Category: Touring

If my tour ramblings are not enough for you, a photo is worth one-thousand blogs. By my calculations, if you want to look at our tour photos, that’s 311,000 blogs you can read by checking the links below. If you just like looking at people other than yourself having a good time in strange lands, there’s that too.

Facebook is our venue of choice to display photos, because we are lazy web surfers. More like web waders. So many photos, Facebook made us put it into 2 albums. Enjoy.

http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150234424533338.368462.81741018337&l;=e614525d66
http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150235615843338.368893.81741018337&l;=40720caad5

I’ve never understood anyone saying during a tour, “I’m ready to go home.” I never am. I may have plenty of loved ones left behind, but there’s an exhileration of being on the road that’s intoxicating to the extreme. Despite regular blacking out, bad shows, depression and frequent nervous breakdowns, it’s like nothing else in my life. A tiny little time bubble where I am moving at 186,000 miles an hour and the rest of the world slows down.

Because of this wanderlust, as the Germans call it, I always try and stay a bit longer. Hell, I’m so poor, playing music is the only way I can get a plane ticket to anywhere. As Aesop says, limited talent taking us infinite places. Besides, what better way to wind down than continuing to eat and drink in strange lands.

I was happy that Chirsty and Aesop could make the time to also stay with me this time. My usual travel partner has usually been Raul, both of us having post-tour excursions in Europe, Japan, and Mexico.

We tried to have one last group breakfast with some traditional food before dropping off John and Christy, but it was Easter Sunday. Oh, and the Bavarian dick wads in the tiny shit burg we stopped in were only willing to give us hard looks and told us their kitchens were closed. At 2pm. After the fourth inquiry at a restaurant we got the hint and instead ate some kebobs and pizza with Italians and Turks. So much for the hard-working German stereotype. The xenophobic stereotype, at least for these Bavarians, was still intact.

We dropped off Laurie and John at the airport with much sadness and hugging. Then we were on our way. I had a discussion comparing German and American inventions. Then we found the greatest German invention ever. Move over, jet engine, the time of the German travel pussy is now. Available at many German truck stops, the travel pussy is essentially a ballon with a gash. Maybe that’s why German truck drivers are so happy. I picked one up for Aesop. Because he’s gross.

We headed to Nürnberg and stopped off at the Reichsparteitagsgelände, the sight of the famous speech by Adolph Hitler documented in the movie Triumph of the Will.

We climbed the steps up to where the giant swastika was blown up as a symbol of the end of the Nazi regime. Nearby, there was a football game in a stadium full of chanting Germans. The ghostly echoes reverberated through the stands and provided a bone chilling soundtrack to this rotting memorial of totalitarianism.

We finally got our traditional German meal provided by a pretty fräulein in the city center underneath a castle once occupied by Barbarossa. I had the equivalent of mac and cheese, and it was amazing. There used to be a cheap box meal I had here the first time I visited with Exhumed called Hüten Snack, cheese noodles, and never could find it again. Now I was having the adult version. Age. It keeps happening. Fuck.

We headed towards Prague and camped somewhere outside Pilsn, the birthplace of Pilsener beer. Many people laud the Belglians for their fine ales, but for my money, the Czech do beer best. Refreshing, crisp, and it doesn’t make you feel like you’re going to regret having so many.

We had camped on the side of the road because we couldn’t find any of the campsites that were listed in our atlas. The next day we finally found it on the way to Prague, by one sign, listing the “town,” Camping. What the fuck? We czeched it out and found a beautiful campground with an open cafe. For about twenty-five bucks total, we each had a three course, amazing breakfast with my favorite meal, smazeny syr and kroketys. Basically, fried cheese and fried potato balls. I don’t recommend this when you come to Czech Republic, I demand it.

We went straight past Prague to see the birthplace of our favorite grind core 7″ covers at the ossuarry in Kutná Hora. In this tiny chapel lay 40,000 skeletons rearranged into fantastic art. This was my second time there, and it was still amazing.

