Smells like tour 4.07.03
I put off doing my laundry and packing until the last minute this time. We spent the weekend driving up and down I -95, playing shows in Philly, NYC and in Boston on Saturday night. Sunday was the day I would put myself through the usual pre-tour routine of laundry, packing, and anxiety that I would forget to pack something important-my passport, a book, the best pairs of underwear, or the bag of 'spare parts' for my drums. This little bag goes with me on every tour and I never need it. I spend hours rooting through my apartment looking for potential pieces for this bag's inventory, and in the end, it seems like a waste of time. But I'm quite sure that if I did not bring the bag of felts for the cymbal stands, string to attach a snare to a drum, pieces of metal, nuts, bolts, screws etc, I would surely need it. I believe in Murphy's Law. If anything can go wrong with the drums, it will.
I spend hours deciding which t-shirts to bring, which books to bring considering their dimensions and weight, how many socks I need (about .8 pairs per day. I'll have to double up on a few pairs because I just don't have the space for a pair per day. Plus, I don't own 30 pairs of socks, so that solves that), and whether or not I want to wear tennis shoes or boots on this tour. I opt for tennis shoes despite the fact that my only pair smell rather....lived in. I'll wash them with the rest of my clothes I decide, but of course forget to add them to the laundry, as I need them to walk to the laundromat. No worries. I'll hand wash them in the bathtub and put them in the dryer when the wash is done.
By the time the wash is done, I've yet to hand wash my tennis shoes as I'm running around taking care of other errands. (How many razor blades do I need? I decide on .5 per day.) So the laundry eventually gets thrown into the dryer, the tennis shoes get months of filth expunged in the tub, and get thrown in the dryer near the end of its cycle. By the time the cycle of the dryer is done, the shoes are still wet and seem to smell worse than before I washed them.
I like to think that I learn from my mistakes. There have been plenty of them, perhaps suggesting that I don't learn anything from them at all. This is the case with attempts to dry articles of clothing in the oven. It does not work. Once I nearly ruined a pair of wet socks when I attempted to dry them at 450*F. I even had this memory with me when the still stinking, wet tennis shoes went into the pre-heated oven. I decide 5 minutes would suffice to dry them out, and went back to my room to figure out how many pens to put in my bag (decided on 2), and if there could be any legitimate reason to pack cologne (there isn't). As I'm looking at the cologne, I smell something that is clearly not cologne. 15 minutes have passed since my shoes went into the oven, and the smell that now pervades my apartment is that of my shoes cooking. Shit. I'd probably forgotten about them even before the oven tour had closed.
I run to the kitchen, open the door to extract them and promptly burn my finger on the now super-heated, metal shoe lace eyelets. The rubber soles have begun to drip and the black canvas uppers have begun to brown, the color being cooked out of them. I let them cool on the back porch before putting them on. They are now two sizes too small, and have assimilated a bit of the smell of last nights baked salmon. I remind myself loudly that I'm a moron as lyrics from the Last Poets ring in my head: "this is madness.....this madness!......THIS IS MADNESS!!....."
Mammals
I'm sitting in the cafe of Sound Station, a large venue in Liege, Belgium, wondering what I could possibly write about. This notebook's empty white page is staring at me, importuning me to relate some discreet detail of the last 24 hours. Patience, I tell myself. Tour has just started and there's bound to be something that gets the pen moving; some detail that I'd share over drinks with a close friend if he/she was here. Now, I just sit here refreshing my memory on conversions: miles to kilometers, Celsius to Fahrenheit, feet to meters, a 24 hour clock to a 12 hour clock. Recalling how, in conversation after the show, I had more trouble understanding the English of a girl from London than I did with any locals who spoke English as a second language.
The show went well. It's been a week since Karate played a show, but at this point in our touring schedule, after a week, or even a month away from the stage, Karate can flip the switch and the set of songs turns on. I felt particularly relaxed on stage last night, and that's good. The crowd was receptive and that's also good. This is going to be easier than the last tour, I think to myself. The northern European drives are shorter than Italian and Spanish, the shows are earlier and more organized, more people speak English....This is going to be a cake walk.
We're having breakfast before loading our gear from the stage to the van (I didn't have to do anything after the show but sit around and discuss the nature of Farina's Adam Sandler fixation. No loading, no lifting, no work.) as Goddard talks to someone who saw the performance last night. This person then begins to tell me that his friend has also seen the show. His friends impression of me I find, at first, quite strange. He tells me in a heavy French accent that his friend has decided that in order for him to play drums as I do, he must be reincarnated as a dog. Uh, pardon me? A dog? Was my tongue hanging out? (People used to tell me that it would, but I thought I'd gotten over that) No, he tells me, not because "you are a dog" but because I had come off as 'playful', like a dog or a child. Oh ok, I see what he's getting at, and if I interpret this positively, it's actually quite a complement. If I, or Karate as a whole, appear to be playing music in a way that's expressed in the relaxed, happy, and playful ways of a dog or child, then we're doing something right. The antitheses of this would be to come across as uptight, overly self governed, highly analytical adult homo-sapiens. I'm quite flattered by this complement because I was indeed having quite a good time on stage last night and someone could tell. Often people just seem to notice that I've had a few drum lessons or have attempted to play Jazz, or have practiced my double stroke rolls. I'll take the Emotional over the Technical. But when I feel like shit up there, when neither the emotional or technical gears are up-shifting, you're gonna know it.
Opwijk.
