Is the darkness eroding our spirit? If we were touring some uplifting, four on the floor, George Benson schnitz, would we be happier, more pleased, wanting to dance always? Is that how the Scissor Sisters would feel after a four month tour? While in Glasgow for our last show, I was in a cafe where I actually heard the theme from the show Taxi. Does anyone remember that funky yet sad little ditty? I guess that’s what we would play: melancholic hold music. Maybe its the cold, or the snow, or the continued absence of the sun, or the fact that of all places in Canada, it is the coldest where we are right now. Maybe the darkness is following us? Time to retreat to video games, I think.
Leeds or burst…an obscure joke from the opening credits of Perfect Strangers. Balki was certainly the original Borat.
After show in Leeds. I realised tonight that this town may have the best food in England. Three for three here, and that’s amazingly good for the UK. Sorry to everywhere else.
Last night was Manchester, where we had a hang out with Andy Rourke and Mike Joyce. It was a little surreal, like when worlds collide. Speaking of which, it was odd that yesterday we hung with those dudes, and today we got some Google news alerts about Krief’s feelings about our Morrissey shows. Alls I’s gots to say about the whole thing is that we’ve played four shows with the gentle Moz, and I’ve still never met the guy. Just the way it goes, I guess.
Now if only I had a story to tell about Johnny Marr.
I pretend Germany doesn’t interest me, that there’s something too grotesque about the past; too complicated. We walked by the Polish Cultural centre, Murray asked if I wanted to go in and I declined: “I can’t, I’ll probably just start crying.” So Berlin, all its older buildings pockmarked and crumbling by WWII bullet marks and shrapnel. I emailed my friend Malcolm: “It’s like walking through Medal of Honour for PS2,” but actually it really made me choked up. Like on these very sidewalks, there was a battle, there was rubble and blood. A battle for my family, a gunfight for our future. I know, I know, there are still wars going on today, but, at risk of total selfishness, I admit that this is the only one that directly affected my family.
So our gig is at a former bunker or wine cellar, its original use we are not sure of, but either is feasible. During the show I noticed actual mortar from the domed brick ceiling had fallen onto my keyboard. Actual mortar. Like where does that ever happen, except in some semi-centennial, aged cavern?
This place is fucked but there is something I like about it. Also, at every show in this country, I swear there has been a couple making out every night. Now that’s special.
I had a dream about food. It’s reached that point in the tour, where I get insanely homesick, jealous of other people’s house plants. So I dreamt about food, I invented a recipe in my sleep. It goes like this: take an eggplant and scoop out all the guts but leave about 1cm of pulp next to the skin. Ok now take the pulp and cook it up with onions, garlic, rice and some sunflower seeds, mushrooms and parmesan or something like that. THEN get some green beans, cut into 1 inch pieces and blanched. Now fill the eggplant shell three-quarters of the way with the rice mixture, then top it with the green beans, then some shredded mozza cheese. Just a sprinkle. Then bake for like 30 minutes at 350C. Serve with fresh tomato sauce. Holy fuck that would be really good. I can’t wait to try making it when I get home.
Wow I’m such a loser. I finished typing this after our gig in Munich. We played in some building that is three hundred years older than I am.
For an indifferent city, Amsterdam’s weather is very moody. Sunny clear skies, then a burst of rain, then a full rainbow, then a flash of lightning, a clap of thunder, and hail. And still people riding their bicycles, riding in parkas, holding umbrellas, talking on mobile phones. They don’t really mind, here.
On our way back to the hotel after the show last night, a dude that seemed very tall rolled up behind us on his bike. He came up suddenly, and pointing at Murray, firmly congratulated us on the gig. It started to rain and he questioned why we had to walk back to the hotel? Murray replied: “I put my pants on like everyone else, one leg at a time!” The rain got a little harder as he rode off. Then the rain stopped, and that was the end of it.
Bloggers of the World, Unite and Take Over: Evidently they already have. They have learned to be complimentary, racist, kind, hateful, spiteful, loving, sexist, grateful, supportive, caring and most of all, genuine. I have seen it all, everything they have written in their diaries, posted on message boards. Every tiny impulse they have had, however hurtful, however their words sometimes consume me, however insightful (knowing and unknowing). They can destroy me and elate me, remind me of the hope and darkness this world holds, how we are all neighbours.