We met up in Prague with our friends we made in the Turbojugend who put our show on a couple weeks previous, Vladimir, Stanislav, Jan, and Clint Eastwood. At least he was a dead ringer.

We had a traditional Czech dinner, which meant more fried cheese for me. Fuck yeah! We walked to the city square, one of the prettiest in all Prague, walked into some shoegaze show, drank and drank, and ended up at a bar near Vlad’s. I fell asleep, and everyone took funeral memorial pictures with me as the deceased (on Christy’s camera). It was all fun and games until the bar owner wanted to take one and woke me up with his cold, clammy hands all over me. Creepy.

Me and Christy stayed with Vlad and apparently Aesop witnessed Jan and Conny mosh till 8 in the morning. The Turbo Jugend of Praha are the most congenial and generous annihilators of my health yet. Great guys who partied us near to death. Awesome!

The next day, after some recovery, we headed to the Prague castle and St. Vitus Cathedral, where we did the St. Vitus Dance. First you groove to the sound like your legs was broken, it’s supposed to look like a fit or a convulsion. Golden Lane apparently is broken, so no tiny houses and golem gewgaws for us. Then we headed to the Wallenstein palace and gardens, where there is the most Dan Seagrave inspired monument ever, the dripstone wall. I can’t find any real info on it, but suffice to say, it’s BAD ASS.

We met up with Vlad again, and I made a last minute decision to stay with Christy and Vlad in Prague and go see the Macabre / Rompeprop / Birdflesh show. Aesop and Conny left, and we jumped on the tram, because Vlad, a Czech television repoter by trade, refuses to pay for tram and says, “no problem.” Problem. The inspector is on this tram.

At first when he came up, Vlad tried to sound American. It was not a good impression. Then the guy talked to me and I went into the mode an old friend from my youth would go into anytime he had trouble with the law: slack-jawed idiot. In Europe it’s even better, because you’re an idiotic American. This worked in Finland, too, when I forgot to check my Leatherman and tried to get it through security. The guy led us off the tram and after dealing with Vlad and looking at me and Christy acting the fool and saying we thought trams were free, he just let us go out of frustration. Score one for the morons of the world!

We made it to the show, which was awesome. Birdflesh and Rompeprop nailed it. It was fun to freak out my friends who didn’t expect my face to be showing up at their show in this place. The best is listening to Adde from Birdflesh yelling, “I can not believe!” Like the Swedish Chef. After the show, some folks got it into their heads to go to a strip joint they were told about to get a few more beers. From a previous experience in Prague 15 years ago, I was thinking there are no strip joints in Prague. When someone tells you they’ll take you to a strip joint, you’re gonna end up someplace more sinister. Still, Prague has been very westernized, so maybe – nope, it was a whore house. Note: there are STILL no strip joints in Prague.

Then nothing notable happened.

The next day, Christy, Vlad, and I did some more sightseeing watching the famous astrological clock tower in the center of Prague. Vlad saw us onto a bus, and we went off to Dresden to meet up with Conny and Aesop. Conny runs a tiny gallery there called Knark Art Gallery, and I had a piece in the current show, my Swans poster from a few months back. We drank then headed to the awesome punk club in the neighborhood, Chemie Fabrik. They have an excellent drink called Rattenhirn which looks like a rat brain floating in blood.

We checked out La Casa Fantom from Norway, a two-piece playing Man is the Bastard style power violence, almost. Later around the fire outside, I got into a bit of verbal tussle with the drummer. He started getting into it with me about American inventions, or something, and it was amazing how patriotic I could get when I knew I was dealing with some punk who was likely getting social welfare and healthcare from one of the nicest countries on Earth. You’re gonna try and compare your lazy no life sentencing fjord asses to my awesome failing empire prison-filled homeland? Nuh-uh.

