While we were suffering through yet another Australian winter, Wollongong garage rockers Los Tones were tearing through European summer on a tour that took them from Switzerland to Spain. Bed bugs, sweaty shows, horror movie drama, and a little debauchery ensued. Here’s what happened…
Wollongong garage rockers Los Tones recently tore around Europe on one hell of a tour. Here’s what happened.
Day 1 – Florence, Italy
Trying to catch a train in Italy is like pouring fire-ants into your anus…it’s fantastic. Anyway, after our train ride from some station to some other station we’re now waiting for some guy. Apparently, he’ll fix us up with the tour van and backline. “I had a great career with marijuana”, are his words. This is Andreas. We’d been sprung whilst inspecting a synthetic weed display. We pile into his tiny, as in small as car, and head off to pick up our tour van and backline. We get to the car hire lot and this ain’t no goddamn Hertz. The place looks like a burnt-out pasture where dying cars see out their final years. The dude renting us the van has fake super white teeth sharpened into points like a shark, this is a good thing, surely.
Our Italian booking agent affectionately referred to him as a “Nature Prank”. We were careful not to make any sudden movements or look our sharp-toothed pal directly in the eye, as a result, no one was bitten or maimed. The van itself did NOT have AUX or Bluetooth, and the radio was broken. So we would have to embark on a CD buying journey across Europe. We were finally on the road following the signs to Scandicci, taking the Scandicci exit and entering our new lives as official “Scandicci Boiz”.
CD1: Wu-Tang Clan – Enter The Wu-Tang
Day 2 – Florence, Italy
The thing about Florence is that everything is old: old buildings, old statues, old wines, old people, and most importantly… old cobblestone streets. Vacati Heaven. A quick pre-show game got the limbs flowing (Check out Vacati online for more info). Earlier that day, we walked up a hot hill for a hot picturesque view of the city because fucken tourists, that’s why. Luckily, we were able to douse our fiery as fuck bodies with heavily iced Aperols. Show.
After a great show in Florence at NOF club, (the first show is always great cause you still have that fresh new car smell), we ventured to a local alcoholeria that came highly recommended to us. The name alone, Blob, had us intrigued. Unfortunately, shortly after we arrived a white American college hopeful felt compelled to loudly as fuck audition for the role of village fuckwit. She got the part, and we left, fast.
Day 3 – Geneva, Switzerland
Wake up, head to Switzerland battered and bruised from our 1st night excitement. The vending machine pasta we self-medicated ourselves with wasn’t even enough to put the next day pangs to rest. However, Geneva held for us a venue that can only be described as “cave-like”, possibly “cave-esque”, or even “heaps cavey”.
Bodie’s microphone didn’t work but that didn’t stop us. Even the spiral staircase was packed with persons lined in a very spiral fashion. It was a good one!!! Rohan did not make love that night and Leigh ate a free buffet breakfast that was most definitely not free.
CD2 – Danzig II: Lucifuge
Day 3 – Lugano, Switzerland
Lugano, one of the two towns on the tour no one had heard of before, probably should’ve heard of it so let’s just chalk this one up to sheer ignorance. One patron from the Geneva show had however thrown the word “paradise” around. This is in extreme contrast to what we had predicted, the word “bomb” even being thrown out there. We were extremely sceptical and fearful of the “guaranteed” disappointment ahead.
Well mate…lemme tell ya mate…turns out the dude was right, correct even. The stage was overlooking the clearest of blue lakes this side of the dang Sahara, surrounded by lush green mountains to boot. Soundcheck out of the way, it was clearly time to cleanse ourselves in the calming waters, Evian draught I believe. Footy shorts proudly on display, our IMPRESSSSSSIVE bodies glowing in the dusk light, only one problem, a snag if you will, they won’t let us swim, lake’s closed. Who closes a lake? Who has the authority? “Nah” we said, “Nah” and “Yeah”, as in “Yeah shut up I wanna bloody swim”. So we just went round the corner where they couldn’t see us, pretty simple really.
