Heisann, slenger ut en reiseskildring jeg skrev for et år siden fra Tysklandtur 2008. Er på Engelsk og litt langt. Håper det går greit for modsa.
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He tells me that I’m the cause of all the tension within the group. The harsh neon light emphasising every worried line on his face. I glance down at my watch and the time says 3 a.m. It’s middle of the night, middle of nowhere, middle of Germany, and we’re all hunkered down in a local McDonald’s restaurant. “All” being 8 tired punks; The irony is not lost on me. ‘Look’, I say, and I go on explaining to him that not all bands are made to break trough, and not all of us were meant to be rockstars. In hindsight, probably not the best thing to say. But then and there I was broke, hungover, and I just wanted to go home.
Okay, lets flashback to the first day of the trip. (See what I did there? I’m a writer!) The band Bad Fortune had asked me to accompany them on their Germany tour. Mostly as a photographer, but also 'cause I’m a fun guy to hang out with. At that time I was only 22, and the prospect of getting a taste of real punk and the tour-life I had heard so much of, seemed like the ideal way to waste a week. Mind you, this was years ago, and I have since had my share of the tour life – Which, if you must know, smells of old farts and potato chips – and the punk scene – Which taste like crusty leather shoes and limp hamburgers. Bad Fortune was coming off of their new album – And what was to be their last – and had for the occasion purchased a new tour van. (When I say new, I mean old.) This piece of shit was a 8-seater, Ford something-something, auto-transmission, fuck-ton of a mutated A-Team mobile. The maximum you’re allowed to operate without having to acquire the special driver’s license for heavy machinery or something. That last part might’ve been be a lie.
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(The tour van from here on out referred to as “the Shitmobile.”)
So, on a cold March morning, as “The Shitmobile” drove up to my mom’s house. I hugged my family goodbye and then I squeezed my medium fat ass into the empty seat among the spikes and nails. All of whom I had previously made acquaintance with. Here, I’ll introduce you to them: (Cue the Guy Ritchie cuts.)
Kean Hungover: The founder of the band. Writer, lead-vocalist, lead-guitarist, and the machine behind it all.
Diane: His lovely punk wife.
Bowie: Bass. He’ll remind you of Silent Bob. That is, if Silent Bob fell down a tall grumpy tree with lots of branches.
Aspen: Second-guitarist. Young, sharp sense of humour, and like me, just along for the ride.
Odd-Even: The youngest, and arguably borderline retarded drummer. He was only 18, and looking back at it I can say he was probably just immature and nervous about playing with the big boys… But during that week in March, he was a god damn nut-job.
Amadeus: The straight-cut keyboardist. Polite, well-mannered, and acted like he had a white collar career he was proud of. (Which, was most likely the case.)
And last, but not least:
Little John: A bear of a man. Long dreads and a big ass beard. If this Millennium Falcon had a Chewbacca, this motherfucker would be it. Little John always seemed to shy away from conflicts or taking sides. Which is why I was not shocked when I heard he was studying to become a priest.
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(Kean Hungover)
The old diesel engine fired up – huffing and puffing – and we began our little adventure south. Instruments, equipments, and the lot up to our knees. The first checkpoint on our trip was the ship that would be taking us to the shores of Denmark. Kean Hungover had wisely ordered all the tickets and cabins in advance. He had also promised us a pretty nice and spacious apartment once we got to Berlin. Bad Fortune was never a “big” band, so the realistic number of 3 gigs had been booked, – again, by Kean – all in small to medium sized venues. Bars, and such. The first tour party started out pretty fast as we found the onboard bar and preceded to drink ourselves silly. Hopes were high, morale good. A voice sparked trough the monitors as the local polish band started playing. A female singer. Her accent was rather horrible, and the band played throughout the night.
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(During that night, Aspen, Odd-Even, and I broke into the onboard ice-cream store. Aspen was caught and fined.)
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(Little John asleep on the cabin floor with a bottle of rum.)
'You must'n fall asleep.' The voice said. I awoke and stared out the fast moving countryside of the Autobahn. My left cheek plastered across the window. 'You must'n fall asleep' The voice repeated. It was Odd-Even, the retarded drummer. His evil little grin underlining the ways he would try to get on my nerves. 'Jesus Christ,’ I thought 'I need a beer.’ It was of course at that exact moment that the hood of the car decided to pop up and land on the window, blocking the view, on the Autobahn, while we were doing 55 MPH. I panicked and screamed out. 'Woooaw!' Everyone else looked at me. Kean Hungover gently pulled the Shitmobile over on the side of the road. 'Did you see that?!' I lost my shit, 'We could have died!' the older guys rolled their eyes. They had zero tolerance for making a scene. 'Jesus’, I thought to myself as Bowie duck-taped the hood back on to the car. 'I could really go for a drink’…
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(Parked on the side of the Autobahn, fixing the hood.)
Which is why it was such a lifesaver when we stopped by a giant supermarket situated just outside of Berlin for some refreshments. This meant buying 4 cases of beer. I bought one, Aspen bought one, and Odd-Even bought one. The last case went to the older guard: Kean, Bowie, Little John, and Amadeus. It was already clear at that point that two cliques were emerging: The younger guys ready for a crazy holiday, and the older, more serious musicians out to make a living. The transmission on the Shitmobile had also started acting up, and as a result we lost the ability to use the 5th gear. it was an omen of things to come. (Spoiler! We would lose all but the ability to reverse.)
As we entered the apartment we had rented, the cliques had been cemented. (Wow, that rhymed!) The young guns would take the kitchen. Bowie and Little John would share the living-room. Kean Hungover and his wife, the master bedroom. And Amadeus, not surprisingly, slept at the nearby hotel. We unpacked and the older guard put on Blues Brothers in the living-room. Me and Aspen had been chatting for most of the trip, and he seemed like a cool guy to hang out with. Like me, he seemed to be have gone on the trip for the joy of traveling somewhere new. We popped our first cans of Slots beer, and it was the start of a beautiful friendship. (Oh, and Odd-Even, the retarded drummer, was there too.) No need to go watch Blues Brothers. We were in Berlin! The capital of Europe! The site were empires had risen and crumbled! We drank the whole case in our room that night…
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(Aspen, and Odd-Even getting drunk.)
Slots, Odd-Even declared, was by far the easiest beer to drink. It was an almost clear liquid, rich in alcohol, but devoid of taste. The perfect beer for 3 guys looking to drink away a whole week. 12 cans in and everyone were best-friends. To keep the party going we devised a drinking game. The rules were as simple as they were dumb: First. The 3, together, had to consume a case of beer everyday. If anyone failed to do so, the other 2 would have to be there to pick up the slack. Second: Odd-Even hadn’t changed his stinky socks the entire trip, so in a drunken haze he was promptly forbidden to take them off, for the remainder of the trip! Third: Aspen could not take a shit – go figure. And last: I, I was denied to shave. The fact that I got to grow my beard out, and that they actually thought it was a punishment, is beyond me. (Look, we were pretty drunk.)
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(Aspen, and Odd-Even fixing his smelly feet.)
Okay, so this is where things start to get a little hazy. The chronology of the rest of the trip is kind of a big blur. So I apologise in advance for the scene to scene detailing.
At some point Aspen decided to climb a scaffolding whiles drunk. This plan was carried out by simply strolling into a construction site in the middle of the day and then climbing the building like some alcoholic Spider-Man. The construction workers dumbfounded by the event gazed on in amazement. I laughed, Odd-Even was scared.
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(Odd-Even worriedly watching Aspen.)
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(A random shot of Odd-Even later that night.)
PART 1/2