Can you imagine the number of burnouts reality TV is producing? My new favourite is Rockstar: Supernova. The amazing thing is the “contestants” can barely sing; they are all preoccupied with looking the part and having the right moves and accessories. Its amazing entertainment, seeing these people so embarassingly caught up in themselves. Krief saw the show last night and recognised the Toronto guy: “No way! I had beers with that guy a few months ago. He actually went up to sing on the open mike night at the bar.” See now that’s dark. That guy (Lukas something) is a burnout in waiting. Imagine all the instances in our futures, at the pub, chatting with some ding dong who’s proclaimed that the highlight of his life was being on so-and-so reality show. Its so widespread that our paths will cross sooner or later….just a matter of time.
The other night we had a dinner party. The guest list read like a Pitchfork press release: “…featuring members of The Dears, Metric, Stars, Death From Above 1979.” It’s nice having people over, since it’s replaced my going out. Sometimes I feel like I’m missing something, being at home all the time. But then that odd night when I do go out I remember instantly how much it sucks, so it’s infinitely better having friends come to me. Amy made a joke about my being skin and bones, to which I retorted: “Don’t worry, when you all leave I will eat my loneliness away.” I regretted the comment as soon as I made it. I don’t usually feel lonely, but sometimes, like tonight, when Neptune’s gone to bed and everyone’s heading out to the bar or to see a show, I feel left behind. It’s just me, blogging, holding down the fort. I think that’s part of “becoming a mom.” Now I make corny jokes, I’m even starting to think puns are funny. I certainly can’t drink like I used to; that’s what a year and a half of sobriety does to a person. I tied one on after our ICA show in London and curiously didn’t get a hangover; I got gut rot. My stomach rebelled. My salad days are definitely over and I’ve moved on to my tobbouleh days.
Living in Parc X is great. We don’t have anything trendy up here. Occasionally hipsters will float through for the adventurous feeling they get from coming up to the Indian restaurants. We don’t have a Dollarama, we have a Dollartheque: where nothing is dollar but everything ranges in price from $0.33 to $49.99. Then there is the junk shop on our corner that advertises the price of 88 cents in scribbly, upside-down magic marker eights on flourescent bristol boards. Below the price, in small writing it reads: “some items.” Anyway they have just about everything on three floors of total chaos. I went upstairs once and was afraid for my life, worried that at any moment several boxes of polyester flowers or multi-coloured laundry baskets of various sizes could fall into the aisle and no one would find me for weeks. I’m not sure the basement is even part of the store. They have the seats from their minivan down there among unopened boxes and other strange, waterlogged things.
Our post office is frustrating. It is in the back of a fake depanneur and is run by the most miserable people I’ve ever met. I think a Greek mother-son team where the mother barely speaks a word of english (but can sell stamps like nothing else) and the son has been forced to take on the family business and every millisecond he is there ruins his life. At any rate, in classic Montreal style, they are pissed off to be serving you, which makes all the customers pissed off to be mailing things. It’s tense in there. I’m tempted to call the ombudsman on them. Yes, that’s right, I said ombudsman.
Our camera broke. It broke while we were at the other side of the Pacific Ocean at Bondi Bay. Was it sand in the lens? Anyway, no pictures of us Canadians wading to our knees, proclaiming: “Its so warm!” while Jonathan from Speak’n’Spell watches us, shivering. Then trips to London, Toronto, and no photographic evidence. As if time passes, memories are lost forever. I tell myself: “Oh, I’ll remember this,” but I never do if somebody doesn’t remind me.
Murray cajoled it back into operation, getting a few shots of the Frenches at the fitting for our video. That went over well enough, at least for the guys. They came out looking hot. Val and I were uncertain in trendy black dresses and accessories that made us look like we were going to a wedding or to our high school reunions. At the eleventh hour, Murray called it off and we brought our own clothes, basically. Things that looked natural on us, things we would actually wear on stage.
