EUROPE - ANTWERP

We start with some strong breakfast at a vegan cafe in central Ghent, beginning the healing process. Mack has a slab of charcoal pancakes and demolishes it in seconds, like he’s training for a fight. We go to a strange little castle owned by Lord Thicc Thighs (according to the audio guide, His Royal Thunder Thighs obsessively went up and down the castle’s spiral staircase like 5 times a day, got mad thicc thighs and had to wear skirts cuz he was so juicy).

We run into a peculiar Belgian hippie in the street, excited we’re a band and amused by my Discharge throat tattoo. At a corner shop I pick up two miniature bottles of Flugel for Who Cares Willy. I thought from his request they’d be some classic Belgian beers, but turns out they’re like turbocharged vodka Redbulls, complete with a raging neon duck on the label.

We drive on to Antwerp. Some Easy Rider classics come on the playlist. Everyone is laughing at Simon mishearing ‘The Weight’ - ‘Is he saying “Take a load of fanny”? Like, here’s a load of fanny, just have some?’ Song will never be heard the same again, is forever ruined.

By the time the venue is open the rain is cold and relentless, making the dirty grey city look even uglier. The street out front is as gnarly as the compact DIY venue inside. Lot of road rage, aggro, crazy drivers. Pretty hectic to load in and out of the van while people are nearly crashing into and fighting each other. It’s in some funky Arabic neighbourhood where we try to hit up an Afghan restaurant, a cuisine I’ve never had but am very excited about. It’s shut, so we shiver on thru freezing rain to the Asian neighbourhood and hit the pho spot for giant bowls which nearly knock me out.

Band graffiti/stickers on the wall of the narrow corridor at the rear of the venue, serving as backstage, show a lot of cool bands have passed thru here. Customers also pass thru, as the hall is lined with doors to rehearsal rooms. Sat between the bar out at one end where bands deafeningly blast away, and the practice plonking in the rehearsal rooms at the other end, I feel schizophrenic. Simon gets changed into his stage attire. He’s let the side down today, his Black Sabbath socks clashing with the rest of his Slayer apparel.

We played well, sounded good. Jack and Mack were happy and impressed. People thank us for playing and are interested in what you do, even strangers in coffee shops. They’re all so nice. I tell them thank you for having us, right back. I could understand if people just laughed at us for Brexit or whatever, or wrote us off, as has happened in isolated instances on past tours. But mostly everyone is lovely.

Living my punk rock dream. I’m starting to relax now, not needing to listen to the set over and over while reading tabs for the songs. It’s good to not be stagnant. I haven’t been nervous for shows in years. How can I be. It always feels like exactly where I’m supposed to be, doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing. But I’ve had anxiety for these shows, mostly the good kind, that reminds you you’re alive and moving thru moments and need to shit 4 times a day.

I like big stages and festival crowds and being a rockstar but it’s usually whatever. The best shows are in dark toilets with 50 people and no stages, your ears screaming with cymbal hiss and searing amp feedback, so close you can see peoples expressions, stand on their toes, take an eye out with a tuning peg. It feels good and real like this. Like I’m playing with Tragedy or someone. Like I’m doing it. Gotta be doing something. I’ve spent a lot of time doing nuthin.

It’s so cool, and envy-inspiring, to just sit in the van and hear Inhuman Nature talk about all their upcoming tours and plans, while the current one is barely underway. Wish I could get organised. Not gonna say one day. One day is never. I am what I am and that’s a scrappy rocker. Point me to the venue (or better, drive me), gimme some beers, and let me loose. I will deliver every time. That’s what I do. Everything else is beyond me or boring. I think I’ve sold merch twice in all the bands I’ve been in. It drives Dungeon Chris nuts. Sorry baby, no one got their rocks off slinging cheaply printed shirts. I am here to rock out and kick ass and abuse my body. You need someone to call directions in the van? Shoulda brought along a cartographer, playboi.

I love how this came about, too. Fortuitous with the job/life situation, but also something I’ve wanted a long time, especially after Covid. To be like Kelly Halliburton or someone. To be a multi-instrumentalist punk journeyman musician, touring and touring and rocking and rolling and writing. (Fuck if I listen to P.R.O.B.L.E.M.S. now I’ll never get to sleep). Just drop shit and go, hit the road, burn asphalt and melt faces. No time to second guess, just crushkilldestroy. Like a real musician. Being in command of your instrument. Being a pro like that. I know enough to recognise that tying so much happiness to one thing is a precarious gamble, but fuck it. If you gotta live for one thing, why not rock ’n’ roll? All I care about is art and love and I have not slept in a long time.