It’s the 3 in the morning. There’s crust in our eyes and whiskey in our blood. We stumble out of the van towards the service station paninis. Merch and backline are sprawled out over the parking lot, and I'm not sure if we should perk up, or continue in our half-dazed states.
Up until this point, we'd been anticipating this very moment: the tour bus. Mouths drop like white gifts from a seagull-filled sky. The shuttle door opens and shit, it’s Mr. Steve (along with our new Sound Guy Dominic). Mr. Steve keeps a tight ship, and for two weeks, we’re going to be his sailor bitches. He’s been doing this 17+ years, although that’s just some number I made up. We spend an hour arranging, and rearranging the gear. Somewhere in there Jared realizes it's cold, and realizes he can't find his jacket. The theory: it went missing at The Great Escape. Unfortunately, in addition to an almost-empty pack of cigs, and maybe a wallet, he also left his passport in his blazer. Hopefully it's not an omen.
We have to truck on. After checking out our spacious tour-mobile, we pass out in our individual bunks. I made sure I had a top bunk. I’m a topper.
It's bright out and there's a mist in our lungs. We wake up in Amsterdam and a parked cop car is blocking the bus. Cursing, spitting, none of these happen as we make it to the front of the venue. Laundry. We need to do laundry. Caféshop. Me and Jared need to do caféshop.
Our search for hashy mind expansion finds us in a bar, complete with laughing sycophants. There are numerous vaporizers there; 8 of them in fact. So we read the instructions, which are just pictures that explain why we can’t work the vaporizers. Ten minutes later and we realize we need a pipe from the bar. The bartender calls us dumb American motherfuckers under her breath. But coming from a Dutch-Jamaican woman, it sounds arousingly charming.
Screw it. We roll a spliff downstairs and walk back. All Jared wants to do is not puke. All I want to do is shrooms, which are impossible to obtain these days. What the hell am I doing walking around Amsterdam then?
While my threads soak in the venue's laundry room, Cole and Jared leave to chill with Deerhunter. The venue Paradiso is just up the road, so me and Martin take off not long after. Moses and Lockett greet us at the cathedral entrance, and we follow a red line on the floor towards the backstage. Bradford and Josh are smoking mid-grade Euro cigs, while laughs and half-filled glasses of Maker’s Mark light up the room. We leave Deerhunter to their vocal exercises, which always end in a big group hug.
About an hour later, Bradford comes by our venue to enjoy some entrecote, merlot, and a much-deserved helping of merch. That’s when I hear the first band play Dead Moon/The Lollipop Shoppe’s ‘You Must Be a Witch’, which is now part of the BL’s setlist. And of course, the Black Lips had to play it. Again, I couldn't check out the show since merch was outside. At least I had cups of Jameson lined up.
With handfuls of burning hash and cigs, we head to Paradiso to meet back up with Deerhunter. It takes us twenty minutes to check out the discotheque; it was covered in suck. And of course, they split early.
Back on the bus, we enjoy competitive Tetris when I need a toke break. I stumble through a gauntlet of Caucasian-American legs, and stumble out of the bus. Outside, I run into the band that played on the other side of the venue; it’s New Found Glory. New Found Fucking Glory. Yea, I knew they were playing. I could even hear them playing from merch. But to actually see these dudes at 4AM, outside our bus, asking me if I wanna smoke? No way could I say no.
And I gotta say, they’re pretty nice guys.
Monday, September 7, 2009
05.26.09: London @ Electric Ballroom
It’s like the end of summer camp. You say goodbye to the bunkmates that you puked and did drugs with. It gets sentimental. Your heart swells to the size of a basketball, and you lose feeling in your left side. It’s our last day with Mika Miko, Gringo Star, and Sound Guy Martin Smitty. The guys go for some Vietnamese up the road, as a gaggle of girls dressed in denim arrive. Nat and Taka are at the forefront, of course. Not one to be leftout of uniformed endeavors, I find an over-sized denim shirt in our pile of free shwag, and I'm in.
During the show, the stage tech can't get the lights working properly; it takes about half the set to get it right. In retaliation, the crowd throws shoes towards the stage and fists towards each other. Ian can't stop breaking strings. It's before the encore and Joe goes missing. Arms and legs are flailing backstage.
It’s sweaty denim chaos outside when we load up, so we take a gang picture. All of the Americans are looking for trouble, so we head over to this former horse stable of a bar. It’s massive and 8 rooms long. Someone sneaks in the Jameson, and I play my best game of 8 ball. Cole goes missing. Liam Gallagher shows up, but I was blinded by the lack of lighting. The tunes were choice. Smitty’s girl picks up our sound man, while Nick GS kisses me goodbye. Mika Miko dog pile us, and I can't recall how the hell we got back to the van.
Probably drunk.
During the show, the stage tech can't get the lights working properly; it takes about half the set to get it right. In retaliation, the crowd throws shoes towards the stage and fists towards each other. Ian can't stop breaking strings. It's before the encore and Joe goes missing. Arms and legs are flailing backstage.
