Dear friends,
Here we are again, as usual. Today is Tuesday 18th. Time flies inevitably, among secessionist gametes and proud “freckles” expelled in opulent toilets.
I’ve been touring France and Germany for a week.
We started in Montpellier, in what is generally acknowledged as the smallest but hottest stage nationwide. Awful roads, whose size has nothing to envy to Burger King’s French fries. A couple of one way streets taken in the wrong direction and I was punctually late.
The concert flows with intensity, in a climate recalling hell or a coup d’état because of the bad smell and humidity of the place and the public crowding in two square metres. Halas, the odours perceived cannot be conveyed via the internet yet. My dog would just go crazy!... We wholeheartedly thank Olivier for his kind hospitality and Alan’s suitcase for having exploded after an 8-hour journey. That was real fun I shall not easily forget!
HOWEVER,..
Did you know that Phenix’s drummer also plays for Cult Of Luna?! Incredible, ain’t it??
It’s a bit like thinking about the actual age of the present writer, or that Steve also is Jay Cutler every second day. Or even that we nearly died in a van thanks to ever-careful Alan.
Wednesday 12th. It’s 5.44 pm. A desert motorway. Clear sky. Heading for Grenoble (FR). With an abrupt move, a cigarette is set on fire, then extinguished between the soft lips of the do-it-all teddy bear. Short, it’s a real party for his palate… The protruding paper is immediately burnt with terrific desire. Without too many regrets, it is put out mournfully. A soft hand. Magilla. A lowered window. Its well-known delicacy. 3,2,1… EXPELLED at 130 km/h
..
I was not aware that tobacco suffered from Oedipus’ complex. Nor did I know that Alan was in bad terms with Kurgan. As a matter of fact, the “outcast” decides to go back to its father-killer. The angry butt penetrates between the shirt’s neck and the creamy nape. What follows is a sudden stop, a few yells and a fire starting in the hairy nape bush.
Tension wears out. The “prodigal son” is drowned in salty and abundant urine. Steve seats behind the wheel and we get to the place.
The concert was a bomb. Even more so because it was unexpected. Raised fingers, grimy faces, drool and liquids everywhere. Thanks you guys. And above all, thank you dear Galdric because you hosted us and provided food.
The fact that our van was towed away because it was in a no parking zone is a mere detail. A mere detail…
The true revelation of the week was the concert in Lyon the following day. The public was very interested, a stool was smashed, the people were wonderful and incredible talking lasted until 5 in the morning about Aznavour, Bilal, the pope and whores. It was all seasoned with a sip of cider and pasta with sausages. FUCK CROISSANTS!
Finally, it was the turn of the concerts in Mainz and Cologne. The first was in a squatters’ flat in the heart of an extra-luxury university campus, the second in a super venue near the city centre surrounded by very aggressive Kebab restaurants.
The first event required a certain virility in the sense of ignoring certain basic hygienic standards. The second a certain amount of macho style considering that very heavy metal Kruger were sharing the stage with us.
The first event was seasoned with hot chilli, anarchic comradeship and unlimited belches from the public, mostly composed of females. The second included smoked salmon, Nordic rigour and important compliments.
The first ended with beer being poured on good Steve’s pedals, a power cut (never remedied) and very interesting talks on cinema. The second with a big round of applause, live radio broadcasting and tons of gadgets.
All in all its was an excellent week from the musical viewpoint. However, if I were to add up all the bad luck to which we were subject, I would suspect that Kurgan or Captain Laser do exist. And that we are Mandrakes in this situation. The present writer is lying on the ground in a sleeping bag, with a terribly sore throat and is missing one of the stools. Next to me, Alan’s “corpse”, in between a flue and post-Amsterdam hangover, with an virtually unmovable suitcase. And I am not mentioning an awful lot of tiny but funny misfortunes.
Finally, a little anecdote from the 16th October in Amsterdam:
D. ‘’Hey Alan, how the fuck do I lock this bike?”
A. ‘’ You’re the usual moron. Look, you simply pull the lever and take off the key and … “?=”^?***òçP” .
‘Shit!!!.. What the fuck. What .. Holy shit!!’’
..
Colour does not lie.
Your eyes rise toward the top of the streetlamp over the canal .
A Seagull flies away. And it is as if it had winked, you know?!
-David
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