TheOXBOW.com: OXBOW - Trouble That Will Trouble The World

Tour Diary: 2002 (Eugene) > Page 4

DEATH FERRY TO ENGLAND WHEREIN IT IS REVEALED THAT KARL DEMATA IS IRREFUTABLY A MOTHERFUCKER

This ferry is huge and it runs 24 hours straight to England. We have no work permits and if we get braced for them and DON'T have them we get turned away, forfeit all the shows in England and lose our 750 Euros besides. So we devise a plan that involves

- Splitting up
- Shredding evidence that we're a touring band
- Taping "medicine" to our bodies
- Creating a cover story that explains the 5000 pounds of musical equipment

We get a cabin and notice a sleeping bag in the corner.

Another Death Ferry

A few minutes later a woman comes in. About 62. Kind of old but I figure good for a hummer.

She: Have you seen my daughter?
Us: Daughter?
She: Well that's her sleeping bag.
Us: We didn't kill her! (well that's what we wanted to say, instead we said NO).
She: Oh. She's going to be excited to be bunking with you all.

Yeah. Sure. We expect to not see them again, but the girl returns.

About 22. Kind of young but I figure good for a rimmer.

Niko: would you like some of our whiskey?
Her: No.
Me: Lesbian!!!

Well I didn't say that but it was increasingly clear to me that the prospect of this party taking on a railroad motif was increasing low.

So out I went. To the lounges.

"Hey baby... My name is Alky..." There are women all over this boat with viking helmets on and bands playing unrecognizable covers of unrecognizable covers... The Ship Beats doing Britney Spears doing "I Love Rock and Roll." Most guys make the mistake of chatting or trying to the Viking-hatted college girls.

Suckers.

The smart money goes for the 54-year old wait staff. Stuck on this fucking Love Boat 24-7 and thinking about how awful lonely it gets on these cruise ferries at night.

Yeah.

I sleep fitfully back on the floor of my cabin next to the hippie backpacker with the lightly lilting scent of lentils on his malodorous breath.

We get into England with Manuel being the only one that is hassled.

Ostensibly because he had too little money.

Well that will fucking change for sure.

1 in 12, Bradford, Great Britain

This show was fucking GREAT. Bear with me.

First of all it was an anarchist collective.
Second of all they were vegetarians.
And thirdly they were some former members of Crass there still rocking the crusty punk shit.
And lastly we weren't even supposed to be on the bill anyway.

All the bands were late. We were supposed to play early but one of the bands made the claim that since they were using the same drum set that they should go next. Except their drummer was a left handed drummer and had to reconstitute the whole kit.

CAN YOU SMELL WHAT THE ROCK IS COOKING?

Eating with the Anarchists

That's right. I start a slow burn. Free magazines that are 10th generation Maximum Rock and Roll rips, extolling the virtues of non-competitive living and the cooperative nature of vegetable eating, peace signs, and flyers for pro-social anarchic marches (an oxymoron if I ever saw one) of all sizes and stripes.

And it becomes painfully clear that tonight shit will get fucked up.

PHYSIOGNOMY OF A TYPICAL OXBOW STORY

1. We interact with an unsuspecting member of the general public
2. They make a slightly uncomfortable discovery: maybe these guys are crazy
3. We win them over by convincing them that though different we're fundamentally OK Joes
4. Everybody goes home happy

This is how it usually goes.

Except when it doesn't.

The key is tripping the numbers on the combination that will open the door to what happens on the stage happening all over your ASS.

And THIS is what's happening. The show is moving along nicely until a few wags near the front make a move to mouth my cock.

I see an open mouth that close to the stage and I want to fuck it. You would too. These guys were tough but apparently not tough enough for any forcible acts of sodomy. They splash their pint glasses at me. I smash the pints all over the floor and still the question remains unanswered: contrivance or actuality?

With one song left and a smattering of applause one rather large wag approaches the stage with crude pen and ink drawings on his stomach that mimic my tattoos.

"Uh Oh," thinks Greg. "I've never fought an ENTIRE bar before."

And it is on.

I yank his hair and slap him into a mata leao. Also known as a rear naked choke. Or a sleeper hold. And this motherfucker starts to SLEEP before the valiant Ecstasy-riddled former member of Crass/Dirt vainly tries to yank me off of him.

Which in actual fact just makes the choke tighter.

The band plays on and I watch him as I he tries to hit me and I start to lean into the choke, twisting his head slightly with the intent being to render him totally insensate.

The blonde-dreadlocked anarchist strikes me again and I let go and grab HIM and shove the mic in his face and scream... "You got something to say? Then say it?"

"Would you PLEASE give another band a CHANCE???!?!"

Hahahaha... jay-zus. I can't hear him at all, the rest of the band later tells me what he said, and I turn and a glass flies onto the stage and I now know like I know that the sun will rise tomorrow that this place is quickly edging toward, ironically enough, total anarchy. Especially if by total anarchy you mean murder. I mean someone is clearly going to get hurt--and I'm not talking about feelings--and it's NOT going to be OXBOW.

He begs into the mic again and gesticulates toward my bicep as though to say "don't be a fascist, macho ass." I grab the mic away from him and say

"Thank you very much."

And we launch into yet another song.

And then we're done.

I jump off the stage and get dressed and make for the stairs so I can keep the van tires from being stabbed out just like they would have been in America.

The guy from the band after us Pale Horse says to me. "I saw your show. I didn't quite fancy it." I laugh and make back for the stairs to make sure our equipment is not being torched.

It's not and so I sit in their midst and it only takes a minute before 3 women make their way over to me and shake my hand and say

"We just wanted to thank you for being probably the worst band we've ever seen and totally ruining the evening of almost everyone here and especially fucking it up for a really good band that's playing after you."

"Well thank you, your sarcasm notwithstanding."

"I mean how can you justify that horribly sexist spew. God it was awful. It had absolutely NO redeeming value at all. Maybe you should print up a flyer explaining that to people. As like a public service. But as a woman I felt very threatened."

Another public service word of medical caution from OXBOW's lead singer: "Abuse NOT the Fentanyl!"