It’s sweaty denim chaos outside when we load up, so we take a gang picture. All of the Americans are looking for trouble, so we head over to this former horse stable of a bar. It’s massive and 8 rooms long. Someone sneaks in the Jameson, and I play my best game of 8 ball. Cole goes missing. Liam Gallagher shows up, but I was blinded by the lack of lighting. The tunes were choice. Smitty’s girl picks up our sound man, while Nick GS kisses me goodbye. Mika Miko dog pile us, and I can't recall how the hell we got back to the van.
Probably drunk.
05.25.09: UK Day Off
Seriously, we need to do some laundry. Cole’s been goin commando (sans underwear), and Jared’s shirts are covered in a thick grimy layer. Arwen and Natsumi meet us at the City Hotel. Everyone is waiting in the car for me, and I can’t seem to get back into my room to put away my groceries/beer. No matter how many times I visit reception for a key, they can't get it right. We're damn late, they're damn pissed, and I finally get the right damn key. Twenty minutes later, I get downstairs and hop into a car full of volatile people. I cower my head in the leather car interior.
We get to Diesel Radio, where Cole and Jared have a DJ session. After climbing to the grueling 6th floor, we find the Montreal outfit Dutchess Says live in front of a studio audience. In a sporadic moment of noisy fury, the singer hands me the mic and I do my best banshee wail. We get fitted for jeans, which are two sizes too big and 5 sizes too long. I'm still waiting for mine to arrive in the mail.
Cole and Jared takeover the airwaves, playing the best unknown Brazilian punk and Gospel hits around. Meanwhile, the front lounge/showroom is an entire wreck. Bits of wine bottles and crisps mash into confetti pulp on the floor. Wine puddles are everywhere. Natsumi and Taka start smoking cigarettes inside, and everyone follows suit. We order massive quantities of rectangular pizza. I can’t even describe what they resemble. Still, not half bad.
Later, someone orders sambuca at some random bar, which pretty much knocks us all out. Me and Nat share a moment with a random stranger on our way back to the hotel. Inside, many components of our gang congregate in our room. Smoke rolls out the 3rd story window as we watch BBC, nodding our head in repulsive disgust. The refrigerator Strongbow flows like water, and spliffs sound like a great idea.
Spliffs: it's what's for dinner.
We get to Diesel Radio, where Cole and Jared have a DJ session. After climbing to the grueling 6th floor, we find the Montreal outfit Dutchess Says live in front of a studio audience. In a sporadic moment of noisy fury, the singer hands me the mic and I do my best banshee wail. We get fitted for jeans, which are two sizes too big and 5 sizes too long. I'm still waiting for mine to arrive in the mail.
Cole and Jared takeover the airwaves, playing the best unknown Brazilian punk and Gospel hits around. Meanwhile, the front lounge/showroom is an entire wreck. Bits of wine bottles and crisps mash into confetti pulp on the floor. Wine puddles are everywhere. Natsumi and Taka start smoking cigarettes inside, and everyone follows suit. We order massive quantities of rectangular pizza. I can’t even describe what they resemble. Still, not half bad.
Later, someone orders sambuca at some random bar, which pretty much knocks us all out. Me and Nat share a moment with a random stranger on our way back to the hotel. Inside, many components of our gang congregate in our room. Smoke rolls out the 3rd story window as we watch BBC, nodding our head in repulsive disgust. The refrigerator Strongbow flows like water, and spliffs sound like a great idea.
Spliffs: it's what's for dinner.
05.24.09: Academy 3 @ Manchester
We load in to Academy 3, which is a 3-tiered venue inside of an elementary school. MM’s TM Matt uses the boys' room piss trough, and a cockroach crawls out from the drain. Everyone herds into the vinyl conference room where various members eat, sleep, steal wi-fi, or dream about any of the aforementioned. I get jealous of MM’s Chinese food, and I begrudgingly hack at the mountain of crisps in the corner.
With no room inside the venue, merch is setup outside. If only there was a newspaper, a game of Scrabble, ANYTHING to look at besides an empty flight of stairs to a lonely landscape. Me and TM Matt discuss our post-tour exercise regime, and in writing this, I realize I did not follow through. Regret.
We finish packing up. And of course, Cole’s guitar goes missing. It was right up on stage, and someone snagged it. He flips out. I do a triple check backstage, and snag some beers along the way. Ok, so one of those guitars was Bradford’s from Deerhunter. The other is his baby, a 1983 Squier Bullet outfitted with pickup from an Epiphone strat. Shit.
In the van ride back, someone starts singing TV party, and for some reason we absolutely MUST figure it out. Passing around the guitar like a lit spliff, the guitar ends up in my hands. Everyone shouts out the chords, and we were all wrong. Meanwhile, we look for the after party bar with the 2 bands. No dice. They left us by ourselves to party. Fortunately, the beers hold up.
With no room inside the venue, merch is setup outside. If only there was a newspaper, a game of Scrabble, ANYTHING to look at besides an empty flight of stairs to a lonely landscape. Me and TM Matt discuss our post-tour exercise regime, and in writing this, I realize I did not follow through. Regret.