The next day, our friend Maike took me and Aesop to get Zimmerman hosen. Basically, German cargo pants. It used to be these were the traditional pants of the German carpenter, but now that no one in Germany works more than 10 hours a week or gets up before noon, these are the Carharts for the hip German punk. Of course Aesop and I bought a pair each. It’s probably like going to Portland and buying a Pabst shirt. Fuck it, they’re awesome, with two zips in the front for a flap so you can comfortably get at your junk with your pants still buttoned at the waist. Let the uses for such a contrivance run wild in your imagination.

We headed to Berlin later on and took in the Jewish memorial, some Berlin wall, and the Brandenburg gate and made it to the Weedeater show in town to meet up with some friends we were staying with. “Oh mein Gott!” The next day, it was off to Tegel airport and – schade – home.

I thought we were back in Prague, becaue the airport experience in Berlin was Kafka-esque. First, we are in the normal line. But then we are shuffled to the self-help line by Christy. I hate these machines, because it always ends up you have to get help because their programming sucks. So, sure enough, lady sends us to another line, and that lady gets into it with us because it’s the wrong line. Then, only my name comes up, but Christy’s name doesn’t match her passport and they threaten to make us buy a new ticket. Then we get into it about carry ons being too heavy, which always pisses me off because I make up for that weight by being skinny, unlike this Fat Frau at the counter. Okay, so then I have to take our guitars downstairs, and THEN pay for the luggage somewhere else. I’m running and find the place, and Herr Dude says I have to pay for four pieces over my limit because Frau Fucknut has put all the luggage on MY ticket only. He makes a call and that gets cleared up, so we enter the security area for our gate. Of course, me and Aesop’s pedals get flagged, and we have to wait or something. So I put back on my metal stuff while this lady is watching, wristwatch, necklace, etc. at which point the lady leads us OUT of security. We go to a separate room, and the lady monitors us and takes us back to security, where we AGAIN have to take off all our shit, rescan the bags, despite being surveiled the entire time. AUGH! I finally get on the plane and my seat is next to a Jephova’s Witness preacher from New York, living in Germany to preach, and he wants to ask what I think of the bible. I knew I had to stay awake or I would wake up as a cockroach.

We transferred at Frankfurt, and because we were flying to America, there had to be two more lines with more beauracracy asking us more inane questions that were already answered on our fucking tickets. On the plane, United sucks, no more free booze on International flights, the cheap fucks. Lufthansa gave me a free beer for a CONNECTING flight. I tried to go Lufthansa the whole way, and thought I succeeded… ya gotta read the fine print about air partners online though, and see who is “operating” whom’s flight. I would complain more about United, but what’s the point. They’re gobbling up every other airline with the government’s help so pretty soon they’ll own all air travel and we’ll accept it like so many communist cattle. You become what you fear most.

That got deep. Shit. I watched a bunch of movies and got home. The end.

Doktor Ross Sewage
www.doktorsewage.com
dispatched from Die Struwwelpetra Ludicra 2011 European Tour

Is there some reason we have to spell København as “Copenhagen” in English? Even phonetically, without knowing any Danish, I can look at the real Danish spelling and sound out the name of the city way closer to the actual pronunciation than the Anglicized version. Of course every language does this to a certain respect, but I’m calling bullshit. It’s offical: Merriam, Webster, you’re on my shit list.

I’ve played København twice before this, and I have to say, it made me hate Denmark. Both times at club Lopen, on the edge of Christiana. Christiana, the hippy paradise outside the laws of the kingdom, where you can noodle dance all day, smoke hashish, and ignore the fact that it’s actually run by motorcycle gangs dealing meth and heroin. Impaled had an epic fail at Lopen, totally hated by the crowd who couldn’t understand our schtick. When I returned with Wolves, me and Aaron were totally sick, asked for peace in the band room, and instead woke up to the opening band and their little sluts and dick head friends sitting on top of us, smoking, and they drank all the beer.

I came into København with a sneer… and left with a smile. Third time’s the charm.

