The first gig Bad Fortune played was a complete disaster. – Well, that’s not entirely correct. The music was good, and I think all 2 enjoyed it. That being me, and the bartender. Also, the second gig they had booked got cancelled that night. The older guard took this quite hard, and dead tired they packed up the instruments and everyone headed back to the apartment. In the event of the failed musicianship and the overconsumption, we were told that the drinking games had to stop, and that we were ruining the trip by acting like complete monkeys. All which was right on the money. Unfortunately by saying so, and demanding changes, it helped increase the gap between the two cliques.

http://65.media.tumblr.com/4b27e020e56f7623e9c7296867d08de6/tumblr_inline_n8dhk60Ntq1scky9l.jpg
(Bowie in the bar after the botched gig.)


Thankfully, the situation improved the next day, thanks to our first joint night out in an attempt to bury whatever animosity there was between us. For a brief moment all seemed right with the group. On top of that, they met several interesting local figures ready to help us. Which accumulated in them getting booked for a show in the outskirts of Berlin. Little-John got shit-faced, Bowie had an acapella concert for scared passengers on the subway, and Kean Hangover drank mead from a horn. We had gone from rock bottom to getting back on track. All within the span of a day.

http://65.media.tumblr.com/eaf48bbaff11ba252f7fe6707c421df3/tumblr_inline_n8dhpcm8E91scky9l.jpg
(Bowie and Little John singing/Aspen pole-dancing on the subway train.)


I wish I could say that the morning after was filled with remorse and a splitting hangover. But the fact was, at that time I had been drinking non-stop watery Slots beer, and the body had acclimatised to the constant buzz. We spent the morning sightseeing and checking out the local thrift-store before getting ready for the big gig. When we jumped into the Shitmobile, tensions were solid. No one was looking for a repeat of the last show.

This venue was in the rural areas of the city, and with my limited geographical knowledge of Germany, and the fact I was hopped up on Slots, it could have been on fucking Pluto for all i know. When we finally did get there, it had been dark for quite some time. I would like to say I crossed my fingers, but with the music blaring, and the sound of people having a great time, I really didn’t have to. A sigh of relief was audible throughout the Shitmobile. In the end, the dream had come true.

Bad Fortune played trough the night and the people loved them for it. In my mind it stands as a testimony of a time before we all knew everything about everyone. It still holds a certain nostalgic mystique to me. They were the Sex-Pistols playing for a crowd of 200 in a rusty basement. They were that night you went to CBGB’s and saw Joey Ramone standing in the corner. It wasn’t filmed with some shitty iPhone camera. It wasn’t tweeted, nor linked, nor liked, nor shared. And all that remains of that show are memories and the few photos I took. It is myth to be precise. I guess it’s childish revisionism that myths are made of.

http://66.media.tumblr.com/9847be9ef5ed1eccfa1108e26f43f7f3/tumblr_inline_n8ea600K7z1scky9l.jpg
(Aspen and Amadeus on stage.)


Eventually, the morning of departure came. The glory of that great gig was still fresh, but underlining it was the bitter realisation that the tour had been a total failure. Kean took it the hardest and the old guard let him be to his. Bad Fortune had gone to Germany to make a name for themselves. To perform great shows and rock the city. They had ended up playing 2 gigs, and one of them had been a glorified soundcheck. Before we left, Kean took me aside and we had a heart to heart. He was pretty somber, and explained to me that I had been corrupting the young members of his band. That he regretted asking me on the trip. I don’t believe it came from a place of anger or hate, and surprisingly it didn’t sting that much. –Though I do remember it well. But, hey, don’t worry kids! It get’s worse, a lot worse.