We finish packing up. And of course, Cole’s guitar goes missing. It was right up on stage, and someone snagged it. He flips out. I do a triple check backstage, and snag some beers along the way. Ok, so one of those guitars was Bradford’s from Deerhunter. The other is his baby, a 1983 Squier Bullet outfitted with pickup from an Epiphone strat. Shit.
In the van ride back, someone starts singing TV party, and for some reason we absolutely MUST figure it out. Passing around the guitar like a lit spliff, the guitar ends up in my hands. Everyone shouts out the chords, and we were all wrong. Meanwhile, we look for the after party bar with the 2 bands. No dice. They left us by ourselves to party. Fortunately, the beers hold up.
05.23.09: Glasgow @ Classic Grand
We haul our equipment up 15 flights of stairs to the spacious venue. Gringo Star makes van burritos as we celebrate Nick Firguele’s birthday. There’s confusion over what band gets which whiskey. I hit the Jack Daniels way too hard, and skulk the streets in search of camera equipment; everything shuts down at 6. I get back in time to watch Nick Gringo Star get hassled by security. It's a big turnout, but not a big merch night. Perhaps the Scots aren't into my minty fresh breath?
It’s backstage, and my laptop goes missing. My connection to online observation is diminished. Upstairs. Downstairs. Back upstairs; there’s no trace. TM Martin tells me to kiss my bag adios. I thought I saw Miko Miko sift through its contents. I swore that Gringo Star mistook it for one of theirs. This goes on for an hour.
Fortunately, J Brad backhands me and presents my laptop. Technology has a way of becoming your electronic leash.
The crew of GS, MM, and BL's hits Glasgow’s neon bar scene. We stand at the cluttered mess of a line around this club. Nick’s abilities of persuasion get us all in, ahead of the line, without a cover; he’s a mysteriously charming man.
If you call the lost of art of moshing dancing, then yes, we danced. They play Elvis and Dead Kennedys, as Jessie and Cole jump me in a beer-soaked mess. Nick starts dancing, and for whatever reason, some girl slaps him and tosses a full cup of Scotch in his face. We head outside, gasping for air and clarity. The noodle shop beckons us across the street.
The scene inside resembles a 90's soCal hardcore punk show. Chinese cooks scream numbers into a battery-sized microphone, and the crowd crawls over each for duck in black bean sauce. At least that’s what I got. Outside, we aimlessly try to hail down taxis until I get right into the middle of the street, forcing one to suddenly halt. But being gentlemen of a Southern persuasion, we give it to Mika Miko. An hour laterthe streets are still packed, and our arms are lifeless and dangling in the air, waiting for our yellow beam of automobile sunshine.
At 6 am I open the door to my room, and with darkened flaps under my eyes, I behold our domicile. On\ the desk lies one half-eaten burrito-sized haggis. I had to try some, braving E.coli in the process. Instead of the usual Tv set, our room is fitted with a Macs blaring the likes of soft core porn. Jared is passed out with a remote in one hand, and cigs in the other.
It was pretty pimp.
-Kang
It’s backstage, and my laptop goes missing. My connection to online observation is diminished. Upstairs. Downstairs. Back upstairs; there’s no trace. TM Martin tells me to kiss my bag adios. I thought I saw Miko Miko sift through its contents. I swore that Gringo Star mistook it for one of theirs. This goes on for an hour.
Fortunately, J Brad backhands me and presents my laptop. Technology has a way of becoming your electronic leash.
The crew of GS, MM, and BL's hits Glasgow’s neon bar scene. We stand at the cluttered mess of a line around this club. Nick’s abilities of persuasion get us all in, ahead of the line, without a cover; he’s a mysteriously charming man.
If you call the lost of art of moshing dancing, then yes, we danced. They play Elvis and Dead Kennedys, as Jessie and Cole jump me in a beer-soaked mess. Nick starts dancing, and for whatever reason, some girl slaps him and tosses a full cup of Scotch in his face. We head outside, gasping for air and clarity. The noodle shop beckons us across the street.
The scene inside resembles a 90's soCal hardcore punk show. Chinese cooks scream numbers into a battery-sized microphone, and the crowd crawls over each for duck in black bean sauce. At least that’s what I got. Outside, we aimlessly try to hail down taxis until I get right into the middle of the street, forcing one to suddenly halt. But being gentlemen of a Southern persuasion, we give it to Mika Miko. An hour laterthe streets are still packed, and our arms are lifeless and dangling in the air, waiting for our yellow beam of automobile sunshine.
At 6 am I open the door to my room, and with darkened flaps under my eyes, I behold our domicile. On\ the desk lies one half-eaten burrito-sized haggis. I had to try some, braving E.coli in the process. Instead of the usual Tv set, our room is fitted with a Macs blaring the likes of soft core porn. Jared is passed out with a remote in one hand, and cigs in the other.
It was pretty pimp.
-Kang
Saturday, May 30, 2009
05.22.09: Dublin @ Crawdaddy
Before the show me, Cole, and Ian get chewed out by a French-looking Polish waitress. Ian orders a concoction that tastes like Berries and Crème Lifesavers. Why Ian, why?