We played a club called Stengade, with local hiking metal punks Solbrud, and friendly French froggy band Alcest. We felt bad, because Dornenreich were on tour with Alcest, but not invited to play this show. We didn’t know that until 2 days before, and Aesop is friends with the band. It was awkward, all we could do is say sorry at that point to the somewhat miffed members.

The place filled up pretty quickly. Super organizer Martin paid us up in advance and provided a delicious meal. Turns out, this place was a culture house, fully subsidized by the kingdom. That meant tons of food, drink, good pay, accomodations, all paid for by the governmeny to bring the art and culture of heavy metal to the Danish masses. Yeah, fuck you America.

The bands all did well, and our set went fantastic, with a good amount of Danish and Swedish dredlocked masses sticking around for our headlining gig. The only bummer was that Aesop had to reset up his drums, because the opening band got the message from someone in the venue that it was okay to use our drum set, despite us not being asked. It seems fairly common that the headlining band is asked to share their rented gear with locals who must clearly have their own equipment near by, or they wouldn’t be locals. I guess this is the other side of the socialist coin that we enjoy so much while touring in Europe. You get all that stuff and treated like a real artist, and then you are expected to give some back for the good of the show. Still, it’s just so freaking annoying for drummers to have to reset their entire kit. God damn engineering feat. So, we didn’t make a federal case out of it, because everything else was so rad and we were treated so well. A long night of drinking followed the set, hanging out with Martin and the lovely staff and some new friends from the show.

We went to the hotel, and boy oh boy what a neighborhood. Hookers everywhere. Driver Conny opted to stay in the van, and good thing as some hoodlums ended up trying the doors some time in the night. Something was rotten in the state of Denmark.

In the morn, walking around, I realized this really was the most Americanized European city I had seen yet. Every corner had a 7-11 (never forget) and Burger King, KFC, and McDonald’s. Any Floridian death metal band would’ve been chuffed for a taste of such fine American cuisine they missed so much, but I was a tad disappointed. I got a waffle with Nutella. Yum.

Onto our second 2 day drive we went. We would’ve had a great show in Rendsburg tonight, but for the fascist and cowardly Interweb troll fucktards I’ve mentioned before. Sigh…

Instead, we drove into the Höbichengrund forest area to seek camping. This is a small part of the area made famous in Goethe’s “Faust” as the gathering place of the witches, so witch statues abounded. Not creepy at all. It’s almost Easter and all proper shops close on Good Friday. We were left with the pickings at a gas station, which in Germany, aren’t so bad. They baked us some fresh bread, we bought wine, beer, and sandwich fixins, and we boosted some TP from the bathroom.

We got to a camping site, the kind where you pay to park next to a bunch of RVs, and opted instead to park for free directly across the road and set up. Christy is a master tent builder and did it in the dark. We drank and drank and looked at the awesome night sky.

I woke up early in the morning, as I’m want to do, and decided on a hike through these haunted forests supposedly full of witches. About an hour in, I felt nature calling. Like, REALLY calling. The TP felt about a million miles away. John had told me about similar situation he was in and cleaning himself in rocky mountain streams, but all I could find was puddles. I hiked off the path to find seclusion, and luckily, found some moss on a dry, old branch. It actually made good paper, soft yet scrubby. But watch your step if you walk these woods, because now it’s haunted by much more than witches… look out for Moss Sewage.

We moved on to the last show in Hot Karlsruhe. Dude-icra was playing Dude Fest, which kind of felt like a smaller, German version of Roadburn. Except the people were different. Promoter Chris and his staff were excellent and friendly, but the crowd just seemed… weird. Lots of myspace haircuts. Good thing our friend Dirk from Belgium came to his fourth Ludicra show and actually chatted with us. Whatta guy!