Our second show is in Opwijk, Belgium, a little town in Flanders, near Brussels. In the hours between our arrival at the venue and when we go on stage, we begin what I assume will be one of many episodes of number crunching and merch counting. Every CD, record, and T shirt gets pulled out of the van and counted. The numbers were then fed to various laptops, hand held PCs, and personal memories in an attempt to compile, catalog, and compute them. There are so many numbers that need to be taken into account in trying to figure out, for instance, our cost per unit, VAT and shipping expenses, what we owe, who we owe, what we profit, currency rates, and on and on. These discussions usually start in a way that implies 'too many mathematicians, not enough students', with everyone adding there own information to some question regarding a merchandise-related number. Usually, the merchandise gets physically counted more than once due to some discrepancy. It is not the most fun part of tour, but has to be done. In the end I hope and believe that the numbers will 'add up'. They're usually pretty close to what we believe they should be.
I do what I can to help, mostly by staying out of the way, but occasionally pulling out my notes to give to one of the computers for analysis. In addition to the beginning of 'Merch' Madness', begins what I hope will be a feature of this tour: Frisbee with Bernie. Though Bernie is ensconced with the business of Karate's merchandise, he's brought a Frisbee and is eager to get out onto the pitch. We get in a good hour of exercise, learning the weight and attitude of this particular disc. It's light and requires a lot of snap from the wrist.
The show goes well, I think. Again, I feel pretty relaxed and have a good time. Afterwards, I hang out drinking and smoking (I've had a relapse, I'm sorry to report) with some of the Belgian Karate Constituency (BKC). The venerable Els Langouche and Babs Getts have come from Leuven and other Karate held Flemish areas to see the show. Babs tells me that she was surprised to run into her parents at the show. Apparently, her folks are Karate fans. Until now, she was unaware of this fact, and they unaware that their daughter has been friends with the group for some time. She and her parents had made no indication to each other that they both would attend the show. At the time I find this coincidence hard to believe. I'd thought that most fans of Karate of a parenting age were, in fact, the parents of Karate themselves. Babs also tells me that they've bought a number of CD's; particular Karate titles that they didn't yet have. This sale will of course be written down and accounted for, more of the daily data for the merchandise machine.
Chicken and Oriental
Yesterday was our only day off on the tour. We spent the day traveling from Belgium to London, a trip that usually takes longer than we'd like, thanks to the incredible traffic in London and the fact that we're often on the wrong side of the road. There's nothing quite like having to spend hours on the road, and an hour on a ferry filled with obnoxious Brits with no musical payoff at the end of the day. That's why I don't like days off. The 90 minutes a day of fun on tour are reduced to 0 hours of fun. (unless I count that 3 minutes listening in complete awe to a dance version of Don Henley's "Boys of Summer" that was piped into the cafe on the ferry to Dover. The nautical theme gets me thinking that this version might be called The Buoys of Summer.)
We stay the evening at John Loder's house. John is grand overlord of Southern Records. Karate and crew ate dinner at a Greek restaurant that evening while we waited for John to come home. We guessed that he must have been at some soiree for electrical engineering geniuses turned seminal record producers. We ate and returned to his doorstep before he'd arrived home. We stood there with all our bags spread across the sidewalk and I prayed he would arrive shortly, as I needed a bathroom in a bad way. We also discussed merch numbers, and did some math as it related to CDs that we planned to return. Its become obvious that no one wants Cancel/Sing, our CD EP that contains two songs of about 13 minutes each. Can't figure out why. John eventually returns home and we watch The Road To Perdition in his attic that is filled with books, DVD's and hundreds of videos of Fugazi and Crass performances.
The next day we head to Dingwalls, a club in Camden, London.
As we get closer to the club, we see throngs of people filling the streets.
Apparently, the club is located in the shopping district. It's a beautiful weekend
day and the crowds are out en masse. We actually drive past the club as the
entrance is on a sidewalk that is teeming with shoppers, most of whom seem to
be teenagers with blue hair, or the kind of leather and chains punk rockers
that London is famous for. And let me tell you, English Mohawks are far superior
to anything you might see in the States.
So we park a 100 meters from the club, as Greet hops out to go assess the situation, i.e where do we unload, where do we park, etc. Five minutes later, Greet returns with Scooby, head of security for Dingwalls. Scooby cuts an imposing figure. He's a bald black man of about 6 and a half feet and is quite well endowed in the muscles department. I instantly like him. He's the friendliest person I've ever met in London. He talks a mile a minute about where to drive the van for unloading, the best way to do it, about his job as a bouncer at raves ('at my age, even the 'chill-out room' is too much'), about the club etc. I should mention that while he had us cracking up, it was mostly because we could only understand about half of what he said. I've heard that they speak English in London, but I'm no longer convinced. Here's some of the conversation: " Right, you know the one.....(unintelligible).....take a right, there on the.....(unintelligible)....its a right hand drive.....(unintelligible)....hallo, luv.....(unintelligible)....chicken and oriental......' Huh?
He may be hard to understand, but you can tell he's a nice guy, and a nice guy at a club in London is rare. After we've loaded in and soundchecked, I go for a walk around the shops, many of which are located in what used to be London's horse stables. They've been converted into shops selling everything from bongs to shampoo. Accompanying me is Scooby, who's giving me a little history of the place and greeting everyone with a smile and a 'hello'. He even called someone 'Guv'nor'. It was great. At one point, Goddard, who was along with us asks, 'So, Scooby, what's a 'tosser''? He replies, 'Right, you know the one, it's like a 'wanker''. God save the queen. Later, after I watch Scooby assist a couple down a flight of stairs with their baby carriage, I tell him that ' I like the way he works', what with him being a big, burly bouncer and yet so friendly and helpful. (But, I'm sure he's kicked a lot of arse in his day.) He then goes on to tell me, "Right, well the way I see it....(unintelligible)......east-end gangs.....(unintelligible)......dodging bullets......(unintelligible).....east-end gangs...(unintelligible).....now I believe in helping people out....' He then starts asking me what kind of a crowd comes to a Karate show, and I assure him it will be a peaceful night. He's pleased with this, he says, but he's never too careful, apparently, as he lifts up his sweatshirt to show me the bullet-proof vest he's wearing. I have a vision of the show getting cut short due to some gang related cross-fire between Scooby and some east-enders with bad teeth and bad attitudes. Right, you know the one.