Two fights break out during the show. Two dudes throw punches like windmills. The gargantuan bodyguard tries to eject one of them, but the 5 foot terror had a lot of fight in him. It takes 3 guys to escort him out. The other guy goes more peaceably. Tons of people take over the stage during Bad Kids. Fortunately, security eased up, and the crowd can't stop cheering.
After the show Ian and Cole try to find Deerhunter. Some of the aforementioned mob take us for a walk, which was more like a hike. After a drunken eternity, me and Joe hit up this party where the tenants were getting evicted. I repeatedly kick a hole in the wall. People were pissed, but later became unpissed. They sang us The Pogues' 'Dirty Old Town' in drunken unison. We instantly score some hash.
The taxi takes us to the wrong O' Callaghan Hotel, of which there are 5. I think it's a deal O' Callaghan makes with the taxis, so tourists will spend twice as much fare to get to the right hotel. Either way we're low on Euros and high on life.
Because you can't live the high life without feelin high.
Two fights break out during the show. Two dudes throw punches like windmills. The gargantuan bodyguard tries to eject one of them, but the 5 foot terror had a lot of fight in him. It takes 3 guys to escort him out. The other guy goes more peaceably. Tons of people take over the stage during Bad Kids. Fortunately, security eased up, and the crowd can't stop cheering.
After the show Ian and Cole try to find Deerhunter. Some of the aforementioned mob take us for a walk, which was more like a hike. After a drunken eternity, me and Joe hit up this party where the tenants were getting evicted. I repeatedly kick a hole in the wall. People were pissed, but later became unpissed. They sang us The Pogues' 'Dirty Old Town' in drunken unison. We instantly score some hash.
The taxi takes us to the wrong O' Callaghan Hotel, of which there are 5. I think it's a deal O' Callaghan makes with the taxis, so tourists will spend twice as much fare to get to the right hotel. Either way we're low on Euros and high on life.
Because you can't live the high life without feelin high.
05.21.09: Liverpool @ Sound City Festival
Jared departs at 8 in the morning to meet up with Dan. Best of luck in court buddy.
Atypically-dressed punks scatter the streets of Liverpool. We coast by The Cavern, famous for Beatles’ recognition. It's a festival of sorts, but for whatever reason, Gringo Star is playing a different stage. Instead, Crystal Antlers fills the American void with their bongo-filled psych rock. I sound check on bass. Jared’s bass is like a pair pants that is pulled up way too high.
Hondo and Dan ATC storm into the club in victorious clamor. With charges dropped, Jared gleefully gulps the hidden Jameson at merch. Rebecca also arrives to shove cider in my face. She was way too drunk. The choice of backstage beer was Tsing Tsao, complete with the peel-back tabs. Strange, but highly downable.
Upon load out the nightlife picks up. We all congregate at Bumper. While the pseudo-metropolitan crowd tries to propagate their species, the Americans take over the right side of the bar. I start smashing the hard plastic cups on the floor, stomping them like light bulbs. They ask me to stop. We start smoking inside. They ask us to stop. Jessie Mika Miko picks me off the floor, only to drop me back down, face first. They ask her to stop. We should have been kicked out at least 5 separate times. Dan and Martin have long since departed.
Me, Cole, and Jared search for hash on the way to the hotel. One driver almost hits Cole; he kicks the driver side with his clunky boots. I meet a Swedish girl who was totally into me. Cole and Jared abruptly drag me away. I guess her boyfriends are the jealous type.
-Kang
Atypically-dressed punks scatter the streets of Liverpool. We coast by The Cavern, famous for Beatles’ recognition. It's a festival of sorts, but for whatever reason, Gringo Star is playing a different stage. Instead, Crystal Antlers fills the American void with their bongo-filled psych rock. I sound check on bass. Jared’s bass is like a pair pants that is pulled up way too high.
Hondo and Dan ATC storm into the club in victorious clamor. With charges dropped, Jared gleefully gulps the hidden Jameson at merch. Rebecca also arrives to shove cider in my face. She was way too drunk. The choice of backstage beer was Tsing Tsao, complete with the peel-back tabs. Strange, but highly downable.
Upon load out the nightlife picks up. We all congregate at Bumper. While the pseudo-metropolitan crowd tries to propagate their species, the Americans take over the right side of the bar. I start smashing the hard plastic cups on the floor, stomping them like light bulbs. They ask me to stop. We start smoking inside. They ask us to stop. Jessie Mika Miko picks me off the floor, only to drop me back down, face first. They ask her to stop. We should have been kicked out at least 5 separate times. Dan and Martin have long since departed.
Me, Cole, and Jared search for hash on the way to the hotel. One driver almost hits Cole; he kicks the driver side with his clunky boots. I meet a Swedish girl who was totally into me. Cole and Jared abruptly drag me away. I guess her boyfriends are the jealous type.