I usually am really nice to the sound person in any club. I wish I hadn’t been in Karlsruhe. Right off the bat as we were loading in, this fat turd of a German tells us to move our asses, which is impossible as we were holding heavy gear and people were in our way. This was the sound guy, and it was already going bad. When it was our turn on stage, he was a prick, but again I was trying to be nice, because he was doing our sound. I guess it didn’t help, by all accounts, but we still had a good show… right to the end. This Colonel Klink came on the monitors during the last twenty seconds of our song to tell us we had to stop. Aesop flipped him the bird. I checked my watch: we were a meager two minutes over our set time. When he came up after and said he tried to stop us four times (not true) Aesop flipped again, that is to say, out on him. It was kind of awesome, but I’m not so confrontational, I just got to the business of moving around him and getting our stuff the hell ou of there cause I was pissed. I apologized to the guys from Julie Christmas, and they didn’t seem to think it was any kind of problem. Till THEY dealt with the sound guy. He also yelled at Master Musicians of Bukkake and turned off all their lights when they went precisely one minute over their set time. I guess this guy’s raison d’être was just to piss off bands. It’s a shame no one kicked his ass, but I suppose everyone just wants to do their best on stage for the tigers, then just be done with the stress. Fuck that guy.

Still, I’ll always attempt to be nice to the sound person as much as possible. Always introducing myself, and trying to be personable. Even if I hate their guts, I’m relying on then a great deal, at least, until we make it to the big time and have our own sound guy. Keep dreaming, kiddo.

We got a pleasant surprise from the group we rented our heads from, Nomad of Prague. I keep giving them ups for their great service. They had an employee in attendance with another band there, and he took our heads when we were done and we got to save a few bucks because they only charged us for up to this fest. That, and we are no longer worrying about the gear in the van and we don’t have to go to Prague to return anything. Of course, we are still going!! It’s fucking Prague!!! Woo hoo!!!

I guess everyone had kind of a weird night with the folks attending the show, but it was a pretty friendly eve amongst the bands, maybe more so because of this strange vibe. We had a good time hanging with the folks of Sabbath Assembly, Liturgy, Master Musicians of Bukkake, Junius, Julie Christmas, and Corrosion of Confirmity, amongst the rest. Sometimes that’s hard to make happen. Maybe it’s the penchant the Dude-icrans have for making constant penis and fart jokes backstage. Hell, in front of the stage. In the van. At breakfast. I can imagine we are hard to take seriously.

One last thing about Dude Fest: I was finally getting to see Earth, having missed them at Roadburn. I was super in the moment, gently swaying, feeling the pain and beauty of their music. Then I heard in the middle of their set, of course in an American accent, “Freebird!” Seriously? SERIOUSLY?! How old are you? Pretty old, it turns out, to try and heckle with that old gem. Then, “Sweet Home Alabama!” I saw who it was, and was pretty bummed after we’d had some decent conversation earlier in the day. To Earth’s credit, they busted few licks from the latter mentioned song and took it in stride. But I was removed from a special moment, on my last day of tour, at an already awkward event. I let it get to me too much, sure, but dammit, artists should be able to respect another player enough that if they aren’t into it, leave the room. Or come up with something better than Freebird. Ultra lame, and that was the unfortunate feeling I left with.

We kicked it for awhile in the streets drinking, then at the hotel drinking. There’s that kind of sad undercurrent that this Band of Brothers (and Sisters) is parting ways and the last tour for Ludicra for the forseeable future is dunzo. Laurie articulated this look well.

Bye bye to Laurie and John as we take them to the airport, and the curtain closes on Ludicra’s Die Struwwelpetra Tour. Thanks for having us, Europe.

Doktor Ross Sewage
www.doktorsewage.com
dispatched from Die Struwwelpetra Ludicra 2011 European Tour

Halfway done…

I got really sick after Roadburn. My gaskets broke and I was leaking precious fluids from my nose. No fun.

We headed to Belgium, land of cartoons. Really, you know this because all Belgians look like cartoons. This is not a slam, not in the slightest. There are many beautiful Belgians (one of our adorable promoters of the eve, Sophie, for instance). It’s just that I feel I could capture any Belgians likeness with three pen strokes. Maybe it’s because of a prolonged exposure to Tin Tin and the Smurfs.

That isn’t to say Belgium isn’t a hard place. It can get rough when you don’t have a government, and your club is literally on the Mean Street.