On the day of the shoot, we stopped for bagels on the way. Murray, Tara (from Maple), Neptune and I munched on still-warm St-Viateur bagels that we dipped gluttonously into either cream cheese or hummous. We drove out to St-Hubert, alonf industrial parkways I never new existed.
We pull up to an airplane hangar that has been converted into a sound studio. About a dozen people have been working there all morning setting up lights, the backdrop and Nedward was there working on the silhouettes. They look amazing. Everything looks amazing. Are we actually going to pull this off? Will the video succeed in coming out like the treatment? The day wears on and the director, Maxime, is just motoring through the shots with Murray checking out since the idea is following the vision he had for it. Then they load in the big YOU sign that Nedward made. It looks a little ghetto but when it was positioned and switched on it looked fantastic. Murray’s wearing his white suit and he looks really good and sharp. I was watching some of his performances on the playback and he’s really nailing it. I feel good about this.
Then it gets classically complicated. Deadlines, scheduling, transfers, closed-captionning, colour correction…the first edit is disappointing. Its a bit slowly paced and not aggressive enough. I just remember these killer shots of Krief playing his guitar like he was punching someone in the face. And I got this huge bruise from bashing that tambourine on my hip all day. That needs to be in there, doesn’t it? Murray gets in on the second (and final) editing session and holy shit he’s good. I knew he had that in him, the ability to express something visual AND musical. And he did it; put us back into the video. The more I watch it the more I like everything about it.
I always get so self conscious about video photo shoots. Like there’s this wildcard aspect and I can’t control what I’m gonna look like. I was especially frustrated that the make-up-and-hair guy barely spoke any english. It’s kind of important, to be able to communicate that no, I don’t want poofy, teased up bangs so please stop working towards that. I try not to be vain but sometimes I just have to. Vanity truly is a horrible thing so I’d rather avoid the surrounding issues as much as possible. Anyhow, point being that I had to get over the minutiae of “Is that lip gloss too much?” or “Why am I looking that way?” and “Is that what I really look like?” before I could move forward. It’s a classic woman’s dilemma. We all watched Sex and The City: self-consciousness is a reality…in real life, that is.
Saturday, July 2 – Rock Wertcher, Belgium – we drive for what seems hours, meandering through a small Belgian town, then through a forest until we find our escort – three bicycles – to take us to the site. There are hundreds of thousands of people at this festival, drunk and eating sausages. This is the most organized, well produced festival I have ever been a part of…and the catering is fucking amazing. The backstage is like some fairytale hotel lounge, shared by all the bands and set among the trees covered by asymmetrical tents and low ambient lighting. Our room is between Bloc Party’s and a dude called Admiral Freebie (who later tries to befriend us but is actually too wasted to hang out). Kele remembers me from when we met in L.A. so we chat a bit. It is fun; I check out a few songs of Interpol whose live show I like a lot (I thought they would be a bit dull, but the drummer and guitarist are rock solid and I am impressed). Murray and I shuttle over to the main stage and watch Nine Inch Nails who are fantastic. I was never a big fan but the show is totally mind blowing. I don’t stick around for long because we are standing ten feet from the stage and it is insanely loud. There is Dears/Tears confusion all day. Someone asks me if I need a place to lie down and I have no idea what he’s talking about. He returns and says: “Oh, sorry that was the Tears.” I suggest the joke of switching our room labels while they are onstage. George and Spike are drunk enough to actually do it. They wait at a table outside the Tears’ change room for them to come off stage. The singer doesn’t notice but the rest of the band stop and comment, see those guys getting their “shits and giggles” and its all a big drinking party from there.
Sunday, July 3 – Metropolis Festival, Rotterdam – Wow. Day and night. We show up at a soccer field in which a couple circus tents have been pitched. The bus can barely fit down the tiny lane to get to the stage. Catering is literally a bagged lunch consisting of two rolls with a slice of cheese and a banana. Renaud yells out our longtime joke: “I can’t work like this!” We hook up with our friends Stars who are playing the same day on another stage. They are equally astounded, and Torq likens the meal to war prison rations, but without the cheese. We wonder what dinner will be like…most predictions are for potatoes with melted cheese and some kind of boiled meat. Actually turns out that dinner is really good. They serve veggie lasagna and scalloped potatoes, steamed fish with leeks, and other delights. The day does get better and the show is pretty cool. It’s a strange vibe because it’s a free festival…all kinds of people show, from families to sketchy dudes. Playing after us is a hillbilly hard rock cover band. They do ironic (without the irony) covers like “Highway to Hell” on mandolin, violin and banjo. What the frick? A pickup game of football (two-hand touch) starts behind the catering tent. It is members of Dears and Stars and I sit in the grass to watch; tomorrow I’m sure they will all be suffering from pulled muscles and tight shoulders.