-Kang
05.20.09: TJ’s @ Leeds
We arrive with time to spare. The room looks like a former hotel lobby, with a dining hall perimeter surrounding the dance floor. Times New Viking is also on the bill, who play indie synth-pop sans bass. It’s an all American tour, no matter where we are. A good friend of ours (whose name escapes me) takes us through kilometers of backyards to find some off-beaten Indian fare. Cole orders 'Akmed’s Very Hot, Hot, Hot Indian Curry' (that's the actual name). The waiter laughs condescendingly. Crap.
Dishes arrive, piping hot with cumin and brightly sliced chili peppers. Me and Cole grab spoons. Ian and Joe look on in terror as the aftertaste creates a flashflood of sweat and tears. Yogurt alleviates the situation, and I soak through handfuls of napkins. No one around seems to mind. When they take away our plates, and Cole proudly tells the waiter 'it’s not that hot'. Sure dude; you didn’t even finish half of it.
Back at TJ's, Jared is wasted. He’s concerned about the court date. He stumbles around on stage, putting feet through monitors, and flinging his bass in the air at least 4 times. On the fifth toss, it smacks some fan in the knuckles, leaving a viscous red puddle on stage. They play through it, in it, and with it. It’s beautifully bloody.
While everyone parties, me and J Brad hang back at the hotel, exhausted and inebriated. Nawlins hiphop sets the tone, and we observe the bright hotel lighting system. Sometimes, you just need a break.
-Kang
Dishes arrive, piping hot with cumin and brightly sliced chili peppers. Me and Cole grab spoons. Ian and Joe look on in terror as the aftertaste creates a flashflood of sweat and tears. Yogurt alleviates the situation, and I soak through handfuls of napkins. No one around seems to mind. When they take away our plates, and Cole proudly tells the waiter 'it’s not that hot'. Sure dude; you didn’t even finish half of it.
Back at TJ's, Jared is wasted. He’s concerned about the court date. He stumbles around on stage, putting feet through monitors, and flinging his bass in the air at least 4 times. On the fifth toss, it smacks some fan in the knuckles, leaving a viscous red puddle on stage. They play through it, in it, and with it. It’s beautifully bloody.
While everyone parties, me and J Brad hang back at the hotel, exhausted and inebriated. Nawlins hiphop sets the tone, and we observe the bright hotel lighting system. Sometimes, you just need a break.
-Kang
05.19.09: London Day Off 2
Ok, so today’s my actual birthday, and some proper Korean food is in order.
We hitch a ride on the bus to Chingu, which usually means ‘friend’ in Korean, but today means ‘badass’. The Oriental fare is much like we have at home, except without the abundance of appetizers. Still, no complaints here. Spicy, sizzling plates crowd the table. It’s a nice change from the tour diet of chips and carbs.
Later on Arwen and Chloe ask me to meet up for drinks near Oxford Circus. My phone runs out of minutes. Wondering aimlessly for half an hour, they finally get through. With the right directions, I stop into The Crown Bar, which I previously overlooked. After a generous order of gin and tonics, TM Martin calls me upon arrival; a birthday dinner is in order. We hail a driver and head towards the Columbia.
Tired and weary, the boys suck it up for a walk to a nearby Chinese restaurant. Even after close, they seat all 14 of us. Content and full of MSG, we stumble towards the nearby Moroccan bar that serves up grotesque Sex on the Beaches and melon hookah. I can tell the guys are tired, but they stay up smoking melon hookah for the greater good. In a fury of exhaust and anger, the bar abruptly gives us the 86. We tag the freshly painted fence on the way back to The Colombia.
If you ever check into this place, watch out for Chuckles. Chuckles is this dude at the reception who is a closet nazi. Our crew tries to head upstairs, but he refuses us entry. Chloe gets up in his face and interrogates his disrespectful ass. Minutes later, the internet starts working and the after hours Grolsch arrives. We make a break for it, and spend the night drinkin and spitting off the balcony.
It's good to be 21.
-Kang
We hitch a ride on the bus to Chingu, which usually means ‘friend’ in Korean, but today means ‘badass’. The Oriental fare is much like we have at home, except without the abundance of appetizers. Still, no complaints here. Spicy, sizzling plates crowd the table. It’s a nice change from the tour diet of chips and carbs.
Later on Arwen and Chloe ask me to meet up for drinks near Oxford Circus. My phone runs out of minutes. Wondering aimlessly for half an hour, they finally get through. With the right directions, I stop into The Crown Bar, which I previously overlooked. After a generous order of gin and tonics, TM Martin calls me upon arrival; a birthday dinner is in order. We hail a driver and head towards the Columbia.
Tired and weary, the boys suck it up for a walk to a nearby Chinese restaurant. Even after close, they seat all 14 of us. Content and full of MSG, we stumble towards the nearby Moroccan bar that serves up grotesque Sex on the Beaches and melon hookah. I can tell the guys are tired, but they stay up smoking melon hookah for the greater good. In a fury of exhaust and anger, the bar abruptly gives us the 86. We tag the freshly painted fence on the way back to The Colombia.