Utrecht
Back on the continent. Utrecht, Holland is an incredibly picturesque town. Like Amsterdam with canals, house boats, and beautiful architecture, yet smaller and seemingly cleaner and more relaxed. Amsterdam is pretty relaxed itself, but this place seems sedated. The venue, Ekko, is situated on a canal and on the opposite side are a wide row of steps leading down to the water where many Utrechtians are sitting enjoying the incredible sunny weather.
The show's opening band is Solbakken, from Holland, whom we've played with in past years. They sound great. Our set goes well. Jeff Goddard turns 34 on this night and the bartenders present him with a bottle of Balantines Scotch whiskey, which he walks around with in his back pocket after the show, talking with show-goers and presumably pulling from the bottle. Later, as I sit at the merch table, Goddard appears looking upset. He reports that the bouncer has confiscated the bottle that the bar tenders gave him. For the next hour, he periodically passes by the merch table muttering slurred epithets about 'this country's rules'. I remind him that 'this country's rules' as they pertain to another particular controlled substance are much more lax, and perhaps he should look into possibilities in this area.
Things settle down quickly at the club and we decide to walk to the youth hostel where we will stay the night. The evening is incredibly beautiful. The air is fresh, the temperature around 68 F, the stars are bright above, and the town is quiet, save the rattling of a bicycle passing over stone streets. These walks have become a favorite part of touring for me, especially when we're in surrounds as nice as Utrecht. Unfortunately, no one really shares this feeling with me as far as I can tell, and for the others, these walks seem only the last hurdle to jump before finally getting to sleep.
The following morning is equally as beautiful. We eat breakfast in the sun along one of the canals and I throw back a number of cappuccinos and smile because we have only an hour's drive to Rotterdam. The touring is good in Holland.
Rotterdam. Waterfront.
We finally find the club, The Waterfront, after driving around in downtown Rotterdam for about 40 minutes. Dreams of an hour drive from breakfast to the front door of the evening's club have been dashed by less than clear directions. This is nothing new. The club itself is situated on the quay of the the giant river that runs through Rotterdam to the sea. Or is it from the sea? I'm not sure. Anyway, after soundcheck, I head out the door to go sit on one of the floating docks that is nearby. We've arrived well in advance of the show so we've got hours to kill. That's fine with me. The weather is fantastic and this is really my first taste of spring. It was snowing in Boston when I left. I hate it when it snows in April. Damn you, New England!!
I sit and watch the huge barges go by for a few hours. They're loaded with god-knows-what, and they look like they could sink below the water's surface at any time. Eventually, dinner is served and I eat in the bar whose windows open up on the quay. Els and Karen, who've driven up from Leuven, join me at the table. The daylight starts to fade, people start trickling into the bar and a huge full moon rises above the water. Els and I take some chairs outside and sit drinking Heinekens for an hour, watching the moon rise and the stream of people heading into the show. The pace of this afternoon and evening is so slow and relaxing. I could sit here for hours. Oh, wait, I have been sitting here for hours.
Groningen
Vera, the venue in Groningen, Holland is one of the nicest venues in Europe. It's been doing concerts for at least 20 years, has one of the nicest stages I've ever played on, and the comfort and hospitality is second to none. We'll probably never play here again. (more on that later)
The highlight of the day is the walk in the the park. The weather is still beautiful and the park at dusk is one of the most serene scenes I've ever seen. (how's that for word play?) Groups of kids play ball or skateboard around the paved paths as I sit by a little pond, courted by a variety of water fowl who wait for morsels of food that I don't have. Fleets of ruddy cheeked youths on bicycles whiz past me, smiling. Vapor trails in the sky glow orange against the fading blue of the day's sky. If there's a more picturesque and peaceful environment, I haven't seen it. Everything, including the parks only bag-lady on the bench nearby, seems refined to their most essential elements. Later, as I'm walking past her, readying myself for Dutch taunts or heckles from this obviously mentally challenged person, I hear her say something to the effect of "They like them to ride in back so you can't hear what they say. I don't blame them." I think she was making some sort of sexist comment about women riding their bicycles behind the men. What struck me was not the nature of what she said but how she said it. It was in English and with an accent fit for the BBC or a lady of the leisure classes. Here, even the bag ladies are well-mannered.
The show goes well as far as I can tell, and don't notice that there are significantly less people in attendance than last year. I think there were less people last year than the year before that, too. This does not bode well for future Karate gigs here, and we're told not to call next year when we're booking a tour. Oh well. I can understand their position: the club needs to be filled and this venue easily holds 500 people. If we're not packing 'em, we're not a 'sure thing' for the club. Ah, Vera. It's been a nice run: 5 gigs here in the last 6 years. The Karate chapter in the Vera book is closed for now. Turn the page.
Hamburg
Arrived early to club Schlactoff which made available ample time for some intense Frisbee with Bernie and Goddard. By the time the club opens, I'm ready for a nap. The show is a lot of fun; the people are much more vocal and enthusiastic than the previous evenings Dutch crowd and I'm not aware that there were 75-100 less people than last year. Hmmm. Cross Schlactoff off the list, I guess.
Bernie, Greet, and I are the last to leave the venue. We're kicked out when the bartenders want to go home, so we finish our hefe-weisens and zig-zag 500 meters down the street to our hotel.
