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Tour Diary: 2002 (Eugene) > Page 6 |
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New Cross Amersham Arms, London
Now comes the real sad and weepy part of our tale. And the part that's wholly responsible for our Anti-Fetanyl Public Service Announcements. Well I can't go into details without recalling that real wake up and stagger Clockwork Orange kind of nausea, and sweating, and trembling, blurred vision, and fevered chills and swirling dropsies. And the best part about it. The whole fucking punchline is that the person who gave me this shit TOLD ME IT WOULD DO THAT! She said "I took it and was violently ill for three days but I hadn't eaten and had been consuming other, um, 'medicines'." So naturally I would be exempted. Naturally not. I stagger through London and try to get the wind in my hair/head and straighten up before the show while cursing my hubris. I try to go into a store to buy some batteries for my "personal listening device." The guy watches me with a mix of pity and revulsion and he uses a pencil to sweep my change into his change drawer. I wander back into the club. GET ME A GODDAMNED MAKE UP WOMAN! And Manuel the Dutiful does and she holds my face while applying copious amounts of eyeliner and mascara because nothing goes with a scalp-ripping downer high like Maybelline.
Our British Patron Saint Steve Gullick is in the audience and we play well. Steve's photos of NIRVANA, NICK CAVE, BLUR, JANE'S ADDICTION and SOUNDGARDEN will be now joined by photos of OXBOW and a near death OXBOWIAN experience. Another public service word of medical caution from OXBOW's lead singer: "Abuse NOT the Fentanyl!" |
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Barfly, Cardiff, Wales
Great promoter, great show, the Fetanyl is wearing off. I feel almost GREAT again. 
Outside the Barfly Dan picks up a homeless bagpipes player. Well he MAY have a home but when Dan found him he was wandering the street in a skirt with the bagpipes blaring. Dan catches me in the street and says smiling ear to ear "He's going to play with is tonight!" The Fentanyl has worn off almost enough so that I can fully appreciate the bad idea status of this particular burst of non-linear thinking. A drunken skirt wearing bag pipe player who most certainly is insane as part of an OXBOW show? Genius. In the bathroom prior to the show while I huddle in a stall and consult my "medicine box" I hear the bagpiper call through the door. "You're the singer, eh?" "Yes." "Do you want me to go on with you?" He asks, correctly sussing my crap ass mood. "I want you to hand me some fucking toilet paper." Which he does. And while I sit there I hear the band begin to play and him along with them. I wipe, hit the stage (AFTER washing my hands) and we break into song and that's the last I see of the bagpiper who it should be noted had been heard to ask earlier while quaffing a pint or 10 if we could hit him with some ska beats. 
With the spirit of Tom Jones We stay that night down the street from where TOM JONES had his debut and the guys that we stay with are fucking Kings. Real gents. |
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The Verge, London
The show was packed. Steve Gullick sent some photog friends who come back stage before the show and ask us "Do you suck?" We say "we don't think so. Stay and if we suck feel free to let us know." The beautiful Italian drummer for one of the bands playing tonight helps me with my make up and her hands are strong and true. 
The Verge My cousin is in the audience too I've been told. As is a woman that saw us play in Bergen, Norway. We play and somebody falls onto the stage and all I see is a jumble of red hair and a hole and so I jump on and start fucking. I remember very little else of the actual show. The magazine that sponsored our tour in England, Terrorizer, is there, as is their Editor in Chief. His eyes are shining after the show and I can see he's glad we didn't suck. Guys from NME are there and they ply me with flattery and a variety of white powders. The British tour promoter who heavily thought we sucked was there too and was apoplectic, sputtering his approval and almost apologizing for his previously unstated inability to BELIEVE in OXBOW.
It was turning into a party. The wine was pouring. Asses were grabbed. Party favors were proffered. We stay with this fella Paul and smoke up a bunch of salvia, which proclaims the need for a "Tripsitter." Fuck that. We pass out and I drift off listening to Veloso sing about Giuletta Masina. Perfect. 
The traditional post show falafel run |
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