European Tour Report 3 | The Danish Terrorist

Our "Oscar Wilde" aka David was too wasted for the final write up, so we decided to ask our Bodyguard, also known as "The Danish Terrorist"  (he protected us by all the dangers that you might be encounter in Scandinavia) to narrate the misadventures of the final part of the tour. Enjoy.

Deep Into The East

All right, let’s take it from the end. Let’s start from the Saturday night climax in Cheb, Czech Republic. We like to think that the humanoid, halfway between J-Kay e Johnny Depp, got truly exhilarated by our show. The video is extremely educational and should be passed down to posterity, to allow us to show that drinking and doing drugs is bad. The genius of it all, though, is also about indulging in sizeable defecation sessions, and watch a work of art unwind among its tiny turds. Here’s our true nature:  

Dancing and spitting aside, the evening is a true masterpiece. Goulash-like soup, a sound guy who spoke no English other than ''Do you smoke weed?'' and ''SUPER!'', effervescent crowd, inhuman screams, tap water and out-of-control bowels. Night transfer to the hotel, group pic and sweet dreams; probably one of the most radical concerts I’ve ever seen.

June 5. Wake up at dawn, with 700 km ahead of us, headed to Chrozow (PL). Coffee and cake in our bellies. Contrasting opinions on the Czech cake bought at the corner shop, another reason why at 11 in the morning we already have to stop for a second breakfast at Burger King with the immediately ensuing defecation ritual in the luxurious and multi-coloured shitter. As we set off again, Alan’s true nature emerges; a lovingly Asian-looking teddy bear who cannot resist creamy and sweet honey. Location: a gas station in Poland, living up to proverbial catholic poverty. Subject: juicy fries in a stained plastic basket. Antecedent: an innocent and hungry old bloke who orders and longingly waits for his greasy meal.   

Misdeed: a ravishing grizzly bear, with a stare halfway between innocence and incontrollable libido, starts devouring the rich meal, which he assumed was compliment of the house. Epilogue: the setting turns into an epic version of Yellowstone, halfway between Hanna & Barbera and Sergio Leone. Instead of gunshots, the ranger abuses the misguided bear with incomprehensible Polish blasphemy. The result is Yogi running, defeated and humiliated, but with one fry more in his belly and one Zlot less in his wallet.

We get to the place in perfect timing: 8 full hours in the van, and our assess aching and in pain. The stage is located in the middle of an abandoned factory. All around are a number of sound engineers and NatGeo worthy bugs. The gig starts at nine, and a very good one, for at least a couple of reasons:

The accommodation (all-mod-con flat with a huge HD TV set as big as Michael Moore) and two friends in their forties. One is a rapper, the other a bassist. The latter, quite heroically decided to hug us at the end of the concert, repeating for over 10 minutes the sentence: “my brains went up in smoke, my brains went up in smoke”, gesturing madly as if he were Sitting Bull puffing away at his calumet.

Finally, some sleep. And this time we get the right amount and quality. Waking up the following day is merely a formality: finally, a day off, long awaited like a child longs for Santa to arrive on Christmas Eve. Berlin-ward, we have our signature lunch at the local Burger King, and meet heavy rain in Cottbus. Finally, at eight in the evening we make it to deserted Berlin, plagued by the Flood. There is little else to add. If not that our friend and spectacular graphic designer Zamoc lives in Spiller’s house and cooks a breathtaking Carrettera. All this considered we decide to spend the whole of June 6 on the couch, playing Ukulele, Steve being Steve, Alan being Alan (fully dressed and in bed, still wearing his sweat-soaked jeans and wife beater) and I being me, as usual, covering the unlined, yellowish pillow with the immaculate towel I find in my suitcase.