Malmooooo
I woke up in pain. Yesterday's Frisbee session has done a number on my arms and legs. And back. And neck. The hefe-weisen has done a number on my head. I go downstairs to the hotel lobby, have a cappuccino, and listen to the music being pumped in from the ceiling. Again, the dance version of Boys of Summer. There's always one song on every tour, some blantanly 'Euro' dance track, that rears its usually ugly head over and over. I fear this version of Boys of Summer will follow me for the remainder of the tour. (Last tour was Punjabi MC, which you European dance party enthusiasts surely know by now).
I'm under the assumption that we're in a hurry to leave because of the distance to Malmo, Sweden, so I head back to the van, which is parked at the club. After about a half an hour, I realize that we may not be in a hurry as no one has shown up, not even Greet, whose usually the first on the departure scene. I decide to go find some breakfast.
I'm not looking forward to tonights gig becuase I'm assuming that no one will show up. This show was booked at the last minute and our other choice was a day off. Better to have a show, in my opinion, than a day off, despite a last minute booking and a less than average financial reward. Anyway, some people do show up to the gig. Not many, but a few people who seeem excited to be there. We play well I guess, but our energy level is a bit low. Tomorrow we'll play Goteborg, where we've had low attendance numbers in the past. I assume tomorrow will be no different.
Goteborg
Arrival in Goteborg a few hours early means more Frisbee!! Bernie and I find an open space just down the street from the venue and go to it. We've pretty much figured out our disc and it's optimal usage. It's quite light, so short range throws work best.
The club and it's various employees are quite nice and provide a lovely dinner, over which Greet, Farina and I discuss our genetics, children, marriage, and organic food. I won't bore you with details of this discussion (which we've had before). I'll just say that no one seems to think it's too funny that I want to select my mate on a purely Darwinist, 'survival of the fittest' type of criteria. C'mon, she's got to be able to run from predators and be healthy enough to fight disease!! My mate has to be attractive, so that any potential offspring will also be attractive. This will provide the offspring with subtle advantages in this fickle, beauty conscious world. If it were only that simple.......No they're right, this really isn't that funny.
What is kind of funny, not to mention surprising, is that tons of people come to the show. Median age: 19 It's really quite a fun show, despite my kick drum and pedal sliding all over the place. This has been happening fairly regularly and I haven't been able to figure out a way to make it stop based on the materials/equipment I'm using. I tell the crowd about my struggles with my vocal mic that I now have put behind the drums for every show. Farina was being a little too quiet in-between songs, I thought, so I figured I'd get in a few jokes. I know, I know... these are dangerous waters I'm treading: A drummer with as microphone is usually a harbinger of bad things. Anyway, I tell the audience that I equate these problems with my kick drum and pedal with hypothetical problems with my pants. Imagine, if you will, you've dressed in the morning and are now at a job interview or on a date. Everything is going well until your pants fall off. You did everything you could to make sure your pants were on tight. But they fell right off. In public! In front of everyone! And this happens every day! Well, when my drums start sliding away from me in the middle of some song, that's how I feel. My drums, and how they 'fit' around me, are like my clothes when I'm on stage; they hide my shame. When the fall around my ankles, so to speak, in front of everyone, I feel naked and ashamed. I usually have to come out from behind them and try and secure them to the floor. The crowd seems to get a kick out this analogy until Farina steps up to the mic and tells the crowd, 'Don't be fooled, he actually has this problem with his pants'. After the show, I notice that people avoid getting too close to me.
Oslo. My phone's got a little ring
The drive north to Oslo is relatively smooth despite much of the road having only one lane and Scandinavia being the home to the world's slowest drivers. We play at the club So What, and note that we played here on the exact same day last year. This year the day falls on Easter and we're wondering if anyone will show up. Thankfully, the turnout is decent, though probably a handful fewer people than last year.
The show goes well and we load out of the club soon after we've finished because we need to get into bed as soon as possible. Tomorrow we have to drive to Copenhagen which will take at least 8 hours. Our soundcheck there is scheduled for 4pm. Its not likely that we'll make it.
After we load out, we follow a car that takes us to the apartment where we will stay the night. When we arrive, the driver of the car gets out, comes to the window of the van and informs us that the top right buzzer at the door will get us an entrance to the building, our home for the next 6 hours. Indeed, the top right buzzer does get us access to the building, but we quickly note that we don't know which apartment door is our final destination. We assume our host will appear, their door opened for us. We ascend the staircase, and by the time we reach the fifth floor, the top floor, our bags getting heavier, we begin the 'what the !@# is going on' line of questioning because no one has appeared to let us in. Bernie heads back down to ring the buzzer again to ask which floor and apartment number we are to go to. Bernie learns through the speaker that accompanies the buzzers, that it's the fifth floor. Surely now our host will open the door. Apparently not. We stand at the fifth floor whispering, wondering if we should start knocking on all the doors. 'Hi, we're Karate, is this where we stay?'. This is ridiculous. Bernie starts to walk back downstairs to ring the buzzer yet again to ask which door it is, when finally someone appears at one of the doors and asks us to come in. Finally.
We bed down in a large room on mattresses and sleeping bags. My allergies immediately tell me there are cats nearby. Our host tell us she's going back to bed, as she's quite tired due to 'a week of heavy drinking'. It's Easter holidays so I guess it's the time of year when the students go a bit crazy. I too get into bed. A few hours later, at 6 am, I'm awakened by loud talking in the kitchen, which is a few feet away from me. There are two people making tons of noise and it doesn't stop for an hour or so. I try desperately to sleep through it. I can't fall asleep again, mostly because I'm so angry that what was already going to be a short sleep, is now likely to be shortened even further. Finally, the talking stops and out come those responsible for the noise. One is our host, and the other is likely a roommate. This roommate is very drunk. As he comes out of the kitchen and passes by my bed of a mattress on the floor, he pauses, looks down at me staring up at him in enraged bewilderment, and laughs. I want to kill him. Good morning to you too, asshole.