We are invited to a jam session at the Nighttown after the festival ends. Murray, Rob (Stars’ soundguy), Chris (from Stars) and I go for Chinese food across the street. It seems risky but actually is quite good. We share a moment of all wanting to be together again in Montreal, but this moment is just as good. There is another pregnant woman at the restaurant and we give each other a knowing nod, as if we were both part of a secret society. We go back to the bus and watch the video from our show at Wertcher. I am excited to see it because I think it will look awesome. There were four cameras on stage, two in front of the stage, a boom crane and more cameras by the sound board. “That’s like eight cameras! It’s going to look awesome!” We turn it on and quickly realize that the tape is a direct feed from only one camera: the one that was on Murray. Patch calls is a security camera tape. It is still somewhat entertaining as we fast forward to the bits in between songs, where, in a ridiculous hommage à Audioslave joke we have going, Murray yells: “THANK YOU!” into the mic after each song. I soon set off to bed, but the next day get reports and photographic evidence of the aforementioned “jam session.” Tour manager Patch on drums, George on guitar, Jessie (from DFA ‘79) on bass, and Renaud on vocals doing “Machine Gun” or his heartfelt “Les quatre-cinq-zero blues.”
Monday, July 4 – A day off in Bruges, Belgium. A nice lunch, chocolates, a stroll around the picturesque, 600-year old city. Chimay for the boys at the pub, drinking all the Chimay at one pub and having to find another pub, a late dinner for Murray and me on the main square. Another drunken night for the gang: George complaining about there being too many “a”s in the street names, pants being pulled down, some barfing, and finally passing out on the bus.
Tuesday, July 5 – London Astoria. Back to the city but only for 9 hours because it’s impossible for the bus to stay parked anywhere. Backstage before we go on there is little tension, none of the stress that usually comes with the big city shows. Not sure if it’s the tiredness, the resign, or the hot stench of sewage in the backstage room, but we are all very calm before going on stage. It is a good show, a clean show and the crowd is bigger and more enthusiastic than I expected.
Wednesday, July 6 – drive day to Montreux. Did I mention that this whole time, like since May, we have been viewing and reviewing Trailer Park Boys? None of us had ever seen it before, and our manager Nadine lent us the first four seasons on DVD. We even got the Englishmen into it. I mean, they didn’t think Zoolander or Chapelle Show were funny at all, so we were nervous. I guess white trash humour has a universal quality about it. Wait a second. I think we just passed a solar powered gas station. Whose brilliant idea was that one?
Thursday, July 7 – The Montreux show feels like a studio session; the Miles Davis Hall is soft and anechoic, in the basement of the conference center. The local crew really have their shit together and everything runs very smoothly. The town is beautiful, nestled in the Alps on a lake, a rainbow with its arms around the sky. Welcome! The festival has put us up in a classy hotel with balconies over looking the water. We’re so comfortable we hardly know what to do with ourselves. Sadly we have to leave right after the show for our 22 hour drive to Ireland.
Friday, July 8 – Drive, drive drive. George finds a piece of Jazz in his pocket – a toke-like currency invented for Montreux that you have to use to buy consessions at the festival. They are annoying and useless and Patch threatens to sharpen their edges and throw them at people. What? Why? Hours later we are welcomed aboard “the largest, fastest ferry in the world.” It’s like a floating building that takes us from Holyhead to Dublin; it smoothly cuts through the water and we stand on the outside deck at the back watching the enormous wake spit out from the engines. I think two things: one, that my dad would love this; and two, that there must be some show called “Incredible Machines” or something about this boat. The next day I get an email from my mom saying her and my dad were watching a show about that very ferry called: “The Biggest Machines Ever” and were we taking that ferry? We need an exorcist in here and this time I mean it.
