show, taking the pace down for a half hour or so, playing a droning, progged out style of punk, kinda like Black Angels meets later Crass, and then Mob take the stage. By now we're all well on the way to pissed and in the mood to get down the front and have a sing along with the boys. Magic. The crowd of predominantly young punks go wild, bouncing on and off the stage, grabbing Åke's mic and taking over the vocals for him. It's a hell of a feeling seeing punk rock when it's done like this. By the time they're done we're in overdrive and intent on doing our very best to empty the bar. To add a bit of spice to the proceedings Chrille has got his bottle of Grouse on the go and with it a little metal cup that he apparently always carries with him. It doesn't take long for Chrille's Cup to become a thing of legend amongst us. Lucas gets particularly friendly with it.
The whole place is buzzing and the music is blaring, punks are dancing, the bar is being bombarded and we're stuffing ourselves with these mushroom toasties they have on sale, munchied up to fuck as we'd say in Corby. Loving life right now. Before long I realise Luk is pretty fucking boats, the fact that he has found a white, frilly blouse from the Free Shop and is wearing it proudly giving it away somewhat. He's bouncing about the place telling anyone who'll listen that Chrille's Cup is evil and that “It's a really beautiful blouse”. In all honesty I'm pretty pissed myself but compared to my little brother here I feel positively dapper. About an hour later Luk has passed out on an arm chair and there is no moving him. Everybody lines up to take photos with him.
Due to Luk stealing the show I haven't quite noticed how pissed Viktor is, until, that is, I find him wondering about the place in a haze, looking for somewhere quiet and spacious to sit himself and eventually choosing the stage as just the spot for this. He just plonks himself on his arse and sinks his head into his chest, closing his eyes for a nap. I get my camera out...
At some point in the night Kev comes stumbling up to me and tells me he just met some guy in the bog queue who asked him if he wanted to see photos of his girlfriend and then proceeds to show him lewd pics of said girlfriend dressed in Nazi regalia. Kev tells me he intends to find the guy and head home with him. He doesn't see him again though..
The night rolls in to early morning, people are flaking out one after one, I spend some time upstairs in the dormitory hanging out with Jocke, thinking now is a good time to catch up properly but obviously it's not because he's sober and I'm slurring the majority of my words. Vik is awake again and hammering down beers with the Desperat/Mob boys until like me they finally give up the ghost. Last up is Kev, who calls it a night around five thirty, about a half hour after the rest of us have passed out. Apparently the final straw for Kev was when he'd been stood talking alone with a girl at the bar, by which time there was only a handful of people left in the building, broken off the conversation to go for a piss and when he'd come back found that there was now two girls at the bar. He couldn't remember which one he was talking too so he just went to bed instead.
Goodnight Göteborg. Good night indeed.
This was the first punk house the Malmö scene had owned since Utkanten. Strangely enough, Kev and I were present when that place was raided by the pigs and closed down, we were there to play a show with Victims, Regimes and Pyramido and the cunts had raided the place like they were busting an Al Qaeda hiding hole, the whole thing was absolutely pathetic. We were literally sat there eating cinnamon buns and drinking coffee when these idiots bust through the door with a battering ram and march in dressed in full riot gear. It was fucking surreal.
Malmö doesn't seem to have much luck with housing it's punk scene. I've always found it strange that a city with arguably the strongest scene in Sweden, with such a wide array of bands adhering to the DIY ethic has so little to offer in the way of gig venues. When Svalvet closed we still had a couple of months to find something else but the efforts of an assortment of various friends in the city had failed to materialise into a gig, for one reason or another. So we're just left with Göteborg and Stockholm for this little “tour”. Shame, we have a few costs to cover, I'm hoping we can make that work from just two shows. We've paid to play a few times with Diagnosis, by which I mean our costs have heavily outweighed our income, and we'll do it again if it feels worth it, but it would be nice to just have the money go round, just once...
It's also a shame that we couldn't make more of a weekend of it with the Desperat guys. I'd been really looking forward to sharing a van with them for a few days but now with just the two shows, and with tomorrow's being Stockholm, we'll just have to make the most of hanging out tonight in Göteborg.