Now its around 7 AM or so, and I fall back to sleep until 8, at which point I line up for use of the bathroom. The drunk roommate is still prowling around the apartment muttering to himself, and occasionally trying to talk to one of us. We're all too tired to even attempt to understand him ,and we just brush him off as we head to the bathroom or out the door to the van. I take my turn in the bathroom, and decide that I'll not shower, but instead, will get out of this apartment as quickly as possible. As I stand above the toilet, the drunk tries to get into the bathroom. I yell at him. It maybe his apartment but, Christ, this guy is one drunk shit head.
Thanks to these circumstances, we're motivated to get in the van and on the road as soon as possible. In fact, we even make our scheduled departure time of 8:30 AM thanks to this most inhospitable drunkard. Bup-bye....ya punk.
Copenhagen
I can barely keep my eyes open during the first part of the drive to Copenhagen. This is not necessarily the best scenario considering I'm behind the wheel. I'm quite motivated to stay awake and arrive in one piece however, because tonight's venue is one of my favorites. The club is called Loppen and it is located in Christiana, a 'squat', one of Europe's largest, if not the largest. It's not merely an occupied building, but an occupied town, now called 'Freetown'. Formerly a military base, residents have now fashioned homes out of the shells of old barracks. They've built theatres, clubs, and an array of restaurants and shops. The shops sell food, reggae records, jewelry, and of course, a lot of hashish and marijuana. At the top of a small street, one is greeted by a large sign that says 'keine photo, no photos' before entering an open air drug market. In addition, there are plenty of signs that say, 'say no to hard drugs'. If you can't say no to 'soft drugs', as it's clear that no one here has been able to do, you can still say no to 'hard drugs'. It somehow seems like a message of consolation, as if recognizing that your will to 'just say no' has started to falter. 'Uh, say no to.....uh, hard drugs then.'
The road south has only one stop for us, the rest stop we visited on the way north and the same rest stop we've hit in past years. It is also our breakfast stop and we all, except for Greet, eat hamburgers as our eyelids droop. During most of the trip, I battle a fierce cross-wind from the east which slows us down a bit. Toward the end of the trip, as the road finally turns west around Malmo in southern Sweden, I feel the wind at the back of the van and an increase in speed.
We cross over the 5 km bridge that connects Sweden to Denmark and drive into Copenhagen. We do our usual routine of getting lost in the exact same fashion as years past, to the point where I'm able to predict what we will have to do to get us back on course. '...Yeah, then we get lost over there, I'll turn around, then we head thataway, then we finally get on course.....' Something like that. Anyway, we finally arrive in Christiana and the memory of the last 18 hours of sleep deprived hell is swept away. The weather is still beautiful, and Christiana is bubbling with activity. It always amazes me to see not only the types of people you would expect to see in a town where there are open air drug markets, but also families with children and other more 'respectable' types mingling together, everyone seeming so at ease, enjoying the day. On arrival, we load in quickly and I head out for a walk around the large lake that's in the center of 'town'. The Scandinavian countries did not make the switch to Euros in 2000, and as I walk, I wonder if the various vendors will accept Euros as well as Danish kroners.
Oldenburg
Back to Germany. Tonight's show is in Oldenburg, a small town west of Bremen. The venue is a youth center that looks like a large gym with a large stage on either side. We arrive late, so our soundcheck is short. Soon after, Bernie and I head outside and play Frisbee in the cul de sac in front of the club. Frisbee has become a nice escape from the daily drudgery.
After the show, which was quite good, if I do say so myself, we walk about a half mile to a crossroads where we're told to meet our host for the evening. He takes Farina in his car as the rest of us want to walk. It's a beautiful warm evening. We get to the crossroads and meet our host who's dropped Farina off. He gives us directions to the next corner where he'll meet us again. I wonder why he can't just give us directions to the house rather this step by step trek.
In the morning, we have a nice relaxed breakfast in the back yard of our host's home. The weather remains fantastic and we have only a short drive today to Munster. I bet it's snowing in Boston.
Munster
Back to Gleiss 22 in Munster. Probably our 5th show here. It's not the best club for on-stage sound, but the nice people that work there make up for it. I hang out outside for a while before the show, talking to a woman who has not the money for entrance. She does, I notice, have money for cigarettes. I offer to put her on the guest list and she accepts.
After the show, as I sit at the merch table with Bernie, the same woman asks about our tank-top, 'girlie' style t-shirts. 'They're horrible', she says. Yeah, but we sell tons of 'em and you're broke. Bup-bye.
Koln
Ok, now we're talking! We arrive early to find that the club, who's name escapes me at the moment, is already sold out for tonight's show. What's even better is that the club has a facility for us to eat and sleep in. That means when the show is over, we don't have to load out and drive anywhere. We can just hang out, talk to people, have a few drinks in the biergarten, or even join the inevitable dance party.
The show is a blast. There are 300 hundred people in the biergarten prior to the show and I hang out for a bit, watching the people arrive. The show itself has a very enthusiastic crowd and this fact alone can make a huge difference. When this piece of the puzzle fits with a short day's drive, a decent stage, and a great club with great hospitality, there is little else that compares with such a confluence of factors.
(Afterwards, I notice what I can only categorize as an 'estrogen super nova'. The ladies of Koln reprazent! How do you say 'ratio' in German?)
