EUROPE - GÖRLITZ

We leave early from the home of the Antwerp promoters and their immense library of records. We have a 9 hour drive to a last minute show, cutting across Germany to the eastern border, a short bridge crossing from Poland. Tomorrow, we cut back across to play Essen in the west, an hour from the Netherlands. Half the band don’t really wanna play it, but Chris holds firm - ‘Cancelling wouldn’t be very rock and roll, guys’ - and everyone mumbles in begrudging agreement, looking out their van window. Slayer is playing.

6 hours into the autobahn drive and the van starts swerving in and out of its lane, Chris fighting to regain control. He masterfully steers us into the roadside as behemoth trucks bomb past, shaking the whole equipment-filled van, which fills with the stink of burnt rubber.

Simon and Chris up front turn down Slayer and get out and run round to check the van. The rest of us in the back slide the big side door open as cars shoot past in blinding speeds. We peek our heads out to check the traffic, hop out when it’s clear, and dash

 round the side of the van. The right rear tire is totally shredded. All that’s left is a torn and misshapen rubber ring, with no interior left, so you can see right through it, hanging loosely around the rusty wheel rim.

Someone points, ‘Fucking look where we broke down’. A sign across the highway reads somewhere called Helmetal in 1000m. We all have a smoke to celebrate not dying. It doesn’t taste as good as the ones after long, brutalising bar shifts, and this sends me into a minor depression (you haven’t earned it, that's why it tastes off). The guys handle the near-death situation great. I’m calm too, as I know bassists only die on the road in Sweden.

I do feel a slight elation at the brush with danger. But I remain cautious - I just know it’d be my luck to survive a highway blowout, only for a hurtling leviathan freight truck to smear my ass all across the autobahn moments after - as I nip back round the van for my crisps.

Simon calls the rental company and autobahn breakdown people and handles everything. Whether he likes it or not, he is Band Dad. Him being an actual dad appears from time to time in charming flashes that edge somewhere between David Brent and Alan Partridge. Like all drummers, he is the anchor.

(Note: according to some arcane patriarchal order of the band, Simon might actually be Band Grandad and Chris Band Dad. I haven’t conducted enough research to confirm this lineage. All the same, I believe Jack to be Simon’s best (grand)son. The cryptic origins of Mack, the dark horse, are obscure, but he bears a definite connection to Charlie, who is becoming the prince of this rodeo. It is a curious dynasty).

Pick up in an hour apparently, and then a professional can survey any damage. We stand shivering in a nearby rain-soaked field. At the far end opposite us bare, black spiky trees scratch up at the granite sky, jagged electricity pylons beyond them. Cold rain falls on us. Charlie says, ‘I need to shit out a poo, mate’.

We get a call back about the costs, due to be paid by us, and then have a band discussion to determine who will have to suck off the repairman should we not have enough money. Mostly we talk about sacking the gig off or not, depending how long pick up and repairs could take take, what might be the issue with the van, etc. I hope we can get to the gig as we’d made good time in the end, and to go back to Belgium now would mean we’d effectively driven 6 hours to blow a tire, and possibly a German repairman too.

In a characteristic display of Deutsch efficiency and professionalism, the breakdown guy is 15 minutes early. He cheerily replaces our tire with a spare attached under the van, not even removing any of our huge stock of gear, using some jack fashioned from the strength of the gods or something. We decide to get the van checked out tomorrow, we can still make the show tonite, the van and new tire seem stable enough.

We are later told by every German we relay the incident to that we were very lucky to have something like that happen with no vehicles immediately near us when we lost control. On the autobahn, those situations usually end bad. I make a mental note that I need to wear my seat belt more - I haven’t at all so far.

We drive on to Görlitz and get to the venue, a youth club at the foot of a huge medieval castle, around 9. More Germans watching me eat rider soup. Do I eat funny or something? Place is packed, kids waiting for the tekno disco after, which is delayed due to our late

arrival. No one seems particularly enthused to see us. On my second trip to the giant soup vat, after dropping a helping into my bowl, the ladle slips out of my hands and descends into the murky soup depths of the vat, sinking without a trace. I replace the vat lid and walk away quickly.

Turns out the bullshit journey was totally worth it. The sound is strong and kids are going mad once the riffs begin. Axe deodorant and BO permeates the air. Or maybe the BO is actually the soup. Anyway, it’s a really good show, cramped as fuck, rowdy as fucker. Wish I had played it, one of the best crowds for sure. Next level punk rock dream. I woulda killed this one. Never enough. Greedy greedy greedy. Ah well.

Great to watch the band destroy it and deliver for the people. Everyone just stands around at most gigs in London, unless it’s grind or hardcore. But outside, in Leeds, or fucking Łódź, people are hungry. One giant mosher was tearing around the room tonite, throwing himself into every wary attendee. He nearly sent me thru a plate glass window. When he was catching his breath he just stood whistling at an incredible volume, louder than any whistling we’ve ever heard, at random points in the songs. Not during a solo, or after the end of a number, just whistling all over the songs. It was cool the first 10 times, then very distracting, piercing thru and rising above the maelstrom. At first we thought it was an overexcited Mack throwing in extra whammies and dive bombs, but no. It was Jürgen, the Giant Whistler of Görlitz.

We stay in the loft of a 5th or 6th-floor walk-up above an anarchist cafe. The whole building seems to be squatted. The room is comprised of old wooden bunk beds and a coal fire furnace in the corner. Lying in the dark just after lights out, Mack says he feels itchy. I suddenly begin itching.