Saturday, July 9 – The bus pulls up backstage at Oxegen, and Murray I have to go immediately for a round of interviews. They all ask: “So how are you enjoying the festival?” and we have to answer, “Well, I don’t know we only got here five minutes ago.” One girl at a radio interview asked the classic: “So do you have an album?” Nothing has the capacity to frustrate an artist more than doing an interview with someone who has no idea what they are talking about. She took a look at us and probably thought we were some kind of acoustic world music act. At the other end of the spectrum is our MTV interview with Zane Lowe (who’s got to be pulled away from watching Queens of the Stone Age). He’s great and the interview goes well, though I fuck up the handshake at the end. He goes in for a brother-to-brother handshake and I go in for a white girl loser handshake. It’s awkward but I’m sure they’ll edit it out. Our half-hour set is fine, despite being scheduled in a dusty tent at sundown and at the same time as Bloc Party. There are a handful of hardcores there which makes it fun. George breaks a sweat, which is integral to making it through the short sets.
Sunday, July 10 – T in the Park, our last gig in Europe. It’s probably number two best organized festival and the backstage is lovely. We are greeted by one of our favorite promoters, John from King Tut’s Wah Wah Hut in Glasgow. We call him Braveheart because: 1) he’s Scottish, and 2) he’s got long, blonde dready hair and looks like he could seriously kick your ass. The catering is probably the best of all the fests (yes, better than Wertcher) and everybody working is super nice. I always liked Scotland because the Scottish remind me of Canadians. The artist area is a communal vibe so even though we are playing a shitty stage, we still feel like part of something. It’s mostly the usual suspects; Brett catches our gig and hangs out with us backstage, we are star struck as Snoop Dogg walks by and waves at us after playing his gig, Kele and I philosophize about starting families, Murray shakes Billie Joe from Green Day’s hand while balancing a full pint of beer on his head (it’s a long story), I talk about crème brulée with the keyboardist from Interpol, Martin and Val get a photo with the Prodigy dude, George talks with Ian Brown (who is the nicest!). Our stage, as I mentioned, is another dusty tents, but that has been un-strategically placed about 20 meters away from the giant dance tent. All we heard was the insane thumping and crappy synths of shit techno between songs and during the quiet bits. It was almost comical, though the crowd doesn’t seem to notice. It’s another short set that we whiz through. Immediately after we have to pack and sort our gear for shipping to New York. Then its to the backstage, our glorious safe haven for the day. We roll out at sundown, they clouds glowing pink and orange and grey. On the bus ride, we get into a useless debate on English v. North American grammar. The moot point: should we say “math” or “maths” when referring to the study of mathematics? The band stays in Edinburgh where we fly out of the next day, while the bus heads back to London.
Monday, July 11 – The anticipation is almost unbearable. Its been nearly three months since we’ve been in Montreal…we left home April 24 and get back July 11. This will obviously be my last tour diary installment: its back to our lives, making a new album, going to the grocery store, being boring. Thanks for reading my thoughts and sharing yours; just remember that this is a tour diary, not the chronicles of a rockstar. I am still just a person who is living a life and sometimes life isn’t as romantic as we would like. I’ve had loads of fun amidst the ups and downs, and have myriad memories that are too many to share here (I didn’t even get into Maglite Racing). See you all at Pop Monty…I’ll be the one with the baby.
Back to the UK and Europe
Tuesday, June 21 – We get in to Heathrow at 9:30AM local time; none of us have slept on the plane, and we are again completely ruined. American Airlines has outdone itself in cheaposity…breakfast is a sealed box filled with mini bagel chips, a foil-pack of un-refrigerated but never-to-go-rotten cream cheese, a Nutri-Grain bar, orange flavoured Craisins and a cheap peppermint. And if you happen to catch them as they rush by, you may land yourself a glass of orange juice form concentrate. It’s all rotten.