While watching the dance floor, Bernie introduces me to a woman he's been filming. Bernie has been interviewing Karate 'fans' for his upcoming DVD (that he may or may not ever finish. Just kidding, Bernzie). This young woman tells me that my drumming has saved her life--a number of times!! I sheepishly thank her for listening and though I'm curious for details-for her to expound on this claim-I don't press her because she seems so serious. Later on, as the evening winds down, Bernie shows me the interview with this same woman and I'm floored by her honesty and....lack of fear. She shows no compunction about revealing to Bernie's camera what seem like very deep, genuine feelings of love and gratitude for our our silly little rock band and my drumming in particular. (It's nice to be singled out every now and again. You know, not being the guy with the guitar and the voice....) It makes me wonder if I would have the guts to tell someone I admired, a complete stranger, how much they mean to me. It's tough to explain here, but it was quite moving and I ended up feeling that either I am doing something right, or that my/Karate's responsibility is greater than we imagine. So if you're reading this, and you probably know who you are, let me thank you again. No, thank YOU.
Braunschweig
Braunschweig, a little town near Hanover, is tonight's show. The venue is a youth center with a quarter-pipe skateboard ramp out in front and a huge field that proves perfect for some long range Frisbee action. The show is under-attended, making it number 3 of under-attended shows at which the promoter ends up unhappy. In this case, the promoter, a really nice guy incidentally, decides to start negotiating with Greet about our fees. Thankfully, I don't have to deal with promoters in this capacity because I'd just be a softy. 'Yeah, sorry about people not coming to the show. Sure, we'll take less money even though we agreed on the price months ago and you were sure 200 people would show up.'
We stay at the promoters house, though he's bummed out
about the show, he lets us use his computer and check out his records. I find
DRI's Dealing With It album, and throw it on the turntable and crank up 'Mad
Man', a song which starts with a recording of one of the band members' father
berating the band for being a bunch of drop-outs who make too much noise in
the basement when he's trying to sleep. It's classic.
We leave his apartment and go in search of coffee. Greet and I find this Italian restaurant, drink a few cappuccinos and head back to the van where we find the others giving us the look that says 'You've found coffee and we have not. It's time for you to share with us the vital information on how to find said beverage'. Farina goes off to find the restaurant and is gone for a half an hour. Bernie and I play Frisbee in the street and wonder what the hell Farina is doing, being gone so long. He finally returns with apologies. What has happened, of course, is that he's opened his mouth to speak Italian in this restaurant and the employees are now pressing him for his life story, and they in turn give theirs. Anyway, it's off to Leipzig
Leipzig
We got lost in downtown Leipzig, just like last year. Same wrong turns and everything. It didn't take an extra two hours and us yelling at each other like last year, but it was pretty ugly. We'd also gotten lost the year before last, so we're three for three in this town.
The venue, Connie Island, is great. It's got a huge stage, great sound system, decent hospitality. What's more, there is ample space for Frisbee outside around the complex of buildings that is Connie Island. Today, however, after being in Europe for over 2.5 weeks with no rain, hardly clouds even, a drizzle has begun to fall and motivation for Frisbee is in short supply. We play anyway, despite the rain and the dog that will not leave us alone. I have to fight it for the Frisbee which now has cracks in it from its teeth. Then tragedy strikes. As I go to stop a low flying Frisbee with my foot, I end up landing on top of it and it shatters into a million pieces. Crap! That's the end of Frisbee fun for this tour. Frisbee has been a time killer and has brought to light how dreadfully out of shape I am. Oh well, I guess it's back to drinking beer instead.
The show itself is great. Three hundred very excited fans and a great on-stage sound. I have one of those shows in which I feel comfortable playing while looking out into the crowd, often right into the eyes of people staring at me and the band. Most days, I just keep my eyes down or at Farina and Goddard standing like statues. But tonight, the crowds enthusiasm is visible--heads bobbing in unison, mouths mouthing words along with Farina. Now if only it wasn't 120 degrees up there.
The show is near perfect, save the PA system emitting an incredible blast of bass heavy noise during the encore. We continue to play, hoping Greet will get it sorted out. She does, but only seconds before we were ready to give up and stop playing. She later informs us that we finished the song without the PA on at all. Apparently, a graphic equalizer blew up.
After we play, I'm hungry for a little socializing with the locals. I meet a few nice folks, one of whom is very proud of his Trabant, a small East German car. He offers to take me for a ride in it, which of course I accept. The Trabant resembles a combination of a VW Bug and a Mini Cooper but without any elements of luxury or fancy design. There was only one model of this car ever made. I, and a few others, pile into the Trabant and start tooling around town. It's sounds like an incredibly loud lawn mower. What's more, my driver has a little routine with the radio that entertains us all. He turns it on to an AM station that has only static, and as the engine of the car revs up, so does the static on the radio, it's 'tone' rising and falling, as if the radio is working as an amplifier for the engine, its speakers in the dash-board facing the occupants. The kids in the back seat are laughing hysterically at this multi-media noise performance. I am too.
Berlin
In Berlin, we played at a club called Magnet, which was supposed
to be bigger than the club Bastard, where we'd done two very hot and crowded
shows in the past years. Both of those shows, which I remember being quite fun,
also stand out in my memory because both shows had audience members who had
to be carried out due to the intense heat in the room caused by lots of bodies
and little or no ventillation. So, as I was hanging out before the show, I was
both amazed and not amazed to see the paramedics arrive to assist someone who
had passed out in this club's over crowded and over heated room during the opening
band.
