Utrecht, Holland (10)




Utrecht is a charming and elegant Dutch city, and it would be unfair of me to label it as a mini-Amsterdam, but sometimes life is unfair.

We had a night off here in mini-Amsterdam, which was spent crossing canals, pointing at old things, eating Greek food and enjoying the comforts of a three-star hotel (“Hey Mike. Come and look at this. Towels!!”). There was a Spanish rock band staying at the hotel, which pleased our tour manager greatly, as he was able to stay up all night in the bar, telling them what a bunch of pricks we were, no doubt.

The next day had us playing at DBs. A rather strange venue in the middle of an industrial park, on the edge of town. After yet another triumphant soundcheck, in which Gareth and I entertained the others thoroughly with our twin guitar suite of Jimi Hendrix’s “Manic Depression”, we were treated to a Chinese meal from the venue. The pork was fluorescent pink, the rice had large slices of processed ham and fried eggs on top and the beef in black bean sauce was like staring into an abyss, but still, being in this land of generosity and respect towards musical outfits affects me so, that I relish every glow-in-the-dark morsel (I side-stepped the ham). As I write, I’m struggling to think of one venue back home that would go to as much trouble as this place, and places like it all through Europe, to make a bunch of scruffy noise-merchants feel fed, watered and welcome. Generally speaking, the European attitudes toward music and musicians are quite remarkable. They value the contribution their artists have made over the past dozen or so centuries, which have helped shape and inform who they are as a people today. The artist is seen as a vital contributor to society, equal to the engineers, doctors, and the various other pursuits otherwise described as “proper jobs”. As many Australian musicians/writers/painters etc. would know too well, the general attitude at say, a barbecue with all your uncles, aunts and parent’s friends, is more likely to be “How are you Dan? Still doing the music thing? Oh well, keep it up mate. Listen your Dad’s got my phone number. When you wake up to yourself, give me a call and I’ll get you some work in despatch” than “Ooht! You are moosician? How very wonderful!!” which you may hear at a Hollandaise barbecue, I don’t know.

Point being, it takes a little getting used to, this generous, passionate and encouraging approach to the artist that they employ over here. It’s a pleasure to experience, though one should be mindful not to get overly acquainted with such a thing. Before you know it, you’ll be back in the country where it’s shape and information is for the most part, supplied by the people who can run and swim fast.

Not a terribly large crowd tonight (if your serious about shaping and informing a continent’s culture, you have to do a lot of shows to small audiences!!), though a gritty and sincere performance, they did receive. Sincere that is, until Gareth decided to stop singing in English about convict/cannibal, Alexander Pearce, and affect his “Dutch” voice instead. It’s a very quiet, slow and moody tune (“Words from the executioner to Alexander Pearce”), and very hard to play properly when you’re facing the wall behind you, with tears of laughter rolling down your face.

Having realised that as artists, we’d done nothing in Utrecht, to justify a free Chinese meal, we don the collective hairshirt, and head to Bonn, in Germany.


Bonn, Germany (11)


If anybody has been following the course of this tour with an atlas handy, you may have begun to notice a maddening “dartboard approach” to the booking of these shows, and it has only just begun.

So we drive five hours west of Utrecht, to play in a train station in a town several miles out of Bonn. Forgive me for not recalling the name of this town. For convenience sake, we call it Bonn. O.K?

If you say “Bonn” in France, people think you’re saying “good”. If you say it Germany, people think you’re saying “Nunawading”, or the equivalent of. Our show tonight was a last minute addition to the tour, no doubt so the agent could make some last minute pesos off a venue stupid enough to offer a guaranteed amount of money, in spite of there being no time to promote the show, put posters up etc. Needless to say, there were very few people in attendance. Maybe, ooooh, eight or nine. I hope it was worth it to somebody out there, though it’s hard to imagine it could have been. We had an American band supporting us at this show called……….oh………who cares? They were a self-described “Trucker-Punk” band, all seeming to be revelling in the fact that they were in Bonn, far away from their snotty kids and nagging wives. The amount of enthusiasm they mustered for this utterly pointless show was commendable. Not even the fact that three members of the audience seemed to be asleep, put them off their many “Cheech and Chong” routines, yelled verbatim through their microphones between songs, and their endearing repertoire of fart-based humour, served with a side-order of racism for good measure. Meanwhile, we were back in the band room, fantasising about hanging out with all of their nagging wives and snotty kids, instead of them.