So it’s the usual schedule for us: a brief nightmare through immigration, get the bags, sweep through customs, stop in at the Marks & Sparks for a fruit smoothie. Wait for Splitter Patch in one of the three lanes of Heathrow pick-up-drop-off chaos. Drive around myriad roundabouts to the cargo company and pick up the gear that’s come from North America. Unload the luggage, put in the gear, reload the luggage. Pass out in the back as we rush off to the Bella Union office. Wake up! Go inside and pretend to be awake. Say hello to everyone and be nice for god’s sakes. Go order a sandwich and remember how shitty English food is. Now you are really, seriously destroyed. But there’s a show tonight, in some town a few hours outside London. Pass out for a quick hour nap as your already contorted body is jostled and jerked by the movement of the van. Get up. Wake up! Get over it. Set up. Sound check. Play the best show of your life.
Wednesday, June 22: Northampton – Is this a town of date rape, where lonely things happen at night, after the bars close, behind parked cars, the asphalt wet with runoff from a morning’s rain. This desperate feeling where nobody is happy. There is a sign posted in the toilets by the local police: “Make sure it’s only your bum that gets pinched tonight.” Yes, we girls understand, a quick anonymous grope in the dark is much better than losing your wallet. Nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to tell anyone about, when you finally discover the bad touch versus good touch. So how much goes down here at night? The Date Rape city travels around the world, like a gypsy caravan, to wherever it becomes most popular, the easiest to sweep under the rug. Now its here. I watch my drink.
Thursday, June 23: Hyde Park – The first festival date of several festival dates. It rains all afternoon; rains that we are told flooded out Glastonbury earlier that day. Muddy lakes formed at Glasto, with brave men, making several diving attempts to the mucky depths, only to arise to raucous cheers as he holds up the sunken treasure: a bottle of Red Stripe. Hyde Park gets a bit of muck but nothing extreme enough for diving. Luckily we are playing in a tent. And it was a crowded tent, though sadly our stage was running behind schedule and we lost some of our audience to New Order at the end. I was impressed, nonetheless.
We get a nicer room at the hotel near the park; last night was a shambles, sleeping in an inferno with a blasting fan that did nothing at all. The frustrating bit is that we know it’s colder outside our window, and even colder in the hallway, but the air in our room just would not move. Now we’re in a nicer room, a more comfortable place to deal with jetlag; only we have to wake up at 8AM to go to a BBC radio session. Another fucking radio session. Will they never cease?
Friday, June 25 – Murray and I wake up at some ungodly hour, 8:30AM or some-such. We travel to the BBC for our one-thousandth time. I joke in the cab that they should just give us permanent visitor passes. We go up and Murray is to play a song, no interview, during the Loose Ends talk show. They have a panel of British litteratti, authors, playwrights, thinkers, comedians, actors – you know, that crew – to discus tea and biscuits, Jaffa Cakes, Rich Tea. Seriously. It is so incredibly British I kind of space out, find it difficult to follow the conversation. I read uninformative newspaper headlines about the flooding at Glastonbury. Last night the bus traveled ahead to the festival. They arrived at (surprise) a mud pit and are freaking out. There is two feet of mud and they can’t even leave the bus and walk to pick up their festival passes. Apparently they are using canoes to get between stages. We get a dozen phone calls: “They’re out of boots here! Make sure you buy them in advance!”, “We’re out of water!”, “I can’t handle this!”, ”We’re miserable and dying!” We have to stop ahead for supplies: wellies in everybody’s sizes, beer, water. Murray texts a joke that they have run out of Wellingtons but not to worry, we’re bringing shitloads of plastic bags and a dinghy. We giggle, they freak out: “That’s not funny, man.” I guess we’re not out there, we’re not in the trenches, in the crossfire. It’s obviously a state of emergency. I mean, It’s probably really rough, but you’re on a bus at a frickin’ music festival, not living in a tin shed on the edge of the Red River. And so accordingly, I am to be dropped off at the hotel on Bath before even heading to the site. Fine, I think, though I’m a bit disappointed to be missing the legendary, anticipated carnage. I would have liked to have seen some of the bands, wanted to see Coldplay to see what all the hoo-haw is about. I’ll go tomorrow.
Oh. Just did a drive-by of Stonehenge. It is just sitting in the middle of a green field by the motorway. Twenty heavy, perfectly cut slabs just hanging there. Lovely, surreal, unreal.