Cleansed and re-garbed, sun gone (which was a proper setting of the sun, a real tear-jerker). I don’t know who the people were or where they came from, probably Lugano, but the show was great and it wasn’t just holidaying celebrities, the super wealthy and cocaine dealers in attendance. Normal arse persons you might say, but in a good way, like as if we were normal arse persons. Let the record state that Bodie Blackbear Zuckerberg Jarman is a total wuss for NOT leaping into the lake during the show, a total pee pee pants move that cut me deep, disappointment personified I tells ya.
After the show, tired, buggered, farked and once again uncleansed, we decide to retire to our 5 star lakeside villa in which one no doubtedly of doubts stays in when in paradise. “Naaahhh…not reeeaaally” can be heard from Rohan’s tender lips as they jam us into what we’re told is a squat/party house. The pipes still worked, all good. We were told we’d be sleeping on the stage, upon which famoso acts such as The Black Lips had once played. It was a floor, we most definitely slept on a floor. We were also informed that if we drank any of the booze that was in the house, an angry homeless man would seek vengeance. That’s the last thing any of us wanted.
CD3 – Bob Dylan: The Times They Are a-Changin’
Day 4 – Rorschach, Switzerland
We woke up early so as to not miss basking in the Lugano sun by the lake. Not surprisingly at all, last night’s venue had transformed into a breakfast/bar/swimming club? We caught some rays on the pontoon, then bailed to Open R’berg Festival. The festival was atop a mountain in a re-purposed dairy farm overlooking another lake. They literally shoveled out piles of shit to make way for the stage.
On arrival we immediately felt at home with fridges, multiple fridges, full of beer with a sign saying FREE, FOR EVERYONE!!!! The event had also SOLD OUT, more good news. Having arrived at a disciplined hour, we’d freed up enough daylight for another dip. Possibly the scariest moment of the trip occurred en route to the beach when Robbio had discovered his beloved, prized and invaluable Parra footy shorts to be just fucken vanished. Desperate for clues we headed back to the festival only to be waved down by an elderly version of Swiss-German Jesus himself with said Parra shorts in hand, waving them about like we’d just won the grand prix. Crisis averted. Thank fuck.
So we had a swim. Rohan for the second time THAT DAY proved he can’t use a diving board. He looked like an infant donkey trying to ski for the first time. We returned in time to see the 1st Band “The Psycho Daisies” who opened up with The Alarm Clocks hit Yeah. Enough said. We instantly became friends with them. Shout out to Laffie the keyboard player. On a final note, the men’s urinal was a pile fertilizer. Pissing on shit. It’s kinda funny.
CD – Joy Division: Unknown Pleasures
Day 5 – Prague, Czech Republic and Nuremberg, Germany
After a looong night on the mountain, ‘alps’ as they are known in Switzerland, we set out for the next show in Prague, a gruelling 7hr drive that no one, not any kaant ever was looking forward to. However, upon closer inspection of the venue address and accompanying schedule, we made a startling discovery. We fucked up. Our dates are all out of whack…for the better. We in fact had a day off. Holy Jeeezus. What to do? Surprise day off, where do we go? Too many things to consider.
Consensus was to head to Nuremburg, Germany, most famous for medieval architecture, Frauenkirche, huge beers and the annual rally of the Nazi Party. But most importantly, it was halfway to Prague. Wouldn’t ya bloody know it, the first person we met brought up the devilled ‘H’ word. Casually even, on a bus, in front of other people. Faaaaaark us. Anyway, we smashed a pork knuckle and sat around on a cobblestone street from what I remember. Nothin’ flash so we headed back to our accommodation so that Leigh could milk the 40 euro cleaning fee we got hit with, the second surprise that day. Leigh milked those teats dry.