If you ever check into this place, watch out for Chuckles. Chuckles is this dude at the reception who is a closet nazi. Our crew tries to head upstairs, but he refuses us entry. Chloe gets up in his face and interrogates his disrespectful ass. Minutes later, the internet starts working and the after hours Grolsch arrives. We make a break for it, and spend the night drinkin and spitting off the balcony.
It's good to be 21.
-Kang
Sunday, May 24, 2009
05.18.09: London Day Off 1
It’s 3:30 in the am, and we gotta hit the airport. It's also my birthday.
With tissues in hand, these six lucky bastards cry me goodbye at Heathrow. I ride the tube toward London on a minimal amount of sleep. Arwen and Chloe buy me breakfast, which is completely drugged. Unconscious, I wake up in the ATC offices, where Dan firmly exercises his power of authority. For hours on end, he pummels me on merch strategics and tactics until I no longer fear death. Then the room fades a slow black.
I awake in The Colombia hotel to the ringing of an overly ecstatic Japenese-Londoner. It’s Natsumi, and we make plans to see Deerhunter at Scala. The phone rings again. Arwen and Chloe want to meet for beers and food beforehand. Why are all these girls fighting for their moment of Kang? There’s just not enough of me to go around, ever.
At King’s Court, the ATC group is eating with Mike Bones, another member of the Vice Records roster. However, as soon as I settle in, Nat and Taka dissuade me from my meal to meet up at Scala. After using up my Oyster card credit, they greet me outside wearing all denim. They are uniformed like the Yakuza.
The place is packed to the balconies. Natsumi grabs me and Taka by the collars, determined to find us a spot at the front of the house. Deerhunter sound great, even with Bradford back on guitar. It's hard to imagine them as a 5-piece. It’s their sound man’s birthday, so they sing him Happy Birthday through various onstage effects pedals. Then Bradford purveys the audience, seeking the Almighty John Kang. I'm onstage. A different, but equally contorted version of Happy Birthday engulfs the room. We head backstage to chill with some more fellow Atlantans. I meet an old London acqaintance for 3 minutes.
With ciders and cigs in hand, we head to Nat’s after the show. I learn them some Atlanta music, much to their chagrin. It’s amazing to see two strangers fascinated with our city of notoriety. It makes my heart swell up like a massive bloodclot.
-Kang
With tissues in hand, these six lucky bastards cry me goodbye at Heathrow. I ride the tube toward London on a minimal amount of sleep. Arwen and Chloe buy me breakfast, which is completely drugged. Unconscious, I wake up in the ATC offices, where Dan firmly exercises his power of authority. For hours on end, he pummels me on merch strategics and tactics until I no longer fear death. Then the room fades a slow black.
I awake in The Colombia hotel to the ringing of an overly ecstatic Japenese-Londoner. It’s Natsumi, and we make plans to see Deerhunter at Scala. The phone rings again. Arwen and Chloe want to meet for beers and food beforehand. Why are all these girls fighting for their moment of Kang? There’s just not enough of me to go around, ever.
At King’s Court, the ATC group is eating with Mike Bones, another member of the Vice Records roster. However, as soon as I settle in, Nat and Taka dissuade me from my meal to meet up at Scala. After using up my Oyster card credit, they greet me outside wearing all denim. They are uniformed like the Yakuza.
The place is packed to the balconies. Natsumi grabs me and Taka by the collars, determined to find us a spot at the front of the house. Deerhunter sound great, even with Bradford back on guitar. It's hard to imagine them as a 5-piece. It’s their sound man’s birthday, so they sing him Happy Birthday through various onstage effects pedals. Then Bradford purveys the audience, seeking the Almighty John Kang. I'm onstage. A different, but equally contorted version of Happy Birthday engulfs the room. We head backstage to chill with some more fellow Atlantans. I meet an old London acqaintance for 3 minutes.
With ciders and cigs in hand, we head to Nat’s after the show. I learn them some Atlanta music, much to their chagrin. It’s amazing to see two strangers fascinated with our city of notoriety. It makes my heart swell up like a massive bloodclot.
-Kang
05.17.09: The Globe @ Cardiff
This woozy Sunday brings us to the Globe. It’s a cool theater type venue, complete with visceral lighting. Tonight I run the oil light from the merch booth. TM Martin finds old clips of CCTV to be played during their set; maybe he was also lookin for footage of Jared . Even though it was Spaghetti-o’s with meat sauce, we had a pretty decent venue-provided lunch.
Gringo Star plays, and sound great as usual. I met some kids who drove 3 hours to see them. About 30 minutes after their set, Mika Miko is nowhere to be found. I head backstage and open the dressing room door; all the bands pack into the broom closet party. Unfortunately I break up the congregation, as Miko Miko is well behind schedule. They flood out of room, knocking over half-opened Red Bulls along the way. At this point, we all reek of whiskey.
During the Black Lips set, Jared stage dives while kids attempt to prop him up. My epileptic light show causes two Mika Miko seizures. After the show, we all order doner kebabs, which seems like a good idea. Two hours later, our stomachs disagree. All the bands go their separate directions, and we head off into the foggy darkness.