Something I love about being involved in punk rock is the friends you make along the way. Jocke, the singer in Desperat and the man behind D Takt och Råpunk, the label that has been kind enough to release our records, has become a good friend of mine since I first got in touch with him via email about releasing our first seven inch, a little over a year ago. The thing is, today would be the first time we'd met in person. I never had a pen friend as a kid but Jocke has become something of one to me in adulthood. We first wrote back and forth about the record, but soon enough we started corresponding about a whole load of other stuff, personal stuff. We just kind of clicked, realising we have a lot in common. I was almost nervous as we drove over to their practice room to pick them up. A strange situation meeting an already good friend for the very first time.
As it turns out, Jocke was just as easy to talk to as he is to write to and the other guys in the band, Chrille and Johan, we're just as easy going too. I'd been mailing back and forth with Chrille this last week, just about the usual planning stuff for the shows and it turns out both he and Johan live down the road from me. Some people just give you a really good impression upon first meeting them, and that was definitely the case here. As we set off in the van we'd barely gotten out of Stockholm before the laughter in the back of the van behind me erupted. I really wish we were doing a few more shows with these guys...
So, everyone in the van, except Åke who plays guitar in Desperat and lives in Malmö and will meet us at the venue tonight, we head off on the four hundred and fifty kilometre journey towards Göteborg. This is actually the first time I've driven a van, well, a van full of band members at least, and I'd been a little trepidatious about the whole thing, but by the time we stopped for the first coffee break, just after Södertälje, I felt like I'd been driving band vans all my life. Piece of piss. Except when it came to parking the fucking thing in a tight space at said coffee break, that got a bit sweaty.
At the start of a tour when you're sharing a van with another band the two bands usually stay segregated. One band sits up the front, the other at the back. I remember thinking about this when Victims did a three week tour sharing a van with Tormented. It was exactly that in the beginning. After a week or so, a long time on tour, usually everyone has mixed, for the good of everyone's enjoyment. If things go well that is. Can't actually imagine how shite sharing a van with a band you didn't get on with would be. As it was today, Jocke, Chrille and Johan were occupying the back bench and Kev and Vik were in front of them, me and Luk up front. Give it a few days and this would change but we only have tomorrow. Shame because I know given the time we'd have a blast with these boys as Victims did with our now close friends, Tormented.
I'm sure every time I've travelled south by road in Sweden, towards Göteborg or to Europe, I've stopped at Max about half way there and eaten a veggie burger. Today was no different. It's almost like an unwritten rule. We normally stop in Jönköping but today we went a little further and ended up in some sort of roadside burger emporium. It had every burger joint Sweden had to offer and on the way in we were greeted by a huge sculpture of a potato in the middle of a roundabout. The place looked more like Mid West United States than Swedish bible belt. Really, we should have taken Sibylla, which has a soya burger and is way better than Max's deep fried vegetable patty, but unwritten rules are unwritten rules. I can get a little tired of Max's veggie burger though.. At least they exist I guess, I shouldn't moan. When I think back to the time I was in Stavanger with Santiago a while back and drunkenly ordered a veggie burger from “Burger King” only to receive a bun, some salad, onions and fucking ketchup, no sign of any sort of burger, and still had to pay about four fucking quid for this piece of shit, it still fries my piss!
We all sit down to our meals, once I've timidly parked the van in a seemingly very tight parking space, and begin the process of getting to know each other, talking old times and other bands and different faces. I always love talking to other punks about their experiences in the scene. Meals eaten we're back in the van and heading down the last stretch of motorway towards Göteborg, the sky already darkening and it's only three pm. We make one last coffee and piss stop around forty kilometres away and then Jocke takes over the wheel, I sit beside him and we chat our way to the venue.
It's so easy these days, now that everybody has GPS on their phones. This place would have been a classic victim for fucking Google Maps back in the day. How many times I've been in a van on the way in to a big city, rabidly following the list of directions printed off the computer and then you miss that crucial exit on the motorway and you're fucked! Had a horrible experience in Munich one time but that's another story. Anyway, without GPS this place would have been a fucker to find, out in the middle of Hissingen in an industrial estate. Viktor had warned us there would be no point in us turning up early as there was the sum total of fuck all to do in the area. He wasn't joking. As it is, we turned up bang on time, just as the guys running the place were getting some food ready for us.