Day 6 – Prague, Czech Republic
The venue Kasarna Karlin was a large plaza-esque government run art space in the middle of the city that had been repurposed as an outdoor cinema, art gallery, live music venue, rock climbing arena, sandpit, holding facility for naughty bad boy servicemen, etc more things. It was our 1st time playing in the Czech Republic so we were a little clueless, except for Robbio who had been boot bashed in the streets of Prague many years earlier (admittedly his own fault).
We played with a great band called Old Folks Home, a post-punk meets garage rock outfit, and the punters showed up in droves. Literally Droving. As any touring band would know, occasionally you’re left in the dark, alone and crying when it comes to accommodation. Discovering where you’ll be staying any particular night can be an anxious wait with interesting results. That night was no exception. We were sitting tight when Meg, the venue manager, calmly approached us and told us the arrangements. Arrangements are as follows I shit you not: “tonight you will stay in the prison cell”. What fuck? A mispronunciation, communication error obviously. “Steady on” we thought, not too young but certainly too alluring and delicate for the state hotel, enticing slabs of prison meat we is after all. Adding a dash of clarity re: the accommodation, we discovered Meg was in fact not joking and led us to our cells. They were ex-military cells, now abandoned, and formed part of the venue. Needless to say, after forming a gang, emptying our bowels in front of each other and fashioning some shanks from toothbrushes, we went to bed. We also locked Leigh inside his cell, juvenile prank we know, but still very, very, heaps funny.
CD – Ramones: Rocket To Russia
Day 7 – Berlin, Germany
SOLD OUT! That’s right, TRY and get in, betcha can’t. Nuff Said. There was even a mid-show scuffle outside because they had to refuse a disgruntled patron/loyal fan entry on account of he wouldn’t fit. Venue was 8mm Bar, or ‘AAAAACCHHHH millimetre’ in Deutsche. Shaun ‘Hot Tinto Jones’ Sprowles was forced back onto standing on the window sill like a robotic performance Urban Outfitters styled mannequin. Bloody packed I tells ya. Earlier en route, Bodie was entangled in an argument over some sausages, it was the wurst (Soz, for good measure but). Good night all round, great even.
Day 8 – Mannheim, Germany
Would’ve been nice to have a look around Berlin but ahhhhhh fuck that. On the move mate. And movin’ pretty too, fuggen autobahn pace. Made a conscious effort to prevent Rohan from getting behind the wheel, the van feels like a tumble drier in heat when he’s punchin’. We’d most likely crumble into oblivion with him at the helm on the ol’ untamed bitumen. I even recall Rohan informing us that he’d saved us 18 minutes thanks to him risking all of our lives for about 5 gruelling hours in warp speed. And you best believe we appreciated those 18 glorious minutes, probably had a ciggie and sat down for a bit.
Mannheim PCYC (can’t remember the name of the venue). Communal bathing is a thing in a lot of Europe. This was the second night in a row we played at a venue which had an abandoned public bathing house attached to it, so I should say it WAS a thing. This place had a PCYC/community hall/public doin’ stuff vibe. During sound check we were rudely interrupted by a gang of youths, children even (about the 6yr old mark) wanting to watch and dance and enjoy themselves after hearing the music in the adjacent room. They were the attendees of an acting class, more like arsehole class, they could’ve ACTED a little more civilised and knocked before barging in like a fucken pile of lil’ shitheaded motherfuckers. A big commotion ensued outside as we left, Europe during world cup season, kind of a big deal over here.
Day 9 – Liege, Belgium
Another of the not sure how many people are gonna show up to this one shows. We had our doubts but Le Hanger was a rad venue with an open fire pit bang in the middle of the everything. Much to our dismay, it filled up to the brim with crazy drunk Belgian punters. Even the chef who prepared our meal was drunk or a meth-head or somethin’ outside the lines cause he wasn’t a bloody chef, I promise ya. There was an alley cat out the back who was very happy that night, sayonara carbonara.