Then we discuss my on goings for the next two days. Cannes Film Festival is flying everyone out to play a secret show, crew included. Well, except for me. And all I wanted to do is get shot down by Sophia Coppola. Regardless, we crash at the Travelodge for the next few hours. Me and Cole stay up all night with beers and depressants, talking of Atlanta’s glory days.
-Kang
Gringo Star plays, and sound great as usual. I met some kids who drove 3 hours to see them. About 30 minutes after their set, Mika Miko is nowhere to be found. I head backstage and open the dressing room door; all the bands pack into the broom closet party. Unfortunately I break up the congregation, as Miko Miko is well behind schedule. They flood out of room, knocking over half-opened Red Bulls along the way. At this point, we all reek of whiskey.
During the Black Lips set, Jared stage dives while kids attempt to prop him up. My epileptic light show causes two Mika Miko seizures. After the show, we all order doner kebabs, which seems like a good idea. Two hours later, our stomachs disagree. All the bands go their separate directions, and we head off into the foggy darkness.
Then we discuss my on goings for the next two days. Cannes Film Festival is flying everyone out to play a secret show, crew included. Well, except for me. And all I wanted to do is get shot down by Sophia Coppola. Regardless, we crash at the Travelodge for the next few hours. Me and Cole stay up all night with beers and depressants, talking of Atlanta’s glory days.
-Kang
05.16.09: Rollerpalooza @ Sheffield
We check into a wreck of a hotel named the Harley. The stink clings onto our skin as we chew on veggie burgers (or bangers and mash and burgers), and sneak the free wi-fi. After 15 minutes, my step down converter deteriorates like a melted toy soldier. To avoid the grimy mattress, I blanket out some towels on the bed and crash, becoming jaded about the days of quad skating.
Tonight's show is at a sweet roller rink. Unfortunately, it's got a lot of stairs- 5 to be exact. So, We load our brutish equipment up 5 flights of auditorium stairs, huffing all the way. It's a sad display of human fatigue. The free skates, and an unusual spread of boxti and mayonnaise salad. The cheap wine kicked in. As I was skating, I found an umbrella and did my best impression of Singing in the Rain. The cops started screaming and chasing me for half a lap.
After about 14 bands, and the Black Lips are up. Highlights include Cole puking off the side of the stage, and then some kid stealing his hat. If you find it on ebay, please hit us up. He wants to rep his Pilgrim roots.
We head to the Eurotrash party upstairs. They spin some DeeLite, Smiths, and Violet Femmes. It was me, Jared, and two girls sitting at a table, when some dude tells Jared that he hates the new album, but loves the band. Jared calmly puts down his beer, and gently swipes the chair our from under the guy; it was a glorious display of airborne beers and mixed drinks. Wrong choice of words there buddy.
After hailing down 6 taxis, we end up at Kate’s flat. People mingle in every possible living and non-living space available. Two snotty gents were dry humping on the same couch as me. I tell them where we’re from. They proclaim they hate America. Then why are your women all into us? We’re charmers, not fighters.
-Kang
Tonight's show is at a sweet roller rink. Unfortunately, it's got a lot of stairs- 5 to be exact. So, We load our brutish equipment up 5 flights of auditorium stairs, huffing all the way. It's a sad display of human fatigue. The free skates, and an unusual spread of boxti and mayonnaise salad. The cheap wine kicked in. As I was skating, I found an umbrella and did my best impression of Singing in the Rain. The cops started screaming and chasing me for half a lap.
After about 14 bands, and the Black Lips are up. Highlights include Cole puking off the side of the stage, and then some kid stealing his hat. If you find it on ebay, please hit us up. He wants to rep his Pilgrim roots.
We head to the Eurotrash party upstairs. They spin some DeeLite, Smiths, and Violet Femmes. It was me, Jared, and two girls sitting at a table, when some dude tells Jared that he hates the new album, but loves the band. Jared calmly puts down his beer, and gently swipes the chair our from under the guy; it was a glorious display of airborne beers and mixed drinks. Wrong choice of words there buddy.
After hailing down 6 taxis, we end up at Kate’s flat. People mingle in every possible living and non-living space available. Two snotty gents were dry humping on the same couch as me. I tell them where we’re from. They proclaim they hate America. Then why are your women all into us? We’re charmers, not fighters.
-Kang
05.15.09: Nottingham – Stealth @ Trent University
The green van of destruction pulls up to Gringo Star, the third leg of this tripod of a tour. It’s good to see some our boys from home. We share a few puffs. Cole asks the club for removal of the barriers; the club fails to oblige.
Tormented students flood the stage, flailing their arms in triumphant dischord. Amps unplug, mics disconnect, and lights blur all the while. Of course, security manhandles the kids escaping their finals. Let 'em blow off some steam.
A 5-minute stroll leads us to the Chameleon club, where Mika Miko starts promptly at 3. The crowd surfing blankets the room, and Mika Miko is right at home in the house party vibe. We get our hands on some gin and discuss cops and robbers, while the drizzle fails to soak our drudgey clothes.
