Yesterday, Thomas
brought 200 copies of “The Other Side of Darkness” LP over the Swiss-German
border. Delays at the pressing plant
meant that the band and Taken By Surprise impresario Michl didn’t have a full
inventory at the beginning of tour, so this rendezvous was organized. Little did Thomas know or anticipate the
grilling he would receive at Swiss customs.
Bored boarder agents see a punk and pull his car out of line. A few standard questions reveal that he has
boxes of Night Birds vinyl in the trunk.
A simple internet search is all it takes to determine relative value per
piece. A 3% customs tax is placed on
this value. A 22% VAT is levied on the
entire DIY freight. And for his troubles,
Thomas is forced to undergo a notoriously inaccurate drug test consisting of an
analysis of his sweat. Thankfully the
results were negative. If they had been
positive, he would have been sent to a hospital where his blood would be drawn
and analyzed and appropriate charges filed.
12 hours later we slink across the border into France and Michl
negotiates with an overworked agent to get the 25% refunded back since nothing
from the infamous cargo was sold in Switzerland. Eyeing the line of cars rapidly building up,
the agent just handed a wad of cash back to Michl. Didn’t even bother to count the records. We get our cash back. Thomas is still owed his dignity.
Two days ago,
Night Birds took the stage in Bologna, Italy.
“I’d like to thank all the opening bands tonight. So I’d like to thank us.” It was a one band show. Joe pats himself on the back. To make it worth the kids’ while, the band
rolled in some surf instrumentals to start the show. It made for an enormous building of tension,
so that when Brian stepped on stage, the crowd roared. Technically, they didn’t even play that
day. It was a day off. They played after midnight.
Apparently
the entire country of Italy takes August off.
For the record, the author loves this idea. Conventional wisdom (and like, every fucking
person we talked to) suggests that the show will be a poorly-attended
bomb. Everyone is on holiday. This is actually the reason the promoter
couldn’t pull together an opener. Every
local was short a drummer or a bass player or whatever. What is not considered in these depressing
predictions is that if everyone across the country is on holiday, they are free
to travel across the region to attend the NBs one and only Italian gig. So the show was well-attended, kids gave a
damn, and it fuckin’ ruled.
We killed
time before the show checking out the town center, snacking, souvenirs, and
snapping photos. The author even sniffed
out vegan gelato, much to his pleasure. Back
at the venue, Michl and I surveyed the surrounding properties and noted nothing
of interest save for a few body-storage housing projects and a budget grocery
store where Michl purchased some bargain undies. They were a steal at 5 euros! That evening we feasted on a vat of equal
parts pasta, olives, and olive oil. The
guys did a sunset photo shoot with Salad Days fanzine on some busted-ass train
tracks littered with used hypos.
A family crisis back home was managed from our
pinch-hitter promoter, Gianluca’s flat.
He had the fastet wifi on tour.
That alone deserves a mention.
The walls were covered with poster art from shows he presumably was
involved with. The Vibrators skipped the
middle man and just wrote directly on his wall.
Mattresses thrown to the floor.
We passed out for four hours before crawling back to the venue to load
out and hit the road. A waterfall in
Switz awaits. Several of us are dealing
with chocolate waterfalls of our own.
This blog
not being updated yesterday can be blamed squarely on yesterday’s drive. Easily the most beautiful of the tour, we
burned directly through the Alps gazing up at far too tall peaks and cautiously
eyeing far too deep valleys that abruptly drop off from the edge of the
road. It was too much to take in. It couldn’t be captured in photo or video and
certainly not with the written word. Phil Spector’s “River Deep Mountain High”
as adapted by The Saints plays.
And speaking
of not being able to capture and convey things appropriately, the Rheinfall is
a perfect example. I’ve got no stats to
site, but imagine innumerable tons of crashing water exploding nonstop down a
steep cliff as you perch at the bottom from the so-called safety of a slick
concrete platform. You are close enough
to feel the water calling and dragging you forward. That little voice echoes in your brain that
just says lean in a little more and get sucked away.
The massive
summer festival and open-air concert in the idyllic Schaffhausen has absolutely
nothing to do with the ‘Birds and the dank cellar they will be performing in
that night. This bunker/dungeon/crypt is
the perfect spot for some subterranean rock n roll. It’s about as unsafe as a New Brunswick, NJ
basement show. Slick stone steps take
you deeper and deeper into the smokey coffin.
A high, curved ceiling reflecting red lighting from the floor completes
the picture.
The last of
a trio of shows with No Weather Talks and Irish Handcuffs means a brief reunion
and farewell. Groggy, grumpy and a bit
claustrophobic, I hang in the back when Night Birds hit it. Instantly moshers begin running back and
forth and catapulting onto one another. I see Brian ready to kill the guy who
threw beer in his face. As wild kids
stumble forward, he pushes back like King Hippo ala Mike Tyson’s Punch-out,
protecting himself and the two with their hands on the fret boards. I see my roadie-tour-guy job description is
about to expand. I move forward and
crouch down in front of the band, banging my head and screaming the words, but
catching errant moshers and crowd-surfers as they pitch forward in this
concrete fire hazard. I try to do this
in the friendliest possible manner.
There’s absolutely nothing wrong with this chaos – it’s welcome,
invited, expected – the musicians just need to be able to physically provide
the sndtk.
Our generous
hosts put us up in the same place we had dinner – a spacious flat around the
corner from the venue where we could ogle a massive poster chronicling first
gen Swiss punk. Space is what I needed
at that point. A few hours underground
sweating and breathing second-hand smoke pushed me to the precipice of a panic
attack. When we were offered floor space
in a close, quiet apartment with wifi vs. beds and couches in a further afield
punk house with multiple roomies, we jumped on the former with respect to the
latter. A wince-inducing drive Paris
drive and stress-inducing border check awaits us. We need some zzzs to brave
tomorrow.
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