EUROPE - ZURICH, EBRIETAS

Nerds say ‘cellar door’ is the most beautiful juxtaposition of words in the English language. What is surely the most expensive combination of words is ‘Swiss coke.’ In spite of such prohibitions, I manage to score a little of the goodgood (and it is good - clean, stimulating enough to stop just short of the God Complex empowerment, and comprised of actual blow - able to stuff my face with crisps on the frenzied nocturnal blitz across the border to accommodation in France later on, the high maintained). But before all that...

Super bleak drive thru Switzerland, miles of cold, grey mist and rain. Chaos and confusion in central Zurich as we negotiate the roads, an obscure system unto themselves. Satnav does not prepare us for total bombardment from all directions by trams, cars, scooters, electric bikes, pedestrian chancers. Who has right of way? It’s anyone’s guess but ours apparently. We think we’re figuring it out when a Honda Civic comes barrelling past us, beeping furiously, the driver shaking his fist. 

After numerous attempts circling round and thru the same square mile, we finally get on the street where the venue is located. ‘It’s there,’ Chris instructs Simon. ‘Where?’ ‘Right there.’ ‘What, the one that says “Heavy Metal” outside?’ ‘Yes’. 

You think of Switzerland, and how much Hellhammer/Celtic Frost hated it, like I and Aberdeen, and you expect the worst. A hyperbourgeois hellhole. And yet. It was one of the best shows of the tour so far. This being a (semi-)pro affair, we’ve played venues across the continent where the U.K. equivalents would have laughed us out the door. Over here, we’re treated like grown up musicians. It’s been very very heartening. 

But tonite, a last minute pickup show since Bochum cancelled, we play in a bar basement in central bougie fucking Zurich, and it is everything I crave in a live music context. One foot stage, no lights, poor soundman imploring us to respect the decibel limit, and room to thrash. 

Before the show an American expat punk lifer makes a vat of pasta for us and we listen to Bolt Thrower and eat punk pasta in the basement. We wander the block and go to Big Ben Pub, a curious Irish/ Scottish(/and English?) establishment where a Guinness costs about the same as a 2nd hand Ford Fiesta. It’s ok, the indignance this inspires is fuel. 

The show is frenzied, drums barely audible over the cranked amps, Ben rolling around the floor feeding back and dive bombing/hammering his whammy bar, me charging into people on the floor and thrashing around, Chris commanding chaos. Aggression, abandon, absolution. Old punk guy in Cardiacs shirt tells me, ‘I’ve never seen a bass player that has to tune after every song.’ Well that’s what happens when you’re not a bass player and you don’t play your instrument so much as abuse it. 

Many political and World Burns to Death/Gauze/Sacrilege talks out on the windblasted streets with the expat OG. I can’t explain why they spiritually nourished me, but they did. You meet people and wonder, are we subcultural soulmates or just autistically obsessed specialinterest nerds? I don’t know, but the vial is empty, my heart full.