After arguably the best show of the tour so far, complete with a 2 x broken guitars and a shirtless Bodie we were taken out to our accommodation for the night (some bloke and his excited pal’s place). Up until this point we’d managed to steer clear of what they refer to in the insurance biz as ‘accident and illness’, BUUUUTTT we woke up to a yelping Bodie (lead singer) who had been attacked by bed bugs!!!!! Infested filthy scumbag. Dear Liege accommodation man, thanks and fuck you. Bodie and his assortment of sores had him looking like a seasoned crackhead for the remainder of the tour. There were no more hugs for Bodie. We also inherited the usual paranoia when you start to believe that everything you own, everything everyone else owns, everyone in the band and the van itself are crawling with bugs yearning for your supple flesh. However, everyone else was surprisingly fine.
Day 10 – Paris, France
Paris, and on Bastille Day eve no less. First things first, we got the quatre fromage pizza. Yeah I know, I know, pizza is Italian, blah blah shutup now. We knew a place from the last tour alright, we had a rewards card. DO NOT question our loyalty, just ask old mate Mr McPizza, not the first four cheeser we got from him, four plus four, HeeeEEAPS of cheeses, you do the math.
On the way into Paris we had the tremendous fortune of stopping for fuel and whilst there we just happened upon being in prime position when a snotty lil’ kid had his bottle of coke explode all over his goddamn face and/or body. An event like this is comedy enough but the lil’ fella puts on his best of British twerp accents and comes out with a “blimey” to end all blimeys, a gut-wrenching completely immature giggle fit ensued from yours truly. We hope he’s ok.
Back to Paris and we played a super fun show at Espace B subsequently followed by a surprise filmed interview. We were all super witty and charming, looked fantastic and oooooozed hilarious jokes. NEVER WATCH INTERVIEW EVER OR WE’LL BASH YOU. We then got dragged to an after party which broke the Guinness World Record for ‘most kaants mashed into a 1 bedroom apartment fuggen ever’. The playlist of the night featured Australian bands only, Drunk Mums, Hockey Dad, Los Scallywags and Crocodlyus, was a nice taste of home, cheeeeers mate to whichever Parisian programmed it. Apparently, everyone goes to fire stations on Bastille Day eve but by the time we made this realisation everyone had gone to bed…except us…we’re cool like that. Kinda like Manowar, we drink all da beers, sleep all da women, sit on all da drugs…aaaaand here’s a contract we’re forcing you to sign to uphold these egregious fathoms because we do none of those things ever.
CD – T-REX: Electric Warrior
Day 11 – Day Off, La Rochelle
A much needed day off saw us beachside in La Rochelle on Bastille day. All we wanted/needed was rest and sleep and more fuggen rest, just the thought off all this rest had us excited as, so we packed some tins and fled to the beach. This plan actually had an ulterior motive, to delouse Bodie and his bugs in the salty Bay of Biscay waters. As adults we were able to enjoy ourselves in the water with the obligatory submerged handstands and flips. We’re not nationalistic in the slightest (just gagged a little), but we found ourselves compelled to do something for the mere fact it was Bastille Day and we were in France AND we had a day off, something that may never happen again. Also, we’re heavy self-enablers, anything in the slightest can set us off.
The two Frenchest activities we could think of were devouring a charcuterie board and going to war with the British, we weren’t that hungry soooo…nah. Rohan took charge, DISappeared, REappeared with a mountain of cheeses (hard and soft), cured meats, pickles, pates, crispbreads, crackers, etc etc etc. A well-deserved and refined feast for a coupla well-groomed humanoids. And wine, of course, one cannot escape the allure of the region’s grapes that were in fact (may not be a fact) in full bloomin’ season, for sure, don’t doubt.
