Three Blurry Weeks

This posting marks the three week anniversary of The Drones last day off, and coincidentally enough, happens to be a day off itself, in the town of Mainz, Germany. I am now faced with the arduous task of summing up three very blurry weeks of travelling daily, and playing nightly. So here goes. We begin in the town of Poitiers, France…..



In the book of Deuteronomy, Moses utters the immortal phrase that “man doth not live by bread alone”. This was later paraphrased by Jesus in the New Testament. It is evident to me now, that neither of these chaps ever backpacked through France before they settled down and started working in the Messiah trade. Had this been the case, they would never have come out with such malarkey. O.K, I can cut them some slack. The Drones were fortunate enough to have the odd slice of cheese or ham come our way, but generally speaking, our source of sustenance was largely wheat-based. Now before you say, “hey you imbeciles, there’s lots of gastronomic options in France. What about escargot? Frog’s legs? Why didn’t you try the duck a l’orange?”, let me defend the group by explaining that we simply didn’t get any opportunities to visit any of those fancy things you call “restaurants”. The closest we came to the world of “a la carte” was every morning at the petrol station, where we had to make the difficult choice between a baguette with ham, or a baguette with cheese, both containing the sufficient amount of butter required to wax a surfboard. Of course, we were supplied with platters at the shows every night after soundcheck. Lovingly prepared trays of brie, Roquefort, Camembert, Prosciutto and Jamon.

Ham and cheese.

Pass the wine.

The shows however, were terrific. We were all thrilled with the turn-outs and the enthusiasm of the French audiences. The venues were superbly run, and very accommodating. There was one in particular, was it Poitiers? I think so. Some issues with the rider.



But apart from that, a massive art-space in the backstreets of town, with an amazing band room, ultra-modern p.a, an art gallery with some stunning works therein, and a greenhouse full of plants, concealing a small p.a, guitar amplifier and a couple of casio keyboards. What? Why? Turns out the staff were hoping that we could “play some music for the plants” before our show.

“Er, pardon?”

“We were wondering if you could play for the plants?”

“Play for the plants”

“Oui, before your jig”

“Before our jig?”

“Oui, before your jig”

“What jig?”

“The jig tonight”

“Ohhhhhh, the jig, oui”

“Oui. The plants thrive from music”

“Have you heard The Drones?”

“Oui. Of course”

“O.k then”




We were chased out of town the following day by irate French artists, hurling dead plant matter at the van.


Another show which has managed to hold it’s grip on the slimy walls of my memory bank, was the jig in Paris. Something of a debacle, to coin a French term. Our scheduled performance here was moved to a different venue with two days’ notice. A very different venue. A venue the size of a well appointed latrine, with a home stereo system for a p.a, one microphone stand, and run with cartoonish arrogance by a French “rocker”. When I say “rocker”, I refer to a particular brand of rocker we often come across throughout Europe. The creeper-wearing, denim clad, “eight ball” rocker, with the pocket-chains and the super-glued quiff. This particular feller didn’t even know we were playing at his bar it seemed. We figured that if the owner of the establishment wasn’t aware of the show, not many other people would be either.

So after a brief conference, we decide to cancel the show in favour of a stroll down the Seine, arm-in-arm with each other, maybe take in a show at La Cage Aux Folles, followed by a romantic dinner, just the six of us. However, just as we were making our way out of the latrine, we were accosted by a small group of lovely Frenchies. They seemed crestfallen upon hearing the news the show was to be no more. They told us they’d been looking forward to the show for months, and that many of their friends were coming. Hearing this made our crests fall just as much as theirs, and we duly informed them that they had made us feel guilty enough to play the show. And we’re glad we did, after all. Turns out it was more “Tardis” than latrine, as we managed to cram about fifty lucky chain-smokers into the venue, all gasping for air, and all gasping for the right words to describe the incandescent flare that is The Drones live show. “Very noisy”, somebody finally suggests.



Later in the night, our ever-wonderful friends Dimi and Sophie have us, and the rest of Paris back to their apartment in Menilmontant for aperitifs and foie gras. The night was long and lovely.

As for the rest of the country, I’m sorry but I just don’t remember much. This is not due to any excessive behaviour, mind you. This is more due to an excessive amount of jigs.