This is the part of the story where we loose the next gear on the automatic transmission. With Berlin behind us – or the city of I’ll- crush-your-dreams! As I like to call it – we were back on the road. And, again the gears started acting up. This meant that the Shitmobile couldn’t get up to enough speed necessary for the Autobahn. Leaving us the smaller roads. This actually turned out to be kind of a cool thing, as we got to see a lot of the beautiful German nature. I felt sorry for the boys and the repair bill they would later receive. But after seeing miles and miles of highway, and the all too touristy Berlin, it was an absolute delight. Bright yellow trees as far as the eyes could see. Valleys filled with mist. Germany can be a breathtaking place.



Anyways, we drove trough the night until yet another gear went fuckadido. Leaving us at a rather pathetic snail pace. Distraught, we took refuge at a local McDonalds. (The story comes full circle!)
The guys were spent. On the breaking point. An empty fast-food joint at the edge of space. Kean just kind of sat there in the corner staring into the air. I did the only thing i knew, and grabbed a seat next to him. it’s hard to tell what he might have been feeling. But fuck it, I’m gonna hobby shrink the shit out of this. I once saw this stand-up comedian doing a bit that struck true: That we’ve all been told by our teachers we could be anything we want to be, and that’s a lie. It’s the scam of the generation. What do you think all those kids brought up on MTV and Hollywood would want to be? Astronauts? Doctors? They wanted to be rockstars and movie actors. Open mic night for everyone! Well guess what? You haven’t got shit to say. You’re not talented enough. The lottery ticket didn’t have your name one it. He knew it, I could see it in his eyes. I saw the very second that a grown man gave up on his dreams, and I probably pushed him to it. Like putting a dying dog to rest, I told him: 'Not all men are created for greatness. We do the best we can with what we have. We make a place for ourselves. A person to hold our hand. A green patch of grass, and a place to call our own.' I might have been telling myself as much as him. Time to grow up.

We got in the Shitmobile and snailed our way off into the night.



'Wake up.' Someone whispered to me. My legs cramped up, and I’d been sleeping with my head against the window again. 'The car broke down.' Someone mournfully said. I watched my breath condensate in the air. How long had we’ve been stuck? 'The last gear is fucked.' Aspen muttered. The next logical move was to call someone. This was pre smart-phone era and so this was a bit easier said than done. First, they had to call the local guys back in Berlin to get a couple of numbers. – That part went off without a hitch. Then, they had to call the help-desks. Do you know how many 24-hour help-desks in Germany who speak English? No one, and I mean no one. On top of that, we had no clue where we were.
It was freezing, and the atmosphere was dense and depressing. I peered out into the winter scenery, pondering where we might be. Could this have been the site of a battle? Had soldiers marched these fields cold, alone, and starving? Would we be sitting here 'till the morning? And at what point does a quirky situation turn into a real emergency? is it an awkward transition like the one I was watching unfold?

Eventually, Kean and Little John, by some means of divine intervention got a hold of the address and an English speaking voice on the phone. After waiting a couple hours more, a giant truck showed up and gave us a much needed lift. The driver looked like Mario’s evil twin, and he charged like him too.

http://67.media.tumblr.com/07426e7f36998bca1a91cd9a9b579d6e/tumblr_inline_n8thtsZHSD1scky9l.jpg
(Wario to the rescue.)


We entered a city of – lets just call it Fucktown, I really can’t be bothered. Fucktown was right next to Fuckbay City, and by right next to, I mean really far away. Kean got to an ATM and paid gangster Wario his shitload of money. Money we all would have to pay him back for. Then we booked into Fucktown Motel; broke, cold, and tired.

http://67.media.tumblr.com/c6a0e9239c3461171e30947cbe437faf/tumblr_inline_n8djikt4Y71scky9l.jpg
(Counting coins in the motel room.)


The next day was the scavenge hunt of the century to get the Shitmobile repaired. A quest that proved pretty fruitless, save for the small feat of regaining the first gear and reverse. As the hours ticked by, we decided our best chance was to gamble and drive towards Fuckbay City. There we could board a ferry to Sweden, and from Sweden, home.

http://67.media.tumblr.com/7262e697c34f2b01012a8ada717f93be/tumblr_inline_n8thufDLn41scky9l.jpg
(Bowie and some mechanics trying to patch up the transmission.)


