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.
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