Jigs.



They all said “jigs”.



Now if I recall correctly, we left you hanging onto the edge of your seat in great anticipation of our meeting in Bilbao, with the head administrator of this beguiling musical odyssey. Issues we’ve had with this tour have been piling up on the table at a furious rate, and now we finally have an opportunity to discuss these problems with their chief architect. But before we do, there’s a show to play.

Tonight had us playing in Bilbao, Spain, to a large audience alongside California’s “The Angry Samoans”, and Sweden’s “The Soundtrack of our Lives”. We were in the middle slot. Now I hope this doesn’t come across as overly-arrogant, but here’s a chance to be the delectable filling between two slices of white bread. Unfortunately, the whole sandwich ended up resembling something in the bottom of a twelve year-old’s schoolbag.

The Angry Samoans show was mystifying for all the wrong reasons, and The Soundtrack of Our Lives, played as if our lives were spent living inside a busted sauna, eating meatballs, while The Drones had one of those metal-fatigued shows where everything decides to fall apart in the performer’s hands. Gareth suffered an inordinate amount of string breakage and fractures to two sections of his beloved Fender workhorse, rendering it virtually unplayable with several songs left in the set. This, as well as yours truly suffering a blow to the side of the head from an errant drumstick, travelling at the speed of sound (Mike assures me it was an accident), made for an exceptionally difficult show to get through. Luckily for us, we have enough performances under our belt to give the impression that things are going well, and we leave the stage whispering “I think we got away with that”, Basil Fawlty style.

After a brief period of relaxation backstage, watching forty-something Californians drawing dicks and tits on posters, we are greeted by you-know-who (YKW). Now, YKW also happens to be the organiser of this particular show, so he is a very busy man tonight. Still, we will surely have enough time to sit him down and explain our problems and between us, resolve a few issues.


Surely.


What we got was about thirty seconds of chit-chat, and then as soon as “point one” was brought up, suddenly YKW becomes a busier man than ever. He excuses himself, and we don’t see him for the rest of the night.


What’s that all about G?


So what could have been this:




Or at the very least this:




Just becomes this:




And we continue on to Barcelona.


Unfortunately we arrive during what these lazy buggers describe as “siesta” and our soundcheck becomes non-existent, so we head to the hotel, dump our luggage and go to a guitar shop to get some much-needed repairs made to our overstretched equipment. On the way there, we accidentally get to see some of Gaudi’s wonderful architecture, and I wonder to myself how many more buildings might exist like this in Spain if more people had decided to stay awake during the afternoon.

Alright, alright, alright. I’ll lay off. I mean, who am I to even comment on a country, who’s blackened band rooms, budget hotels and petrol stations are the only things I’ve actually seen?

It is a country not without it’s many charms, but we’re at ten shows in a row now, and losing our senses of humour, balance and hearing at a frightening pace (for the record, a day off is when we neither travel, nor play. Some nights we don’t play, but spend several hours in Van Morrison. Ten shows in a row is the longest stretch of travel/gig on the tour). Plus we all smell terrible. Really terrible.

The show itself was passable, but the celebrations of a ten show run without any fatalities were far more enthusiastic. Aided by our good friends Lilith and B.J, we got quite drunk and hit the dance floor with a vengeance. Possibly a little too much vengeance, as I was duly escorted out by security for my passionate interpretation of “West End Girls” by the Pet Shop Boys.

It was time to leave anyway.

Woke up the next morning a little sore, and headed east for our run of shows in Italy. A two-day drive meant we stopped over in Nice, France, for the night. Although we arrived at ten in the evening, we still managed to find a great restaurant and soak in the opulence of the French Riviera for a couple of hours before retiring. The next morning had us fumigating and delousing our clothes together in a nice, Nice laundrette. In a matter of hours we were in the town of Faenza in the north of Italy.


Italy was for the most part, very agreeable with The Drones. Our venue host, Marena, was an absolute delight. When she wasn’t preparing incredible food in the kitchen, she was putting microphones on the drum kit. We were wondering what our chances were of securing her as the new tour manager. She was serious too. When she set yet another plate of heaven in front of me at dinner, I blurted out:

“Thankyou Marena. I love you!”

She fixed a steely glance on me and said:

“Good”

Then walked away.





