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
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