Dresden
The Star Club in Dresden easily holds 1000 people. Karate does not draw draw these numbers in Dresden (or really anywher, for that matter) so the club always seems empty when we play there. However, despite the lack of a substantial audience, the promoter and staff here seem to be quite the Karate welcoming crew and for this we are grateful. Tonight's gig was no different except that we didn't headline the show. A country band called the Handsome Family was the night's main attraction. They were quite entertaining.
We stayed in the same hotel as years past and it's pretty nice. It's right on the river Elb, and is quiet and comfortable. Unfortunately, we'd have to wake up early to hit the road for Krakow, Poland. Bernie, who has to return to Belgium by bus, will have to wake up at 5 AM. Ouch.
Krakow! Poland
It was with part trepidation and part pure excitement that we set out for Poland. Our trepidation stemmed from the stories of bumpy, Soviet-era highways that would slow even the most intense and efficient of drivers (that's right, ME being one of them!), and from stories of our friend's tour of Poland. Our friends in the band The Sorts, had their van stolen and held for ransom while they played a show in Poland. Apparently, the promoter of the show may have had something to do with it. The band that The Sorts was with, No Means No, also had their van stolen. I should mention that because this story had been told so many times, and Karate had referenced it every time Poland was mentioned, the facts of this event are 'fuzzy' at best. No one really knows the details. Our excitement stemmed from the fact that Poland would be new territory for Karate, and we were told that the folks in Krakow were excited to have us play there.
Stories of rampant crime against American rock bands did not actualize. The stories about Soviet-era roads were true, however. There were very few miles between the border with Germany and Krakow that had smooth pavement. Our van shook with each pothole and seam in the pavement, and every few miles the highway merged to one lane due to construction, at which point we would be stuck behind a slow moving tractor trailer. The highway would periodically give way to streets which passed through the heart of towns along the way: Wroclaw, Gliwice, Katowice. Finally, 8 hours after our departure, we pull into a gas station on the outskirts of Krakow where we fill up on gas and attempt to get in touch with the promoter of the show. Neither endeavor is successful. The promoter does not answer the phone and we as we get back on the highway, our van begins to sputter and cough thick white smoke. We've put unleaded gas in a diesel engine. Either the pumps were mislabeled, or in our fatigue, we simply picked up the wrong pump. (The problem is later solved by adding a full tank of real diesel. Thankfully, we didn't fill the tank to the top with unleaded.) We decide to just head into the center of Krakow....where we get lost when signs to the center simply disappear somewhere along the way. Add another hour and a half to the trip.
Finally, to make a long story short, we meet up with Piotr, the promotor. (Piotr sings in Paprika Korps, a Polish Reggae band.) He directs us to the venue which is a cave-like bar with a nice seating area outside where we have a beer on empty stomachs and try to shake off the last 10 hours of traveling.
The room which we play in is stuffed with people; their body heat heats up the room to what must be at least 100F. The PA has no monitors, much to the delight of Farina. I'm sweating profusely from just setting up the drums, which I had not the time nor space to do so before, or during the opening band. The show is fun for me, nonetheless. While the sound isn't great and I could dehydrate at any time, the crowd is very enthusiastic and this is encouraging. I get the sense that no matter how we play, the crowd will like it. Afterward, Goddard and I sell merchandise (my sweat on your new record: no extra charge) in Bernie's absence. Greet reports, to Farina's complete disbelief, that the room sound was acoustically near-perfect. I don't have a terribly hard time believing it because from where I was sitting, the sound was much better than I would have imagined before playing.
So we hang out for a bit. I talk with a guy from Green Bay, Wisconsin who tells me how cheap it is to live in Krakow, and Magdelena, a Polish friend of Greet and girlfriend of a Swiss guy who will put on a show for us in a few days. She's absolutely lovely and friendly and seems to really care about Karate's well-being. Thanks, Magdelana! She also brings us samples of a Polish vodka that has a long blade of what's called Bison Grass in the bottle. Allegedly, the European Bison (I hadn't heard of that animal either) pisses on this blade of grass and then it's added to the vodka in order to give it it's interesting taste. I'm made aware of this 'fact' well after I've had a few tastes. I'm starting to feel funny at this point. I also talk with a young woman who reminds me of Polish super-model, Paulina Poriskova. She tells me that she like our music and enjoys what she can understand of this-here tour diary. This makes your humble narrator blush a bit. Later, we're put in a cab and whisked away to our little hotel. Something strikes me as quite funny about riding in a Polish cab. Will the cab driver get lost? Does he have wiper blades on the inside of the windshield? Is there some Polack joke that I haven't said yet? Ugh.....I've had too much Bison piss.
Vienna
Getting to Vienna is a pain in the ass. Again, we're forced onto one lane highways and there are long stops at the Polish/Czech border and then again at the Czech/Austrian border. The trip takes 8 hours or so. By the time we arrive, I'm completely agitated and annoyed with just about everything. Plus, I haven't eaten all day and I need a bathroom. We don't have much time for a soundcheck, but it wouldn't make much difference anyway as the acoustics on stage are terrible, much as they are at Chelsea, the club we played at in years past.
The show itself is ok, in that the crowd seems pleased. We're all quite tired and Greet and I both share the view that this tour seems more like a job than past tours which seemed more like an adventure that we happened to get paid for. Thankfully, there is some of the Polish vodka left. Thankfully, the hotel we stay in is huge, as are the rooms, and I get my own. Thankfully, there is a computer in the lobby which I write emails on until 3AM. After the emails, I return to my room. On the way there I hear a strange moaning. It is very windy outside and the moaning is the wind, blowing inside, underneath the rooms' doors and throughout the halls. It's kinda spooky. Reminds me of the hotel in the movie, Barton Fink, or the Shining. I wait for a deluge of blood to come from the elevator.