Yup, Rue Mean. That’s where La Zone is, an excellent art spot, restaurant, and club. They also sold books and records. I love these all inclusive places in Europe, which is why I asked the booker, Odyssey Booking, to get places like that for us. Excellent work.

The show was great, with a few friends like Arno and Dirk showing up again or a Ludicra show. Arno is pretty awesome for having a tattoo of our friend Matt Shapiro.

The show was great with a good band Sardonis playing. In the morning, Christy did it up with an excellent breakfast from the food provided by the club at the band flat they had. God bless European hospitality, Christy’s excellent cooking skills, and Belgian chocolates.

Oh yeah, also a neighbor’s cat snuck in and cuddled with me for a few hours. That was awesome. I am Dr. Doolittle.

Next we went to Utrecht, of which the coolest thing about the night I already mentioned before, the amazing full stacks of destruction at the dB club. All I can really say about this show was that the staff was awesome, and it wasn’t as grim as we dreaded after so few showed when doors opened… but not by much. Also, the opening band had a song in which the bridge part consisted of a cover of “The Bird.” Haven’t you heard?

Next we went to Hamburg, where I had little hope. We had a show in Bielefeld cancelled due to, apparently, one prick in a punk house with too much time on his hands. I’ll have to deal with that whole mess in a later entry, because it deserves special attention, causing this Hamburg show we got added to and one complete cancellation for a fucking Friday night. That is a major bummer. The quick way round is that we were accused of having ties with fascist bands, you know, despite having two Jews in the band. Way to do your fact checking, you Deutsch douche bag.

The club was plenty nice. Problem was, the actual headliner cancelled, so we had to take that slot on what was ostensibly some kind of pop punk show with a band called the Elektro Boys. They were nice enough, and I enjoyed them well enough for what they did… along with about 5 others. Still, I was impressed: they had mics on all their cabs, in-ear monitors, a sense of humor, and played a full professional set for the couple folks who really came for them. Extra guitars were ready to go… it was basically the stereotype of orderly Germaness made reality.

That’s something I’ve been looking into. A mic for my bass cab. Basically, I hate DI boxes because I run fuzz, and direct, this sounds like shit. I prefer micing. I got into an argument with a sound guy about this, and he pointed out a typical cheap mic available in a bar isn’t going to get the full bass frequency. Noted. So, I want a mic that’s made for bass and I can have it ready for any sound guy trying to plant one of those infernal DI boxes in front of my amp.

It didn’t look good for us in Hamburg. But… the promoter from Rendsburg, who had her show taken from her by the same kind of over-reaching fuck monkey Internet trolls who can’t check that they’re ruining a time for DIY musicians with progressive attitudes, instead of taking on a real threat to democracy… wait, that sentence is screwy. Carol, the promoter of one of our cancelled shows (Rendsburg), brought all the people from this punk place who wanted to actually enjoy music to our show from about 160 Kilometers away. Thanks! When I see dredlocked punks waking in when we play, I feel like everything is gonna be better. And it was. We played, they danced, and the night was okay. Thanks, good punks of Rendsburg for coming to see us in Hamburg… cause no one else did!

We went to the Reepeebahn afterwards, the famous area of Hamburg populated by prostitutes, sex shops, and women for sale in windows. 14 years ago when I was here the first time as a 21 year old, this was amazing and interesting. Now it’s depressing. At least there were wild bunnies roaming around on the walk back home.

Onto to København… Actually I’m here, but I’ll write about it after. Suck it.