Then we played.

Then we packed up.

Then we went to the hotel. A little place, run by an elderly couple. A very sweet couple with a distinct bloodline running back to the Wonka clan. Even though it was like sleeping in a giant cuckoo clock, it was a delightful place to kip, with a traditional German breakfast thrown in.

Then we went to sleep.

Then we woke up.

Then we had breakfast.



Then we drove to……


Den Bosch, Holland (12)


Still have that atlas handy? Funny, huh?

Tonight’s show was in support of American band “The Black Lips” at one of the better venues we’ve encountered so far, called the W2 in Den Bosch, Holland. A great room with a cracking public address system, and very hospitable and helpful staff. The Black Lips were friendly folk, asking after people in Australia who we knew as well, and letting us use their equipment. We played to a healthier sized crowd tonight, and played well enough.

One thing I haven’t touched on yet in this diary, is the world of small-scale, music merchandising. The Drones have a selection of t-shirts and albums in the van, which are hauled out at every show, and which are attempted to be sold at makeshift little souvenir stands, set up by one of the band members after soundcheck. Any money that the band itself might make on this tour can only come from the proceeds of these little stands, lest we succumb to a more overt form of prostitution. Sales are often a good gauge of how the show went that night, and going by the progress the stand was making this particular evening, I had to rack my brains and remember if anybody in the band had actually killed someone in the audience by accident. Having drifted off into my regular pumpkin-hour catatonia, I adopted the unusual and experimental technique of yelling at people to make them buy something. The first person I yelled at was so dumbfounded, he had no recourse but to dig into his pockets and hand over the necessary amount of Euros to buy a copy of “Wait long….” My colleague in retail, Fiona, was suitably impressed, and asked if I was to yell at any more people or if perhaps we should just cut our losses and pack the stand up. Not having much voice left, we opted for the latter.

Our next show was to be in Haarlem, which is a phonetic spelling of the way Bono sings it in the song “Angel of Harlem”.

Haarlem is quite close to Den Bosch, and only a twenty minute drive to Amsterdam where the concurrent show is to be played, so we were quite happy to be staying relatively still for the next few days. That is, until we were informed by our tour manager that this show has now been cancelled, and instead we have a new show lined up back in Germany, seven hours away. Sure, the show is not listed on our website. Sure, the show is not listed on our booking agent’s website, and Suuurre, the show is not listed in any way on anything, anywhere in the universe, but “yeeeeessss we have gig there now”.

“Nooooooo we don’t.”

“Yeeeesssss you do.”

“Nooooooo we don’t.”

“Yeeeess-“

“NOOOOOO WE DON’T!!!!”

What do you think reader? Should The Drones decide to do this show in Germany in front of less people than the show in Bonn, then drive the next day to Amsterdam for eight hours? Or should The Drones politely decline and take the day off in Amsterdam tomorrow?

Hmmmm……


Amsterdam, Holland (13)



Beautiful Amsterdam. Making inelegance elegant since 1178 A.D.


On the second day of our mutiny in Amsterdam, we played at the ornate and elegant Paradiso. A beautiful old theatre with two mezzanine levels, standing room only. Another show supporting The Black Lips, and the much better of the two. This time at the souvenir stand, Fiona and I were happily run off our feet for twenty minutes or so. One of the more interesting sales I made, was to an older, larger gent, who was insisting I sold him the girls medium t-shirt I had as a display-only item on the table. Perhaps as a gift? Upon making the exchange, he immediately ripped his own shirt off, and managed to squeeze into his brand new acquisition. He looked like a living, breathing Aphex Twin film clip. He attempted to celebrate his purchase with an animated gulp out of his can of Fax, yet only managed to destroy the re-sale value of the t-shirt. Meanwhile the crazed gypsy who was dancing up the front like an autistic Stevie Nicks, managed to break through the wafer-thin wall of security at the merchandising counter, and attempted to taste what Mike had eaten for lunch. As Mike was struggling for air, her perspiring, giant husband approached the counter. Uh Oh.

Turns out they’re both big fans.

He offered Mike his leather jacket.

And quite rightly too. From a strictly performance-based perspective, this had been the show of the tour, and might I say, I think we all deserved a creepy and sweaty leather jacket.

