London, England (6)




Our cancelled show in Leicester means we arrive in London a night early. London is, as most people know, a city you don’t just arrive in and everything is more or less at your fingertips. If the big cities of the world are a share house, London is the filthy, surly guy who lives in the basement, complaining to everyone who visits that his clothes never seem to dry properly. Don’t ask him for any favours, and don’t ask him for a place to stay or he’ll put you up in a two room flat, miles out of town, that looks like it was furbished by a sixteen year old Goth.

After making about twenty-seven phone calls, we finally found a place to stay which was in Edmonton, about fifteen miles out of the city. It was a two room flat, adorned with purple curtains, fake cobwebs, glasses that had skeleton’s hands for stems, and posters of Brandon Lee on the walls.



(We never got to thank her in person)

The six of us were to spread out between these two rather small rooms, and find whatever cushioned item we could, to use for a mattress. No one could come to grips with the idea that this place was actually on the internet under “accommodation”. Still, we all managed a night’s sleep, and a sound sleep it was, safe in the knowledge that the next night we’d have a proper hotel. Right?

Upon waking in this place I asked myself “How have I ended up on the set of The Cure’s latest film clip, and where is the hotel?” and “Why does Mike look so depressed?” The answer to that last question is because today is Mike’s birthday and he’s about to have one of the worst birthdays of his life, and somehow he already knows it. I thought I’d get him out of Morticia’s Motel, and down to Soho for some breakfast and some beautiful-people-watching. During the meal his sense of impending doom returned and wouldn’t shift. He’d well and truly gone off his breakfast. As we walked to “Guv’nor’s Most Expensive Music” to buy a new amp, Mike kinda freaked out and needed to take time out in the nearest pub. There he reaffirmed that there was definitely something strange, ominous and generally shithouse about this particular birthday he was having. I had little consolation to offer. I told him that there probably was, and we’ll just have to see what happens. We gathered our wits, and headed to the shop to buy a reliable, brand new amplifier, and then headed to our soundcheck. The gig tonight was at a place called 93 Feet East, in Brick Lane, East London.

Now far be it from me to want to cause any real controversy at this point. Not the painful type anyway. Not the type that can get you into actual trouble. So I will refrain from going into detail about who did what to who, and just say that before and after the show there was quite the shitstorm backstage, as the three competing teams; the promoter/venue, the booking agent/tour manager and the heroes of our story (That’s us) all locked horns in a staggering display of bad showbiz. A very boring and protracted (still going) case of missing money, had band against booker, against promoter, against booker, against band. Like I mentioned earlier, I won’t go into detail about WHY this ruined an otherwise very enjoyable show, I’ll just say that it did. You will never get away from this sort of stuff. You can’t ever expect the type of people who make musical performances happen, to all work together smoothly, intelligently, and with respect for each other. You can only be grateful and a little astounded when they do.



The Drones Vs. The Music Business (Drones on bottom)

But the show was a good one. We did OUR job anyway.

After the show, Gareth was whisked away to a radio station to promote The Drones coming to do a show in London. Yes, we had already played that show, that’s true, but London is a strange town. Fiona, Ryan and Gorka took the van back to our hotel in Wembley. WEMBLEY! Who stays in Wembley?? Not even Queen or Oasis make a decision to crash there after a hard night’s work. The Drones stay in Wembley, it seems.
Wishing to celebrate Mike’s birthday and said fine performance in London, and wishing to avoid going back to said hell-hole, Mike, myself, and a friend, try to find that rare London gemstone, a bar that hasn’t shut yet. After forty-five glorious minutes of expensive drinking, we are turfed out and faced with the prospect of getting home. There is talk of catching the bus, but the chilly air and sketchy timetable tell us that perhaps a mini-cab is our only option.

We ask around:

“Excuse me good man, but how much for a cab to Wembley via Notting Hill?”

“Seventy quid”

“Er……..Excuse me good man, but how much for a cab to Wembley via Notting Hill?”

“Seventy fucking quid”

“Oh, it’s gone up”

Believe it or not, we managed to talk a chap down to fifty quid. We were still being stooged, but affordably so. After dropping our friend off in Notting Hill, we ventured forth to the Wembley Travelodge, with non-existent directions.

“It’s the…er…..Travelodge……in…….Wembley”

So perhaps he isn’t entirely to blame for what happened next. He did get us to a Travelodge, but not the one we were actually staying at. Of course we didn’t realise this till we were in the lobby of this incorrect hotel. Our cab driver would have been back at his flat by now, waking up his kids and telling them that they were going to Disneyland after all, while Mike and I were trudging north up the A682 motorway with a bottle of wine, a chill in our bones and love for all mankind in our hearts.