Bla, bla, bla. Fast forward to the night. Scenery: the terminal. The first gear had gone kaputt again – Raus, raus! Schnel! jawohl, Kommandant!. The good news was that we had reached our safe haven: Fuckbay City. The bad news was that the car was broken yet again, leaving us to spend the night in the terminal.

http://65.media.tumblr.com/09db2631b54cd20d19ec71331f974f03/tumblr_inline_n8eb38mJYV1scky9l.jpg
(Bowie sleeping in the terminal.)


The accomplishment of getting the Shitmobile onto the ship was rather astonishing. Aspen, somehow managed to reverse a fully loaded van up a two-story ramp, around a 90° angle turn, and then onto the ferry. Then and there, It would’ve been a relief if he had driven us all straight off into the bottomless sea. Regardless, we were on board at last. Now, not only broke, but also in debt. Motels we weren’t supposed to stay at, truck towing gangsters, extra gas money, etc. On top of that, the van would sooner or later, have to be repaired. (Luckily, I stayed out of that one.) Reality had hit, and hit hard. The broke rockstars were on their way home.

Reversing onto the docks in Sweden proved to be a lot less difficult. There were no quirky angles, and no steep points. Aspen could just hit reverse, and as the last car in, he was the first car out. Finally in Sweden, we found Bowie’s parents waiting for us, each with their respective cars. Someone had been smart enough to call for some much needed back-up, once it was apparent that the Shitmobile was reversing into an early grave. Ready to pick us up, Kean dumped the van at a nearby mechanic – one who committed suicide two weeks later. The curse of the Shitmobile! – and we all drove home. 6 hours later, I walked in my front door, and collapsed on my bed. I might have cried, honestly I can’t remember. I should have cried.

http://66.media.tumblr.com/f5ef7560a397ce83a742cce74cc5b830/tumblr_inline_n8ebx02EWv1scky9l.jpg
(Odd-Even, Diane, and Kean on the boat home.)


I guess this is the point where I tell you the moral of this story. The truth Is, I don’t have any. If I stretch it, I would say we’re all just people hanging on, trying to get trough life, and often you’ll have something to say, but no one to say it to. Maybe the greatest comedian was a Chinese fellow who performed for 2 years in China until he gave it up because people didn’t understand stand-up. Maybe the greatest director never had any friends who wanted to act in his movies. I would like to think something to that effect applies to Bad Fortune. The right guys at the wrong time. A '98 Cali band stuck in '08 Germany. A crowd ready for something else. I do genuinely believe that their albums were amazing, and that they had something unique. That they could have been someone. But, then again, as Kirsty said, so could anyone. Bad Fortune never played another show, nor did they record another song. I kept in contact with Aspen, and he gave up playing guitar completely. He founded and now owns a successful PR company aimed towards apps and the internet. I hear he’s doing well. Odd-Even was the first to quit the band after the trip. He’s now a farmer and posts picture of mostly chopped wood on his Instagram. I never heard from Little John again, but the rumours are that he gave up on becoming a priest. Amadeus, I believe, is still in his white collar job, although higher up on the ladder. Kean Hungover, the machine behind it all, gave up on his band as it imploded a few months after the tour. He grew up, had a baby, and opened up a small and successful music store. – His wife a hair saloon. They moved into a new and big house close to town. With a green patch of grass. A place they could raise a family, and a place they could call their own. Oh, and Bowie? He rents their basement. I’ll grab a can of Slots now, and raise a quiet toast for punk, myth, and days long gone by.

And hey, if you’re heading for Berlin,
take a flight.

Over it.

http://67.media.tumblr.com/5266bb5b6138fec6f10cf32dd68900b1/tumblr_inline_n8ecpkfkF41scky9l.jpg