Later that night saw Gareth, Ryan and I making a complete spectacle of ourselves in a jazz club near the red light district. We found a table, and sat down in front of some of the most perplexing and downright awful scat-singing known to mankind. Initial shock turned to uncontrollable laughter, and we took the none-too-subtle cues from several of the patrons, and excused ourselves, settling ultimately in a terrifying Latino bar.

The next day was an ever-so-rare entire day off in a beautiful city, with nothing to do, and nobody to see. Lap it up Drones. The next one of these is in mid-June in Helsinki, but that that is a long way away.



I woke up with every intention to take in the Van Gogh Museum, Anne Frank’s attic and to walk along at least seven canals, but with the rain falling soft and steady, I opted to sit in the café downstairs for most of the afternoon, reading, writing and staring out the window. If you think this is a tragic waste of a day off in Amsterdam, I can assure you that it was an entirely pleasurable inactivity.



We had a fine evening planned. Some Italian food, and then back to The Paradiso for a performance by Low (Mike had blagged us onto the guest list the night before). We’d had great luck with food in Amsterdam so far, and tonight’s meal was no exception. Upon stepping out of the restaurant though, we could hear something coming. What sounded like a train approaching through an underground tunnel, turned out to be a few thousand football fans barrelling down the street, heading in our direction. A waitress calmly told us that we should get out of there as fast as possible, as the riot police will be arriving soon, and once they do, you are considered part of a riot.

“What happened?”

“Holland beat Spain in the football today”

“Why are they so angry”

“They’re not angry, they’re happy. Just in a very violent way”


So of course, we split. Everyone except Gareth and Ryan that is, who seemed to need a canister of tear gas to explode very near them, in order to get a wriggle-on. As The Paradiso was literally battening down it’s hatches, we made it inside at the last second. To walk out of a soccer riot, and into a Low concert, is one of the more pronounced contrasts you’ll experience in life. They were exceptional. Playing mainly off their new album “Drums and Guns”, they had us spellbound all night. What incredible voices they have! What beautiful songs! They control their dynamic range so well, swooping and soaring at will, and never hitting too hard. It’s all in the voices. At one point, Alan Sparhawk very casually asks the audience if anybody has a place where he and Mimi can stay while they’re in town. I quietly wonder to myself if they have the same tour manager as us.



Watching them play tonight made us all feel at peace with our choice of career. After what has been a very trying three weeks or so, for this, we were very grateful.

The next morning, we checked out of our hotel, all very relieved that not one of us had fallen down it’s stairs and broken our neck (that most of us hadn’t anyway), and bade goodbye to Amsterdam.




Rouen, France (13)



(Nothing mock about that tudour)


There was much debate over the pronunciation of “Rouen”. We’re pretty sure that it’s “won” as in won-ton, but with a little Frenchy sound at the start.

Rouen is famous for being the town where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake, and after The Drones blazed their luminescent trail through town, it still remains famous for that, and for that only. This was perhaps not the greatest sounding venue we’d played at so far, but by George, it was certainly the oldest (est.1585). The Emporium Gallorium. Emily and her team of enthusiasts were terrific hosts, at great pains to make The Drones of Arc* feel at home. Thankyou Emily. The band room was more dungeon than anything, and the local man who ran the p.a resembled a hunchback with a half-decent back doctor. “Chiro” I believe we dubbed him. He had a real bee in his beret about Ryan touching his desk. But Gorka sorted him out the only way a Spanish guy who speaks o.k English, and a French guy who speaks none, can. In a very long, drawn out, and frustrating way. After much confusion, Ryan was allowed to touch Chiro’s absolutely terrible p.a, and we were allowed to soundcheck in the exact same place Joan of Arc’s cousin pulled beers. We met up with the support group tonight, our very good, froggy friends, Dimi Dero Inc. and had a fine meal of homemade quiche, wine, bread, cheese, wine and bread.

A very loud show it was. Like playing inside of a stethoscope. But when you get that "old dungeony feeling", you can’t help but have yourself a good time. The Drones, Dimi Dero Inc. and the locals celebrated a deafening performance with some French moonshine, sending everybody to an early night’s sleep in this place.



The scariest sight a stumbling bumpkin could imagine.

Didn’t fall down them and die, though.

More photos to come.

*had to be done