And speaking of mankind, here comes some now. About fifteen minutes into our journey, we were joined by six young upstanding citizens on pushbikes. Where they came from is anybody’s guess, for there was nary a sign of human habitation anywhere.

“Hello chaps. Have you come to offer us a dink into Wembley?”

Not quite.

For the next ten to fifteen minutes, Michael and I were surrounded by these “men” (average age about eighteen) who seemed to want something from us, namely, everything we had. Here you are Mike. Happy Birthday!



(image captured on CCTV)

Now, there were three distinct stages to this encounter. The first being understandably, panic. There were six of them after all, and they seemed to be very keen to show us a gun that was in one of their bags, as well as the knives they all claimed to be carrying. The leader of the group kept saying things like “Why you wanna fuck with the North London Boys?” (I don’t), “You’ve got to give the North London Boys more respect man” (o.k. I think I can manage that) and “ Boomshalakka brother you is in for some of that nastee slidin’ shit N.L.B style brother” (I’m sorry, you’ve lost me now). Mike and I were carrying some very vital equipment with us. Laptops, passports, ipods and wallets full of mugger-joy. Things we really do need. Thus we begin stage two of the encounter: Negotiation. This particular process of negotiation involved huge amounts of lying from both camps. Mike and I lied about the contents of our bags, saying all we were carrying were clothes, and even though a couple of the lackeys looked through Mike’s bag, they were somewhat confusingly convinced of this (all the good stuff was in the other compartment, you numbskulls). And we were beginning to suspect that these gents weren’t actually telling the truth about owning a gun. They asked me if I was carrying any money, I opened my wallet to show them the space where the money used to be, thanks to our chauffer for the evening. I did however have a bunch of Euros in a compartment, and figured I’d probably have to give these boys something to spend at the milk bar, lest I have to deal with any North London Boy justice.

“Here you go”

“What the fuck is this?”

“They’re Euros”

“What the fuck are they?”

This, for some reason, angered me. I can abide social decline and all of the symptoms it creates, but I can’t abide stupidity. And this is where we begin stage three: Contempt For Your Attacker.

“It’s fucking money, you dimwit”

“It’s not real money, man. I want pounds. English fucking pounds, man,”

“Well you’re just going to have to go to the Thomas Cook and deal with it there, aren’t you”

“What’s the fucking Thomas Cook?”

“Oh god……..It’s a place where you can exchange foreign currency for English pounds”

“Well, why don’t you just give em’ to me now man?”

“Oh god……..because….you know what? We’re going. Mike and I are going to leave, Goodnight.”

“You want us to pull out what’s in the bag?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. Please. Is it chips? I’d love some chips. Surely you serve chips with your muggings. You serve them with Chinese food after all.”

At which point he felt it necessary to stand toe-to-toe with me and give me the “N.L.B stare-down”. I had a bottle of wine in my hand, and an overwhelming desire to go home. I calmly told him that he had some money, and that we should all go to bed now, and thankfully he seemed to agree.

And that, was that. Mike’s 29th.

He and I got one more cab with our remaining change, which dropped us off within sight of our actual Travelodge. We walked the last few steps, found our room, and then drifted off to sleep to dream of unicorns and rainbows.



Doncaster, England (7)


Eighteen people.

You want a review of that day? Piss off. Why weren’t you there?



ATP Festival, Minehead, England (8)


Hello, The Drones. It’s us. All Tomorrow’s Parties. Why don’t we get you out of those wet clothes, and in front of the fire.


It was with great relief and much anticipation that we made the trip west to “Butlins Holiday Centre” in Minehead, to play at the Dirty Three-curated All Tomorrow’s Parties festival. For those unaware, All Tomorrow’s Parties run a festival where they ask a given musical act to choose the entire weekend’s line-up, and we were very grateful to be one of the bands chosen, alongside Alan Vega, Low, The Scientists, Nick Cave and his new band, Grinderman, Joanna Newsom, Spiritualized and many, many other fine artists.

Everyone who attends the festival, performer and punter alike, is housed in a serviced chalet. Which means all the festival-goers get to have showers, wear their favourite outfits, fix their hair, and look lovely and stylish all weekend. Very civilised. I took a walk around the site. It was like a strange and wonderful dream. Our good friends in Devastations (what happened to the “The” anyway) were staying across the garden, The Scientists a few rooms down, Mick Harvey and family were next door, and Alan Vega and his family were staying directly above us. Gareth and I were virtually struck dumb by this. One of the first things we established when we met each other years back, was that if pushed for a decision, Suicide’s first album would have to be our favourite album of all time. AND THE SINGER IS NOW OUR NEIGHBOUR. Ridiculous.


So we have a night off, surrounded by water slides, mini golf, good friends and great music. We took in some fine sets from Dirty Three, and The Devastations, and then I let the night lead me to a karaoke machine in someone’s chalet on the other side of camp. Heaven was indeed, a place on earth.