Day 12 – Sopelana, Spain
“Geez this tour has gone quite smoothly”. Cue bad shit happening. It was about time something bad happened. When we plugged in one of our amps smoke and disappointment bellowed out of the power transformer. It had had the shits with us, or maybe just Bodie, It was his amp. It’s always fun finding an amp repairman in a small coastal town where you don’t speak the language and they don’t speak ours. Fortunately for us, in sign language an explosion (feat. hand cloud and sound effect combo) followed by coughing whilst waving the pretend smoke away, then pointing to one’s ears and shrugging whilst saying “where’s the fucken sound?” works, that’s universal.
Anyway, one hour and €50 later, they didn’t have the part and we would be on our way. We managed to borrow amps at each venue for the remainder of the tour thanks to nice people. The show MUST, for fuck’s sake, go on and that it did to a crowd of weird surfer hippies in the seaside town that seemed to embody ‘surf culture’ as opposed to actual surfing, kinda like Castle Hill. It was nice playing to longboarders and their children BUT THIS IS A ROCK CONCERT, “NOT THE BLEEDIN’ SPLISH SPLOSH SHOW!!!” Nah…was fun. They even put us up in a caravan/trailer type thing. And, much to our surprise, discovered that Shaun doesn’t like other people brushing his teeth while he’s asleep. You try to do something nice for someone and all ya get back is yada yada yell shout yada no thanks.
CD – Slayer: God Hates Us All
Day 13 – Lugo, Spain
As we entered the old town of Lugo. Soz, but Shaun wrote this previous sentence and I had to leave it in as it’s the most under-expressive description as to how we ‘entered’ Lugo. WE CAME IN HAAAWWWT. Like we were fresh out of the HSC exam room and headin’ to fucken schoolies. Coupla 40’s to get the blood stirring, and then it happened, cause you can’t stop at ONE drink, when the stars align (and they did) you stop at hundreds. It was effortless, organic fun at its finest. Even the roadside piss stops were fun, no joke.
We were greeted at the archway of an old Castle, where we were told to wait until an electronic bollard was lowered so we could enter the gates. That was Shaun again, I don’t remember any of that, I was too HAAAAWWT. Sounds extremely regal though, definitely would’ve enjoyed. We were then told to follow a man on a white Vespa scooter through the narrow streets. We arrived near a large plaza where we emptied the van and set up our gear. It was the first outdoor show at an amazing bar called Ho Gruff. And it was paaacked. How do you even pack a street out? Cause they just keep going streets do, and there’s heaps of them. It was free, and to be fair a lot of the people were probably just trying to get through and got stuck. I think the entire town showed up for this one. The bar owner said that’s never happened before, so we apologized profusely and promised never to come back. Coupla family members showed up to this one which was nice cause we hadn’t been hugged by anyone since we left Australia.
Day 14 – Barrantes, Spain
After a quaint drive along the Galician coast we hit Barrantes a small town a bitty bit above the Portuguese boarder. Of course we took advantage of the salty seas, baking ourselves under the mighty rays of Ra, edging closer to our dream of having crispy rotisserie chicken skin. A bunch of old Spanish friends/family showed up…again. And again, as before, the tail spin was inevitable. The Galician special hit us for 6 and the night was marred by luging in our beds, Los Tones we have a bobsled team. We had dinner, but we didn’t HAVE dinner. We did however, judgment slightly impaired, agree to a breakfast at our very damn good friend’s parent’s house the next morning, quite early, early as some would say. After loooaaads of whinging and “fark youse” we made it (on time) and enjoyed a rather lovely spread. We even managed to avoid the so called “Galician shame”. It was a rough one but some clearly handled it better than others
CD – STOOGES: Raw Power
Day 15 – Alcobaca, Portugal
Alcobaca, another of the towns we’d never heard of but hey…Portugal…new country. Get into it. We rolled into town, parked on what looked like the footpath because parking spaces are illegal in Portugal (not fake news). We loaded in, soundchecked and sat down. We had time to kill, and an intimidating gang of local hunks were hogging the electronic darts. Fortunately, there was a tourist attraction in town, a big fark off size and old as shit church. So we had a look, a bit over the top if you ask me, makes Satan look like the humble one.
