Monday, September 7, 2009

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

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