Back at the hotel we chill at Jared’s, and all we can talk about is food, or something resembling food. Me and Nick Gringo Star bring back hamburgers, and of course Jared passes the fug out. This isn’t normally a problem, except my bags are in his room. After an hour, Nick still can’t Karate Kid down the door. Aggravated, we storm downstairs and get the manager to ram their way in. I explain that it’s him, and not the room, that smells like resin. He leaves feeling satisfied in a job well done.
I hand Jared the burger the next morning. He said it was like eating a toy.
-Kang
Tormented students flood the stage, flailing their arms in triumphant dischord. Amps unplug, mics disconnect, and lights blur all the while. Of course, security manhandles the kids escaping their finals. Let 'em blow off some steam.
A 5-minute stroll leads us to the Chameleon club, where Mika Miko starts promptly at 3. The crowd surfing blankets the room, and Mika Miko is right at home in the house party vibe. We get our hands on some gin and discuss cops and robbers, while the drizzle fails to soak our drudgey clothes.
Back at the hotel we chill at Jared’s, and all we can talk about is food, or something resembling food. Me and Nick Gringo Star bring back hamburgers, and of course Jared passes the fug out. This isn’t normally a problem, except my bags are in his room. After an hour, Nick still can’t Karate Kid down the door. Aggravated, we storm downstairs and get the manager to ram their way in. I explain that it’s him, and not the room, that smells like resin. He leaves feeling satisfied in a job well done.
I hand Jared the burger the next morning. He said it was like eating a toy.
-Kang
05.14.09: Brighton – The Fly at the Great Escape
Jetlag sets in as I stumble out of Heathrow, towards the van. Tour Manager Martin and Sound Guy Martin/Smitty discuss my presence in angry Czech tones. It sounds pretty awesome. They stop arguing long enough to tell me Jared got arrested. You may ask him what for:
no comment no comment no comment.
Joe Bradley and those other two dudes are lounge chillin'. Outside, we sift through dragon medallions and tongue-numbing paninis. Outside ATC offices, Jared recalls the prison's hors d'ourves: singed bread and murky water. We meet up with Arwen, Dan, and Chloe to discuss birds and bees. This is one talk I've already heard.
The damp forecast fails to deter festivalgoers, and the human centipede line crawls for blocks. After load-in, we invade a photoshoot. Hipsters meander through the pristine guitars, scattered throughout the Brighton flat. The seamstress tailors to the sounds of wasted conversation. I was hounded outside the club for an impromptu photoshoot; mneanwhile my wallet disappears. In lieu of talking in the rain, the scheduled interview is stuffed into the van. Questions go mostly unnoticed in the radiating laptop atmosphere. Ahhh, technology.
Everyone's damp. Kids rush the shallow stage, knocking over mics, amps, and anything else of musical importance. Ian climbs the blown PA, smashing handfuls of canned suds against his skull. Unfortunately, this only works with emptier aluminum; the welts turn out pepperoni-sized in the morn.
Everyone who's not J Brad dj's the after party. Natsumi and Taka dance like maniacs, while Mika Miko skulk around in their valley girl strut. The techno downstairs did not deter the upstairs girl groups sounds. The crowd lost their shit. Either Ian or I tripped on the power chord. The crowd lost their shit. We get the boot to the curb. Fortunately the hotel is within spitting range.
Six a.m. beers and mysterious substances scatter the 4-bed after after party. We pass out to Little Richard on repeat, which is great if you enjoy having twisted dreams.
-Kang
no comment no comment no comment.
Joe Bradley and those other two dudes are lounge chillin'. Outside, we sift through dragon medallions and tongue-numbing paninis. Outside ATC offices, Jared recalls the prison's hors d'ourves: singed bread and murky water. We meet up with Arwen, Dan, and Chloe to discuss birds and bees. This is one talk I've already heard.
The damp forecast fails to deter festivalgoers, and the human centipede line crawls for blocks. After load-in, we invade a photoshoot. Hipsters meander through the pristine guitars, scattered throughout the Brighton flat. The seamstress tailors to the sounds of wasted conversation. I was hounded outside the club for an impromptu photoshoot; mneanwhile my wallet disappears. In lieu of talking in the rain, the scheduled interview is stuffed into the van. Questions go mostly unnoticed in the radiating laptop atmosphere. Ahhh, technology.
Everyone's damp. Kids rush the shallow stage, knocking over mics, amps, and anything else of musical importance. Ian climbs the blown PA, smashing handfuls of canned suds against his skull. Unfortunately, this only works with emptier aluminum; the welts turn out pepperoni-sized in the morn.
Everyone who's not J Brad dj's the after party. Natsumi and Taka dance like maniacs, while Mika Miko skulk around in their valley girl strut. The techno downstairs did not deter the upstairs girl groups sounds. The crowd lost their shit. Either Ian or I tripped on the power chord. The crowd lost their shit. We get the boot to the curb. Fortunately the hotel is within spitting range.
Six a.m. beers and mysterious substances scatter the 4-bed after after party. We pass out to Little Richard on repeat, which is great if you enjoy having twisted dreams.
-Kang
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