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Tour Diary: 2002 (Eugene) > Page 7 |
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Lamplighters, Leicester, England
THE ONLY FUCKING SURVIVAL GUIDE YOU WILL EVER NEED Life may deal you some weird blows but if you do nothing but remember the following easy to remember rules of the road everything should be A, OK. DON'T FUCK WITH 1. A man singing MY WAY 2. MISTER ZERO 3. A guy with a knife and a hard-on Tear and save. 
Eugene: before the beating, sodomy, and tears. We start to play and I notice a few things. 1) There's a woman in the audience from London. Not surprising in and of itself, but London is 4 hours away. And yeah sure I'd drive to LA from San Francisco to see a show (approx. 6 hours) but that was in the hardcore heyday. Not NOW. And not for OXBOW. 2) The kids that open for us are cool and are influenced by At the Drive In and I'm sure they'll be hugely famous in a year. 3) There's a guy sitting by the edge of the stage that smells like trouble.
He sits. First facing me. Then facing the audience. And I can feel his mind work and when I see the entire front row's eyes swing behind me I know he's made his move and I turn around and see him with his cock and his balls jammed between his legs, his faux vagina shining bright, and his arms raised to the heavens. I don't know what he's doing but I know what to do with a pussy when I see it and I am subsequently disturbed to discover the hard way t he wasn't a woman at all but was merely masquerading as one and then when he began to fight back well I had no choice but to choke him into unconsciousness. Or at least as far into unconsciousness as I could before a friend of his stepped up and drew me away from him by trying desperately to get his own assfucking. After the song ended he screamed. "You HURT me!" And I said, "maybe you expected us to be more like The White Stripes or The Strokes or something like that. But you are sadly and now painfully mistaken. I suggest you find a band like that and perhaps they will treat you a lot better than we just did. Good evening." The crowd cheered and so encouraged was I that I Mike Tysoned another audience member's ear. And it tasted like caramel. |
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Packhorse, Leeds or Why This Shows Promoter Is a Dirty Whore
We squeeze onto another bill. Though this bill DID use us as a primary drawing card when they described us as "a chicago band and Steve Albini's pets." Same club, different promoter, same curfew.
The bands that play before us I don't see because I'm passed out in our luxury Mercedes Benz travel van. But right before we play I get to the stage and find a full hissy fit has broken out. Not only that but I'm braced at the door for a fee by the guy in the band who is also the scumsucking promoter. "I'm in the band." "Oh. Well your drummer is having a problem." I look over and Greg looks like Greg and so I ask him "what's the problem?" And he points to a fuck whose look I immediately don't like. In sports you call guys like this "Clubhouse Cancers." Slope-shouldered malcontents who can't figure out why they're universally reviled (Quick Pick: YOU SUCK.). He's moving s-l-o-w-l-y and I watch my wristwatch and see that we're fast approaching the curfew and so I repeat. "Is there a fucking problem?" He says nothing and slinks off the stage. The show proceeds and it goes beautifully with the exception of the cock-blocking audience member who protects a passel of his female friends from some of my more personal attentions. 
Eugene making an inquiry concerning the whereabouts of his pants, shirt, shoes, and socks at The Packhorse. After the show we all kiss and make up with the whore's son of a promoter and his band and things seem peachy. Until we get a panicked email from the UK tour promoter and he says "Are these rumors true?" And it appears the fucking rich kid jerk offs have taken to the email online ether and are spreading invective a la OXBOW are 1) Assholes 2) Ejaculate on the audience 3) All around thankless pricks I join the email fray and tell the guys that the scumbag brush he's attempting to use on us is better employed by the men of Leeds on his mother, that if we wanted any more crap from rich kids like them we'd squeeze their heads, and finally, that he should pray to whatever junkie god he worships that we never meet again. |
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THE CATAMARAN OF HIGH FLYING DEATH AND VOMIT ON THE HIGH SEAS aka GETTING FROM THE OFFWHITE CLIFFS OF DOVER TO THE BURGHERS OF CALAIS IN ONE STOMACH ROILING STEP
The ferry or the catamaran. We weighed all the variables‹speed, price, smoothness of ride‹and decided to go with the CATAMARAN. Figuring for smoothness of ride. Hahahahahahahahaha. If you were to throw yourself off of a building several times in a row you'd have a ride that closely approximated the Sea Cat. The Sea Sluts make a vain attempt at professionalism but the boat is pitching and yawing like a rodeo bull and it's all anyone can do to hang onto a succession of seats and hand rails to stay upright. A klatch of kids clings to their parents at the food bar where I'm ensconced chowing down and on cue they start to spew geysers of vomit that begin sluicing all over the floor and down the aisles.
I smile beneficently in the belief that if this fucking tub sinks I can swim. Forget the logistical impossibility of me swimming the English channel fueled with nothing but some wine, cheese, and sporting nothing but dirty laundry. I could make it. And we do. On to Hasselt. |
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More fun at the Packhorse
Equipment check