Another thing that’s astounding, people go to these things knowing it will be a disaster, knowing it will be a deluge of vomit and garbage, swimming in silty rivers floating with outhouse fluids.
Sunday, June 26: Glastonbury – What a mess. I stay backstage and people mock my perfectly clean rubber boots. What can I say? I only really needed them to go to the loo. More retardedness: they’ve left my keyboard stand at Hyde Park. Apparently it didn’t make it into the splitter at load out. But they have a shitty replacement for me. Oh, great. I only spent days looking for the perfect keyboard stand, then got it shipped to the UK, adjusted it perfectly and placed Velcro to my liking. Oh but we’ve lost that one so go play the biggest festival show of your life with a wonky, ugly piece of shit. What the frick? Anyway, LuLu, the keyboard tech for Rufus Wainwright says I can use his and it is perfect. Eternal thanks to him for saving my sanity! Murray likens the show itself to a car crash: nobody is sure what happened because it happened so fast. We are all in shock but have to get through it. Everything that could go wrong did. The monitors were useless. The synths were in full sun and I couldn’t see any of the settings. It was jazzy but our performance I guess went well. No trashy press has come out yet…fingers crossed!
Sunday, June 30 – The man sitting next to me on the plane with a bum knee is killing me. Every time he exhales I am destroyed by the smell of death. Like he’s sucking on a handful of mothballs. Once he yawned and I thought I was going to die. He must have had about five rotten teeth and he wasn’t even really that old…like 70, max. Get a dentist, ‘sti! We land in Copenhagen at 11:20PM and the sun has just set. We circle over the glassy water of the bay, around to Copenhagen International. We walk through spotless ergonomic airport lounges with designated wireless areas. The taxi takes us through cobbled streets lined with bike paths. We pass a bus shelter that is shaped like a giant overturned shell, but is painted like a cartoon mushroom. I come to a cultural conclusion: The Scandinavians have a penchant for things being cute, things that make them feel like home or remind them of childhood. They are also insanely clean and efficient in their use of space and resources. In these ways they are remarkably similar to the Japanese. They are the Japanese of the West.
I am so homesick. In my head I make a list of things I’d like to cook when I get home. Roasted vegetables and garlic with goat cheese. Squash and apple soup. Brothy mushroom soup. Tapenade with the kalamata olives from the PA. Potatoes with fresh tarragon grown out back.
Monday, July 1: Train to Roskilde. Never has something more ruined my life in such a brief stretch of time. Murray and I make our way through the fliffen-floffen and onto the train to Roskilde. Yay, we made it, we are not idiots. Patch calls: “Where are you?” Murray answers: “We’re in Roskilde.” That was the deal. Patch meets us at the train station in Roskilde, so here we are, where is he? Well there’s another train, according to a group of young girls. Go under the tracks and you’ll find the festivalplanden-floffen train. Murray and I pay the 15 Kroners and board: it’s full of a rag tag team of backpackers and campers, potheads and proud drunks-to-be. They carry tents and crates of beer and oversized backpacks whose horizontal clearance they disregard. They’re boorish and smoking, rosy-cheeked, glazey-eyed, and rolling blunts. There are empty bottles of vodka and it is only just 1:20PM. We are misplaced with our Delsey rolling suitcases and laptop bags. I feel like a commuter on a train full of co-workers, suddenly realizing that I absolutely hate my job.
We go straight to the V2 media tent where Martin has started interviews. Murray is asked to stay to do interviews as well. Everybody starts getting on my case about how I don’t have to be there, how I should go chill out; but what I really want to know is what’s going on, what the plan is. “Just go to the bus,” but that’s not what I want to know. I am not sick or ailing, I just want information that nobody seems prepared to give me. I want to freak right out because this is retarded. “Can I know what is going on? How long are there interviews for? What is the schedule? Where is the bus? Is there a backstage, a hospitality tent, water?” Apparently getting oriented is selfish and insane and what I should be doing is drinking beer and partying. Isn’t that why we are all here? Later, Murray gets dad tips from Thurston Moore and I don’t feel so isolated any more.