Saturday

The next morning I bumped into Mike, who’d slept on Hugo Cran’s couch the night before (you had a bed Mike), and who was looking slightly unprepared for the set he was about to play with Joel Silbersher and his Spot of Bother (featuring Gareth Liddiard on “bass”). Though, having located his drums/wits, he managed a stellar performance alongside his equally stellar bandmates. Joel’s gooey, elastic blues, and his ever delightful patter between songs had his audience, his very discerning and tasteful audience, won over, and thus he rewarded them with a searing rendition of “My Pal”, which without a trace of nostalgia, sounded as fresh a newborn, hairy baby.

Later in the afternoon, as we were walking to his show, Gareth and I bumped into Alan Vega. Well, bumped into him after running towards him like giddy teenagers from about thirty metres away. As we were running, we figured out a plan.

D: “Who’s gonna talk to him?”

G: ”You”

D: ”O.K”


D: “Excuse me Alan”

A: “Yeah man”

D: “Hi. I’m Dan and this is Gareth and we’re playing at the festival too. It’s an honour to meet you”

A: “Hey that’s cool guys. What’s the name of your band?”

G&D: (with cracking voices) “The Drones”

A: “Oh yeah. Yeah I heard of you guys”

LONG PERIOD OF SILENCE

G: “We’re reeaaally biiiiiiiig faaaaaans”.

He graciously posed for a photo with us, slapped us on the backs and said:

“Take care guys. Keep your dreams”

What a guy.



His show was incredible. Though visibly older, he’s kept the same sense of spook and menace he always had. Prowling from side to side, making spasmodic twitches, and leering at his audience through dark sunglasses, with equal parts contempt and compassion. Watching him standing on the edge of the stage, screaming at the audience without the aid of his microphone gave me chills. His wife provided cataclysmic backing tracks playing an unidentifiable device, which she seemed to rub and wave her hands over to get certain sounds, and his six year-old son joined in at one point, playing a very detached and dischordant harmonica. This was surreal. As dad crouched down next to him, repeatedly uttering the word “Gerri-nomo”, the little guy nervously blowed little puffs into the harmonica, while mum conjoured up the sounds of Armageddon on her instrument. This is the family who lives upstairs. Fantastic.

I was able to pass on my appreciation for the show later in the catering tent, while the poor guy was trying to eat his dinner. We actually have video footage of him, prowling from side to side of the smorgasboard, leering at the chicken curry, making spasmodic movements towards the potato salad and screaming at the bread rolls without the aid of his microphone.

We had the much-coveted slot of eleven o’clock, centre stage, Saturday night. We followed an amazing set by The Scientists, and played to a very full room. Nothing went wrong. Nothing broke. And we left the stage feeling good. Hooray. Glasses were raised, backs slapped etc. But perhaps the most notable thing that occured, was a visit by none other than David Beckham! Isn't that incredible???



Our celebrations, further aided by a set from the inimitable Einsturzende Neubaten, were long and justified.


Sunday

With a little bit of a headache, and a serious hunger in the belly, I took in Dirty Three’s Sunday morning set from my table at the Burger King. They were making a wonderful noise, which was complimented perfectly by my “Angus Burger Meal Deal.” Feeling like we could’ve stayed another few weeks, we packed up our things, said our goodbyes, and headed west to Dover to catch the ferry AWAY FROM ENGLAND!

Our many, many thanks to our beloved hosts, Barry and Deborah, who ran the whole sh-bang with humour, generosity and the utmost efficiency. Oh and thankyou Johanna for flogging our wares all weekend when you didn’t even have to.




Venlo, Holland (9)



Our first show on the continent was at the erroneously-booked “Festival of Awful Dutch Emo Groups” in Venlo, Holland.

We actually headlined this festival, sharing the bill with bands like “My Nightmare Is Never Ending” and “Oot! My Clogs Hurt”.


Up in the band/class room, they had a stage plan of the festival drawn on a whiteboard. I gathered the troops around and came up with a quick and effective plan for our show.



Not having the correct equipment however, meant we just got up and played music.

We went down like a clown at a funeral.


Some people have commented on this diary, suggesting that my take on everything is perhaps, overly cynical.

Believe me, it was not my intention to move out of my house in Australia, and go and have a really bad time with my bandmates overseas for four months. We’re all desperately trying to enjoy ourselves, and want to feel a sense of purpose and accomplishment on this tour. But, with the exception of ATP, it hasn’t been easy.

Perhaps when the burglaries, muggings and swindlings cease, the overall tone will get a little cheerier. We all hope so, anyway.


One thing is certain though.

That van isn't getting any bigger.


The guitar player.