We maintained a steady rotation of sleeping in the van and enjoying some delicious local drink, not sangria, not tinto verrano, but similar and delicious. We were taken out for a comparatively fancy dinner, comparatively fancy to the norm which consists more or less of chips and sauce sandwiches. Again…not very hungry, “I’ll just have a salad,” he says, “fuck that” says the chef and out comes the biggest salad this side of the Pacific, half the town’s bloody produce in a bathtub. It was a good one.
Wasn’t sure how we’d be received in this small town but thankfully the punters began to show up. A sufficient amount. The stage was pretty high up, which we prefer, provides a tremendous sense of self-worth. After a fun show, and bear in mind that fun on the back end of a tour is bloody hard work, it’s not like you can just flick a switch or summon some magical device and fun is on the cards, you actually have to work at it around-a-bouts this point in time. So again, after a FUN show, we slept in a junkyard with a dog that we thought was dead but wasn’t, just almost dead. Whilst there we were able to enjoy the Portuguese version of ‘The Mask’ (La Mascara in Portuguese) on DVD, Blu-ray and VHS.
Day 16 – Lisbon, Portugal
Woke up. Still in junkyard. Dog still alive. Good. We were ready to hit the road to Lisbon, but guess what? Someone or some THING didn’t want us to leave. The yard is surrounded by a nasty perimeter fence, the steel security gate was locked and we were supposedly alone. FAAAARRRK. Everyone’s imaginations got the better of them, our inner monologues desperately trying to convince ourselves we were in fact NOT in a horror movie and were NOT about to be brutally murdered. Being a connoisseur of horror films, I knew that as long as I assumed the role of main character I would simply be wounded long after everyone else (except my love interest) was dead. This led me to my next decision of choosing which of my fellow band members was to be my lover…Not Rohan.
The guy from the venue eventually showed up and let us out. Alive and feeling that zest for life, we stop in for another swim. Another day, another bay. Lisbon, home of our label Groovie Records, so naturally we meet up with Edgar, our record pressing/distro guru. We go to dinner where strange men on the street offer us the local concoctions, aggressively even. “Try before you buy,” indeed an enticing pitch for mashed Panadol and chalk, will let you know if any of us develop a minor headache my friend. Played with a band from Vigo, Kings of the Beach, fuggen heaps good, so good we slept with all of them, separate beds, but in the same room in a hostel… doesn’t count Rohan. Good show. Something about Pink Street, dunno what happened, I went to bed.
Day 17 – Madrid, Spain
Woke up to a parking fine. Can’t read Portuguese soooo…all good. The tolls in Portugal were also slightly difficult to figure out, a few mishaps, a lot of reversing and amicable beeping but generally just plain old fun, fun for us…everyone else had angry faces and fist shakes galore. Only two more shows. It’s about this back-end time of the tour when we re-commit ourselves to the cause and shake off any negative energy by staging a blood ceremony/make out session in the backside of the van. Jokes (may not be a joke). This was actually a dream I had during a micro-sleep whilst behind the wheel on the way to Madrid. All good.
Today and tomorrow would be back to back six hour drives, “fuggen nuthin’” ya say, geez Louise…it’s a toughie alright, shuddup. Thanks to our pal, let’s just call him ‘Phil’, Madrid is our unofficial sister city. When we arrive we meet up with our pal. Excited and jovial, we have a few drinks in the square, catch up and unwind. Phil was like a giant ear upon which we hurled the haps and mishaps of tour life. So Phil, if you’re reading this, don’t, you won’t hear anything new. Loading into the venue, Funhouse, can’t help but notice it was completely trashed, garbage strewn everywhere, the floor was sticky because of all the damn sticky stuff all over the floor, a good omen, the positive signs of a party zone, a cleaning person’s staple revenue stream.