Munchen
Though I had luxury accomodations, I wake still feeling tired. I go down to the hotel's dining room and eat lots of bread and pastry with a group of middle-aged Austrians. They appear very conservative and there conversation is mere whispering. It's a few hours until our scheduled departure time so I go back to my room to watch TV and take a shower.
The drive to Munich is much smoother (figuratively and literally) than the previous day's treks through Eastern Europe. We arrive early at Kafe Kult, which is located near a park. Today is May 1st and there is May Day festival going on in the park. Everyone is in Leiderhosen (I don't know how to spell that) and eating sausage. Real live Bavarians!! I join them in comsumption of their dubious meat products.
The show is good, in that there are noticeably many more people this year than last year. That's a first for this tour. Our friends from Wasserburg, a beautiful little town to the east of Munich, are there. We drive 40 minutes with them to their apartment after the show. On the way, we rehash past Karate shows in Wasserburg, which were a lot of fun.
Switzerland
We played two shows in Switzerland. The first in Baden, near Zurich and not far from Munich. Of course, the drive takes what seems like far too long considering the distance. Again, after having sat in traffic for an hour about a half-mile from our destination, I arrive completely tired and irritated. The only thing that's able to get me out of my funk is a salad. Yes, a salad that I ate a few hours later was so delicious that I couldn't help but relax and begin to have fun again.
The crowd was probably our largest ever in Switzerland, a country that's never been great for us. Though the crowd is big, they seem to be the most reserved human beings on the planet. They stare at us blankly (or maybe it was in awe. ha!) while we play. It's a little disconcerting.
Our second show is in Yverdon. The drive is lovely today as the highways are large and virtually empty, the distance is short and the weather is beautiful. We stop at a rest stop, one we'd been to before, which is the only one I know that features a McDonald's hotel. Can you imagine staying in one of these hotels for the night? McDonald's colored yellow and red rooms, everything is plastic and styrofoam, and instead of shampoo, they provide 'special sauce'. Yikes! Anyway, the club in Yverdon is quite nice as are those that work there.
In the downtime between soundcheck and dinner, Karate sits down for one of our yearly 'talks'. It's an airing of grievances and personal concerns--with each other, with our music, with various logistical quagmires that we're always involved in. At this meeting, we decide, due to fatigue, that we won't go to Italy in July for shows. We're starting to feel like we're simply going through the motions with our music. We also decide that rather than do shows in Italy 'for the money' ,we should cancel the shows for the sake of the longevity of our band and its music. I won't go into further details of this meeting. The details are Top Secret.
I will say that everyone we met in Switzerland was incredibly nice and helpful. Thank you. Farina suspects what he calls a 'nice contest'. Everyone was hospitable, though still no one could tell me why the abbreviation for Switzerland is 'Ch'.
Trier, Germany
Our second to last show is in Trier, Germany, as small town on the German-Luxembourg border. I believe it's also the birthplace of Karl Marx. I could be wrong. The drive was long and we arrive tired and hungry. That's nothing new I suppose, but after about a month, I'm starting to feel a fatigue that doesn't go away after a night's sleep. Bernie has rejoined us after having attended to some business in Belgium for a few days.
The show is fun, but I'm actually looking forward to tomorrow night's show in Leuven, Belgium, our sort of 'home base' for this tour. After tonight's show, which is in a youth center that has both indoor and outdoor basketball courts, I play a fierce game of two on two basketball. Greet is on my team and we're playing two Germans who have no concept of basketball rules. I quickly figure this out when one of the guys tries to tackle me. I shake him off and hit a sweet fall-away jump shot. After running around like crazy, I hit the showers, totally high on endorphines.
Honey, I need your Leuven
Back to Leuven, where I hung out with friends before the tour. It feels like only yesterday I was here but feels like a year ago at the same time. We play at Stuk, a bar/cultural center in this university town. Some of our friends work here, and they treat us very well. The sandwiches in the backstage were really good, as was the wine, which I've had too much of by the time we hit the stage, in front of a very mild mannered audience of 300. Couple that with the fact that I'm really nervous because there will be a number of friends here in the audience, and I can barely play the set. I can't help but feel a sense of anti-climax during the set. During the last song, my cymbal stands start falling over.
Afterward, I'm told by some friends who saw earlier Belgian shows, that this one was the best, proving my theory that the less fun I have while playing, the better we play.
In the dressing room, an hour or so after we've finished, Greet is handing out money. She's crunched every number, acounted for every cent, and payed all who need to be paid. This final settling up of finances is a comedy of counting stacks of currency, checking and questioning each others numbers, and trying to figure out who will exchange what when we get back to the States. I'm so tired I can barely count my stack.
Afterward, Farina heads to Bernie's house to sleep. He leaves Belgium for Italy tomorrow. I'll stay on in Leuven another day with Goddard. We say goodbye to Farina and head to the bar. Tour is over.
Last day
I'm exhuasted today. I feel like a zombie. Too much driving, too much partying, too little sleep. I could use some clean socks, too.
I spend the day with Goddard, Els and Karen, sitting around in cafes and bars, just hanging out. At one point, we head to the club where we played last night and gather our equipment. Most if it is owned by Greet, whose come to pick it up. We load up her van, shore up our personal items, and say goodbye to her. It's sad to see her go. I don't know when I'll see her again.
In fact, I don't know when I'll see Europe in this way again, either. Karate has no future plans to tour there again. Granted, we've done it many times now, but I'm always called back. The clubs, the weird rest stops, the squats, the languages, the funny shaped toilets....I'll miss all the little things. More so though, I'll miss all the gracious people that we met and came to the shows this year. Thank you.
And I'll miss my friends most of all.