The next two shows in Italia were in Fossinone, and Pescara, respectively. Fossinone was a little strange. We played in a converted petrol station in the industrial badlands, to around a hundred people who preferred to stand outside the venue during the performance. Earlier in the day the venue owner’s son and daughter were outside kicking around a soccer ball, being very loving and cute with each other. Tour manager, Gorka thought he’d join in with them, and impress us with his deft touch and finesse. But there was nothing impressive about watching a thirty-five year old guy kick a couple of little kids’ football into an impenetrable field of blackberry vines. And there was something downright devastating about watching a couple of brave little troupers kicking around a burnt cob of corn instead. Maybe it’s the fatigue, but I almost broke down and cried watching this. On behalf of that guy, we’re very sorry kids, one day we’ll come back with a shiny new soccer ball.

We promise!

Then on to Pescara, where the crowd was slight despite the efforts of Paolo the Champion. I don’t know. Maybe it was the French Jazz/Rock/Fusion band that opened for us, maybe it was the Champion League Grand Final being on that night, or maybe it’s because Italy has a very strange attitude towards rock and roll music. A few people there told us this. It has a strong grip on it’s past, as far as the arts go. A real classicist bent. A reporter there told us that the only music festival they have in Italy is a family based event, where the best performer wins a prize! Maybe Melbourne should put one of those on. It is odd though. Can anybody out there name any Italian bands? We can’t (The Three Tenors doesn’t count, Gaz).


The next night was a blast, though. A show in not so ancient Rome, with Dirty Three. It was just the tonic. We played a good show, and then had the pleasure to recline side of stage and watch one of our favourite bands in full flight. Something a little odd occurred between the two performances, however. While we were mopping ourselves up and getting our breath back, we received a visit from two delegates of the Australian embassy. It was a truly surreal moment, reminiscent of the scene in Bob Dylan’s “Don’t Look Back”, when he gets a visit from the very proper lady of the manor. These very eloquent and important-looking people told us how delighted they were that we had played, even though they were only able to listen to us from outside the venue (an Italian tradition). They gave us some strange embassy-merch, told us that if we ever have any issues with the Italian government that they would help, and then asked us if they could “possibly speak with the classically-trained violin player, who now plays loud rock music”. We informed them that he was on stage about to play, and they took their leave. Strange.


As I mentioned before, their show was a highlight of the tour for us, and we were very flattered when Warren Ellis dedicated a favourite of ours, “Everything’s Fucked” to The Drones. “The hardest working rock and roll band in the world, ladies and gentlemen. They’ve just played a hundred shows in thirty-two hours, and they need new socks, underpants and clean hankies, so please give generously”. Fiona’s request of “Sue’s Last Ride” was honoured, and they left the stage to rapturous applause. Lovely gentlemen they were. There was talk of a tour together, at some point in time. We shall hold you to that chaps. Thankyou for the show.



But shit! We have to leave in the morning! What about that Colosseum thingy? We race back to the hotel, dump our bags, and get the concierge/janitor to order us a cab. At around 3 a.m, the cab shows up, we jump in and say “Step on it, Mario!” Mario steps on it. Mario puts a freakin’ whole through the floor. At a cruising speed of 140kmh, we are taken to the Colosseum, and come face to face with all that incredible majesty and horror. As far as old things go, this one takes the tiramisu folks. We leave after a while, very happy that we sacrificed some of that precious shuteye.



Two more shows followed in Italy, which were once again fatality free, and then a festival here in Mainz, Germany. A festival which at first seemed downright scary in a fun for the whole family kind of way, turned out to be a real humdinger. Hundreds of writhing Germans, and our first encounter with en masse bodysurfing. After the show two little guys about the age of ten came backstage, and made us write all over their arms with a permanent marker, and declaring in a very thick German accent that Gareth is like “Dracula with a guitar”. Which he is, of course.

I have to stop writing this claptrap now. We went to a fucking disastrous sushi train earlier, and frankly, I’m a little frightened for my life. I have never seen sushi that colour before, and canned peach and pineapple on a plate is surely a sign of a restaurant a little unsteady on it’s feet. Let’s face it, the last time the two countries teamed up it wasn’t a roaring success.



I’ll check for spelling mistakes later.

Over and out.

TGP