EUROPE - OBERURSEL
We pull into a big primary school complex for the Taunus Metal Fest, Decade of Aggression silenced by the van engine turning off. It’s a super-pro organised affair, typically German. We’re near some paddock or small farm, I see huge dark horses across from the area we’re parked. I walk over to investigate but they’re not there by the time my corpse shuffles along.
Heading back, I see about 10 tents pitched in the grass along the school building. In the snow. Festival staff say they usually have 150 campers since it’s not always this cold this time of year. Last nite they had to open the entire building so the obstinate survivalists could come in and avoid freezing to death.
Stage is in the large gym hall. Sea of patch jacketed Keep It True types, but quite quaint all the same. Current band on stage is called Iron Steel, playing the song ‘Road Rabid Aggressivor’. Needless to say, a lot of males in attendance. It’s my day off, Jack plays this one, so I be dranking, launching straight into it at noon now we’re back to school. 6 drink tickets is more than previous nites but not enough for a whole day, so I’m scheming. Had 3 hours sleep and the light now blaring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows running along the side of the hall is highly offending me. I sit at our merch stand with feet up on the table and sunglasses on, like the part-time rocker, full-time asshole I am.
Fucking McPlant has given me unholy gas the entire day today, every bodily function a foul reminder of my shame. Got shit hair too, never enough time with the early starts to properly shower and do it right. So my mohawk is a very crusty quiff at the moment (Quiff Cunt, Charlie calls me), if I sort it at all. I don’t like having my vanity restricted. I’m also starting to develop the horn. Gonna have to break the jizz-seal in next few days. Gotta time it right so I’m not beating off in some squat toilet becuz the postcum depression would be unbearable.
We are sequestered in a locker room with showers and some total drunken dipshits, Spitfire. They have already played, at 11am or some nonsense, and gotten totally blasted by 11.45. They are celebrating by stripping bollock naked, running around the showers, whipping each other with towels, open-hand smacking/walloping each other’s bare backs and pestering Inhuman Nature as they sit trying to warm up. Apparently they are all in their late 30s/early 40s. Someone introduces themselves as Kevin Carnage and I have to step outside the room to breathe.
The chunky bassist in the white Harley Davidson sportsbike jacket is the most drunk, and keeps talking about the RAF and Spitfires. Of course, being as obnoxiously self-involved as I am, and straight daydrunk, I hadn’t clocked their band name, just thought he was giving us shit for being English. Usually it’s the English who are awkward and bring up World War 2, but these dudes are weird and immature to the max. Watch their brains melt as I say I hate the RAF, I hate England, and I hate you guys too. ‘Listen Fritz, no one I know was ever in the fucking RAF. Where are you from anyway Dresden? Why you so sore?’ Maybe next time don’t elect a fascist who starts a world war, bruh. I’m getting a Larry David back patch so this whole country knows I’m up with the Jews.
Fatboy Bass eventually schleps out the room, only to stagger back in again a little later, somehow even drunker. This dance repeats a few more times, sometimes with the band dragging him thru the locker room door by his legs, his leather jacketed back squeaking along the floor. Security come by and sternly (is there another German way?) speak to them. Later we find out that the band fire him as he’s been a nightmare for every one of their gigs this year and even they have had enough.
Their young merch lady has been hanging back stage eating chips and speaking mile-a- minute Germanic. She has long dark wavy hair down to her arse, which everyone is coveting. I’m asking her what the drugs situation is and she says, ‘Go to Stuttgart or Frankfurt’, which you could see as a funny way to tell me to fuck my self, but she’s genuine. I’m not going to those places, I need something local. Her friend Rico produces Ritalin tablets, crushing them up on top of an amp. I tell him thanks but no thanks. Come on. Ritalin. What am I, a teenager?
Two beers later, Rico and I are doing lines of Ritalin off the amp and the Spitfire guys are inspecting my tattoos. I’m not so into the days off, I feel like a spare prick. I’m meant to be a star. It’s my time to shine always and if I’m not shining then I’m whining. These Spitfire guys are heavy metal pussies, only I am the real deal.
Placebo affect probably but I get enough propulsion to talk to people. In the U.K. I feel antisocial at gigs, but in Europe I like talking to people about their town, their scene, how Covid has impacted it etc., and where I can get drugs. Everyone is so nice and smiley in Europe, especially when I introduce myself - ‘Hello I am British, but I hate the Brexit and hate England and am sorry. Whereabouts might I obtain narcotics around here?’
Somehow in my walking coma state, long-suppressed high school-level German takes over and I make conversations. Or so I’m told. Maybe that’s German sarcasm? I make friends with a cool group of punks who echo long haired Merch Lady’s suggestions. I curse this nowhere town, and continue wandering around this suburban primary school, packed with German adult metalheads, demanding drugs. Someone must furnish me with some action.
I’m locked to the track now. It’s. My. Day. Off. The drinking does not let up, midday to midnite. I enter Indian Nightmare’s changing room down the hall from us and introduce myself, yelling to Corrado that Liv says hi. They’re super friendly, lots of hugs. They get a bit quieter when I enquire about drugs, but Corrado remains a good natured gent.
Lot more drinking, talking, bullshitting, enquiring. Eventually amble back to the merch spot. A young lady has set up shop next to us, for Martin Schirenc doing Pungent Stench. Everyone is staring at her large bosoms but no one is buying any merch or speaking to her. Band after band play, I vaguely remember Indian Nightmare, very good. I sit down at our merch bit and talk to Martin’s young merch lady. Turns out to be his girlfriend. We talk for awhile, have some smokes, show pictures of our cats. She does something creative (photography? art of some sort?), so I tell her about my wife and her jewellery. We talk about how she met Martin, how long Soph and I been married. During a smoke break an 8 foot German lady (???) brandishes a shot of something dark and spicy and I take it without question. What a country.
Can’t remember if I say bye or nice to meet you to Martin’s girlfriend (or what her name is), I am semi-blind, mostly deaf by now, but I realise it’s late, the hall has been emptying, and I need to find the class room Inhuman Nature are crashing in. Apparently I wander the school for 45 mins or so, opening random class rooms of sleeping (and occasionally shagging) bands until I find our room on the second floor, feeling like a deranged Goldilocks. I reportedly burst into the darkened room, Mack on the floor asking if I’m alright. I say, ‘Who are you?’ and leave for another wander. I finally return to base and settle down for the nite, on the wooden floor. Clothes and boots on, lenses in, mouth already tasting like a repulsive experiment.
A few hours later I bolt awake and stumble-stomp to the toilet to vomit black matter. This process repeats a few times until I wake up, the sun full, Inhuman Nature gone. Just the fucking remnants of Spitfire dicking around in the class room. How do we keep ending up with them?
I rise, shove my wayfarers into my face, quickly gather my bags and effects and wavily stride for the door. Spitfire burst into laughter and German gibberish. ‘Deutschland über alles’, I slur at them, provoking further hysterics. 'Auf wiedersehen, dickheads’, I wave goodbye with my pedal bag, kicking the door open and making my way downstairs to the van.