The venue, named 128 A, is housed in a warehouse unit that they've done up into a very cool punk house. The stage is a perfect size, the room is big but set up so that forty people in front of the band will give the place a good vibe. There are sofas spread about the room, a kitchen area behind the bar where they do all the cooking, a free shop where people can leave and pick up clothes, books and whatever else and also a stall where information about the Punk Illegal movement is on display. It's these people who are behind the running of the place. A very good set up indeed, although one wonders if people can really be fucked coming all the way out here from town? If this was Stockholm it wouldn't stand a chance! No tube station, no go.
We walk in and Johan and Chrille's first priority is figuring out where the nearest off licence is. They needn't worry, we're told there are more than enough beers in the backstage room and if we do manage to drink them then the beer is only twenty kronor a pop in the bar. It turns out Chrille has a quart of whisky in his pocket anyway! That cracks me up. I already love this guy. As we wait for the food the guys take beers to one of the sofa areas and quench their thirst whilst waiting for dinner to be served. Even though Jocke doesn't drink it doesn't exactly feel fair to just assume he's going to want to drive the van after the gig to wherever we're staying so I hold off on the beer, weakly attempting to convince myself and everyone else that I'm not in the mood for a brew just yet. When it turns out that we're actually sleeping at the venue tonight though, in a dormitory above the stage I crack a beer open immediately. Guess I was thirsty. We spend the next half hour or so sitting around having the crack, taking the piss out of each other. I like Chrille, he has a constant, cheeky look on his coupon...
The Desperat guys head off to pick up Åke from the train station and when they return the food is ready. And fuck me is it good! A vegan potato granting with a smoked tofu salad. Absolutely superb. Nothing like great grub to get your night going. I'm looking forward to playing tonight. Not sure how many people are going to turn up but since Mob 47 are playing, which is everyone from Desperat bar Jocke, and they haven't played Göteborg for a very long time, I'm guessing it should be a healthy turn out. Mob 47 are a legendary Swedish punk band who split up in the eighties and reformed a few years back, one of the fastest of the d-beat bands back in the day. My first show with Victims was actually with Mob at Kafé 44. Another of the many things I love about punk rock is that there are no fucking rock stars, well, not in the scene we're involved in anyway, and even legends like these guys are easy going, humble people. It's funny, Åke is one of Jon Victims' idols, not so much for his punk rock status but for his bowling skills. Åke is right up there with the best and is a bowling freak just like Jon. He actually moved down to Malmö to open his own alley. He's one of those people that just make you smile, he always looks absolutely chuffed and it's contagious.
After dinner we tuck into the twenty four pack of beer and gear up for the night ahead. The other band playing tonight is an all girl band called Svärta, who are all really friendly. The guitarist knows Viktor from the Stockholm scene and seems really easy to get along with, they all do. It's their first show tonight and they're playing after us and before Mob, meaning Desperat play first. Svärta are a completely different kettle of fish from the rest of us and it breaks the bill up nicely. By the time Desperat start, about nine pm, there are a good lot of punks already in.
They play a blinding show. Jocke is a great vocalist and frontman, going crazy on stage with his now liberated hair, which has been hidden under an Entombed beanie hat all day, flying about all over the place. The only downside is that his vocal mic sounds pretty muddy and it's a little hard to pick out what he's saying between songs but overall the sound when they play is great. Jocke spends a good part of the show on the floor, which is just a low step down from the stage. Always love seeing a singer right in the crowd. They get a great reception and I get a real buzz watching them. I love it when the band playing before you really gets you psyched up to play your own show.
We're set up and ready to go a short while after they finish and I'm chuffed with the amount people stood in front of the stage. First time in Göteborg with DB, well, most places we play are our first time, but this is a perfect first gig in the country's second city. It sounds great on stage and I'm exploding with energy as we rake through the first two songs. So this is what it feels like to play a show non-hungover? I'll have to try it more often.
The set goes off without a hitch, well I break the one string, but that's a given, and the carpet underneath Viktor's drums, which takes up a large area of the stage, is sliding all over the floor every time I stamp on it, causing my thigh muscles to tense up and giving them a good work out in the process, and my tuner pedal is still on the piss, but everything else is great. I love looking across the stage and seeing my buddies having a great time. And the large amount of punks down the front seem to be enjoying it as much as we are. There is another DB first tonight.. When I start the guitar intro to No Exit this one punk kid pumps his fist in the air and shouts “Yes!!!” and then proceeds to sing along to all of the words, or at least, scream along to Kev's indecipherable howls. It's a great feeling having a record out and somebody recognises one of the songs when you play it live.