The Braindrops played before us and it was top shelf. They left the stage red hot for us, a heat we quickly devoured in order to attain any leftover energy that may have been deposited. Bodie was caught licking the energy off the floor. As a result, his pale, crack sore ridden flesh was later spotted crowd surfing, guitar in hand, multi-tasking they call it. Afterwards, we were treated to a looooooonnnng night courtesy of our pal David and his bar Mongo. At some point, probably around seven in the AM, someone said “It’s fucken seven AM”. Normally this would be irrelevant, information rendered useless even, but in order to be at soundcheck on time that day we would need to leave at nine AM. “Ahhhh nuts” was the consensus. Sooooo…we didn’t leave at nine AM, never gonna happen.
CONFESSION TIME: Dear Old Mate organiser from our last show, you may recall our missing soundcheck being due to what we in the industry refer to as ‘car trouble’, the reason authentico may more accurately be referred to as ‘nobody was bloody awake trouble’. Soz. Conscience cleared.
Day 18 – Platja D’Aro, Spain
Tough boiz, tough boiz, tough boiz…and so forth. The chant that fiiiiiinally got us to the very last show. After the grueling drive we found ourselves heading down the main drag towards the Desemboca Festival, that’s right another festival show, ahhhhh the great outdoors. The main street was ploughed with chain shops humping their wares, restaurants slinging yesterday’s crack and tourists wading knee deep through the spillage. We pull up at a set of lights and see our goddamn shitty-arse faces plastered on a giant flag flapping away like we is a can of fucken Pepsi. I like to imagine it was actually a mirage, we just imagined we saw ourselves proudly waving back at us, congratulating us on making it to the end.
We take a very wrong turn and have to pull off our longest reverse of the tour, footy field and a half I reckon. When reversing in error thus inconveniencing the right-doing commuters, it is ALWAYS necessary to stare the person driving towards you directly in the eyes, this establishes a sense of trust and helps to severely increase tension. Once correctly parked, the first thing we notice is that the fucking carnival is in town, no doubt a treat for a tour well done. We, of course, apologise for being late “bloody car…can’t trust em’ can ya?” or something to that effect. LIES and DECEIT. After a mediocre show, never miss soundcheck.
We watch the headliner, an old man with a lot of grievances yelling at the world. He, who shall remain nameless…IT’S POWERSOLO HIS NAME IS POWERSOLO, unloaded a bunch of crap on the crowd including spoken word gems such as “Spain was once ruled by Arabs” and “This lady here has a giant asshole”. He reminded me of an overworked episode of Hey Dad. Awwwww Mr Powersolo. Enough of that, we need to get Bodie home.
We head back to the hotel, he packs like a slayer-crazed hessian and we shove him in a 3AM taxi headed for Barcelona airport, 90 minutes away, god speed you pale, skinny, wonderful human. Rohan leads a solo mission back into town excited by the prospect of eating discarded cigarette butts and sifting through rubbish bins for broken plastic. Shows done. Firstly, I’d like to thank electrolytes and painkillers, without you this wouldn’t have been at all possible. Secondly, DO NOT WAKE US UP.
The Return Journey
Four blistering nights along the French Riviera and Italian coastline. We had only three objectives: spend all our money, drop off the van/gear in Florence and return home worse people than when we arrived. We hit a wonderous cove-like cove with waters the bluest of greens in Ciotat, made fun of tourists in Pisa and didn’t die crossing that bridge in Genova. We dropped off the van to the boneyard, brake pads down to the metal and engine sputtering. Quickly getting our bond returned in cash as we hightailed it outta there.
In summation, if you get the chance to tour Europe, DO IT! Unlike any other place, independent bands can really make a go of it over here. Venues are great and short distances apart, you get paid, people are genuinely there to listen, it’s sustainable if you are playing every night and you can break even financially without too much trouble. You might stay in some questionable accommodation or spend a night or 2 in the van, get lost, get sick, get bitten by bugs but its all worth it in the end. Thanks to Zuma Bookings, Levis & Robbio
Words: Chris Robinson & Shaun Sprowles
Photos: Robbio