First Three Days

Three is quite a recurring number. The Beagle Boys were three, so were Huey, Dewey and Louie and the Good, the Bad and the Ugly (though they have been momentarily downsized to two). The three musketeers, the ninja turtles (personally, I think Leonardo was a jackass, so he does not count!), not to mention the Holy Trinity, the Schwarzeneggers before Patty came along, Triceps and the breasts of the bargirl in Total recall''. It appears, then, that since the times of Jesus the number three has been quite in fashion. In Italy, it’s common belief that after three days (just like guests) fish starts to stink!

It is precisely in the name of the foul-smelling creature of the seas that I intend to write a brief account on the first three gigs, in three different venues, of a three-people band’s third tour.

If it is true that Giuseppe Signori would bet – among other wagering exploits – up to 1,000,000 Liras that he would be able to eat quite a sizeable Danish cake in thirty steps (you are highly recommended to look into it, it’s really hilarious!), it would be fair to imagine our friend Romeo from Graz’s Explosiv to be a good match, in terms of the number of beers guzzled in a single night with his apprentice Steve. Anyways….

Humongous stage, a lighting system that would have made Steven Spielberg go green with envy, a spectacular set greeted by the best of crowds. It would have been impossible to start a tour on a better note. And then of course a private apartment exclusively for our use, a luxury bathroom, hot as hell, Wi-Fi connection (and the ensuing X-rated spree) and bounty a go-go.

Late morning breakfast and a heart-warming adieu.

We set off for Budapest on June 2^nd, my very birthday; easy rolling, high-cuisine egg sandwich and snickers lunch. God bless Gordon Ramsey!

As we arrive in the chaotic city, we have mixed feelings about killer cucumbers and contagious deer salami. We triple park and walk three flight of stairs with our gear and “paraphernalia” on the back; the underground club is as cosy as explosive factories used to be during the Great War.

The house is already full for the show of our friends, Rose Parks. The venue stays full and the crowd, soaked in sweat due to the tropical heat, does not lose its enthusiasm for the full-hour’s therapy session. The number of vinyl records starts to drop, thanks to Dàvid. It would not have been a decent birthday had we not celebrated it in a very manly fashion.

The festivities were spent is a sleepless last-minute hostel, thanks to the loudly flatulent and unbearably snoring of my bed “mate”, who was blatantly drunk and stinking of it. Again, I need to thank him for sharing his body fluids and for preventing me from getting any fucking sleep! THANKS MATE!

All rise for the morning shower. As our colleague Alan Alanas sharply put it, the true goal by now is to go to bed in a dirtier state than the very bed we sleep in! The theory is quite arguable, but boy did we feel like real men, those men we thought had gone extinct. ANYWAYS,

It goes without saying that Alan goes immediately missing in the ladies’ room, which he selected after accurately scrutinising the sign on the door.

Salami, sweet peppers and coffee for breakfast; I can’t stop feeling sorry for the toilets that were forced to witness our presence!

A quick tour in the suburbs of the Hungarian city, and then we set off again, this time for Gyor, as guests of the abovementioned friends. This time, after a five-o’clock supper, we play in a cellar/cinema theatre. Yes, a cellar/cinema theatre, fully equipped with a projector, seats and saltpetre!

COOL! Some of the people in the crowd had waited for this concert for months, while others are there for the opening act, a crust/hardcore band that breaks the ice by spitting on the amplifier head and cavorting on the ground with a beastly growl. AWESOME!

We begin late and turn in even later. And more tired. And dirtier. To sum it up, we had never felt so manly. Let me conclude with the perfect beginning, today June 4^th: eight in the morning, Bob Marley accompanying the largest-breasted woman ever seen on the Web. What an incredible freak of nature. It’s a real shame he died so young.


David

Limited Edition Poster

We made this special poster in letterprint to bring on tour.
Thanks to Luca Lattuga from tastemeat.com. for make it awesome in a really short time.
It's a very limited edition of 50 posters (2 colours - black and gold) on brown paper 300g. 35 x 50 cm. All hand numbered.
We will not ship them, and after this press there will be no more.
So....come to one of our concerts and grab it.
It will be worth.


We shot also a little video for share with you guys the amazing art of letterprint.