Fifteen minutes later and we're done. We pack up immediately, sweaty and out of breath. Some young punk kid grabs me as I'm coiling leads and asks me the name of the band. He tells me he loved it and seemingly he wants to talk for a while. Always a tricky business trying to be polite to an enthusiast whilst at the same time doing your best to clear the stage for the next band. When we're packed down me and Viktor head outside to get some fresh air whilst Lucas and Kev take the merch table. It's a cold night and for about five minutes it feels fucking heavenly standing in just a t-shirt, beer in hand, cooling off. This must be the gig equivalent of a sportsman’s post event, ice bath. Åke and the other boys are all outside, as is a large contingent of punks from inside. I get talking to Åke, who has a beaming smile across his face and a can in his hand, about the Mob 47/Desperat tour of the US west coast they did in September. It was the first time either band had been there. It blows me away that Åke, Chrille and Johan, all boys in the vintage years of their lives, can go and play two shows a night for a couple of weeks without a break. No tour bus, no hotels, no fucking frills, they just do it because they love it. Fucking inspiring.
There are shit loads of people in the house now, and the beers are flowing down my neck like a triumphant river. Svärta play a good show, taking the pace down for a half hour or so, playing a droning, progged out style of punk, kinda like Black Angels meets later Crass, and then Mob take the stage. By now we're all well on the way to pissed and in the mood to get down the front and have a sing along with the boys. Magic. The crowd of predominantly young punks go wild, bouncing on and off the stage, grabbing Åke's mic and taking over the vocals for him. It's a hell of a feeling seeing punk rock when it's done like this. By the time they're done we're in overdrive and intent on doing our very best to empty the bar. To add a bit of spice to the proceedings Chrille has got his bottle of Grouse on the go and with it a little metal cup that he apparently always carries with him. It doesn't take long for Chrille's Cup to become a thing of legend amongst us. Lucas gets particularly friendly with it.
The whole place is buzzing and the music is blaring, punks are dancing, the bar is being bombarded and we're stuffing ourselves with these mushroom toasties they have on sale, munchied up to fuck as we'd say in Corby. Loving life right now. Before long I realise Luk is pretty fucking boats, the fact that he has found a white, frilly blouse from the Free Shop and is wearing it proudly giving it away somewhat. He's bouncing about the place telling anyone who'll listen that Chrille's Cup is evil and that “It's a really beautiful blouse”. In all honesty I'm pretty pissed myself but compared to my little brother here I feel positively dapper. About an hour later Luk has passed out on an arm chair and there is no moving him. Everybody lines up to take photos with him.
Due to Luk stealing the show I haven't quite noticed how pissed Viktor is, until, that is, I find him wondering about the place in a haze, looking for somewhere quiet and spacious to sit himself and eventually choosing the stage as just the spot for this. He just plonks himself on his arse and sinks his head into his chest, closing his eyes for a nap. I get my camera out...
At some point in the night Kev comes stumbling up to me and tells me he just met some guy in the bog queue who asked him if he wanted to see photos of his girlfriend and then proceeds to show him lewd pics of said girlfriend dressed in Nazi regalia. Kev tells me he intends to find the guy and head home with him. He doesn't see him again though..
The night rolls in to early morning, people are flaking out one after one, I spend some time upstairs in the dormitory hanging out with Jocke, thinking now is a good time to catch up properly but obviously it's not because he's sober and I'm slurring the majority of my words. Vik is awake again and hammering down beers with the Desperat/Mob boys until like me they finally give up the ghost. Last up is Kev, who calls it a night around five thirty, about a half hour after the rest of us have passed out. Apparently the final straw for Kev was when he'd been stood talking alone with a girl at the bar, by which time there was only a handful of people left in the building, broken off the conversation to go for a piss and when he'd come back found that there was now two girls at the bar. He couldn't remember which one he was talking too so he just went to bed instead.
Goodnight Göteborg. Good night indeed.
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