Doktor Ross Sewage
www.doktorsewage.com
dispatched from Die Struwwelpetra Ludicra 2011 European Tour

So we stopped by this label / record distro. We went inside and there was this Japanese band on tour. Aesop introduced me to their tour manager, who was European but of Japanese descent. He was telling me how proud he was of being able to bring over this super great band. I wasn’t a super fan, but I was trying to tell him some stuff I liked about the band and he walked away as I was talking to tell someone else how super great they were. Then he came back, and I would try to talk again, and he would walk away. It was super annoying. I looked into the conference room and everyone from Ludicra was meeting this Japanese band and the manager guy went in and was telling everyone how super great they were, and they all said he was super great. I couldn’t take the ass rimming anymore so I went outside to wait by the van. Eventually, John, Christy, and Laurie came out and we were just waiting for Aesop. The record distro turned their lights off and started up a showing of the first Godzilla movie super loud with explosions and all that going on. At the same time, the school kids at the High School next door started banging aluminum baseball bats against metal picnic tables. The cacophony was driving me crazy when Aesop appeared around the side of the record distro wearing a giant novelty size polo helmet and carrying a giant polo stick. He said he was going to go with the other band, and I kept trying to yell over the din of the Godzilla movie and the baseball bats about how we were going to meet up, because I didn’t think we had a show with the Japanese bands. I got frustrated and gave up asking and went around the side of the van, while Christy and Aesop played swords with the oversize polo sticks. Aesop finally came to the other side of the van and yelled through the windows about having to pick up his kid Ezra because he’d been hit by an arrow, or that’s what I thought he said. I got frantic, asking how we’d fly him home early, why was Ezra alone and not picked up, was he currently bleeding or at a hospital… Another guy who looked like the guy who hates mustard on the CKY videos stood next to Aesop and was trying to yell I didn’t understand. Finally, the Godzilla movie ended and the kids stopped with the aluminum bats and I could hear that Ezra was fine, he’d found an arrowhead in his salad, and Aesop just had to pick him up from school everyday after tour. Okay, cool, so we just leaned up against the wall of the distro building and were chatting when the school kids came up in unison and started peeing on the wall. One guy drifted and started pissing on Aesop’s friend so I smacked him in the head and chased him away. The kids all started pissing on each other laughing and I had just fucking had it. I yelled that this had to be the worst fucking town on the planet, and turned to see Leslie Nielson. “Tell me a about it,” he said, “I have to teach here. It’s been messed up ever since the nuclear meltdown.”

About then I woke up confused in a rest stop we were at on the way to Denmark. I stumbled out of the van to find Aesop and hit him and told him what a jerk he was.

I also told him about Ezra, and now he’s worried because Ezra is going to camp soon. He’s going to tell him to avoid the salad.

Doktor Ross Sewage
www.doktorsewage.com
dispatched from Die Struwwelpetra Ludicra 2011 European Tour

I’ve already written this entry once, and the blog application I’m using lost it. Shit… I got a tad discouraged, so this promises to be a long one to catch up to Ludicra’s exploits, adventures, journeys, and hijinx. Note to self… Save often.

It was a fun night at Il Hammero du Lucifero playing with Acid King and Carlton Melton. The Bay Area meeting in Mezzago was a hit with the two Lauries playing dueling divas of doom. A fun night was had by all, except maybe the local drunk mustachioed wonder of blubber who didn’t get to rape me. Oh, I’m sure he meant well. Meant to rape me well. Porco Dio!

We got to borrow Acid King’s gear and finally get some full stack action. It’s not about more dBs, it’s about fullness of tone. Those stacked speaker move a lot of air and the sound gets around. Oh, the blessed Ampeg 8×10… No one can touch your 1969 design. I get sad seeing you go, and back to some 4×10 stacked on a 15. It’s just not the same. Hell, I also borrowed a Peavey 8×10 later in Antwerp, and this couldn’t compare. This is not an endorsement, so much as a command. Anything less than an 8×10 style fridge box from Ampeg is a waste of space on this Earth.

We stayed at a great B&B; in Mezzago. Poor Acid King and Carlton Melton had to leave 2 hours after we arrived in the night. They missed the petting of horses, the soccer, the leisurely sun bathing… All too nice of course, compared to the parking lot campsite. Juxtapose us at the beautiful villa:

That’s us in the median of a parking lot somewhere in France. What a difference a day of driving makes to turn one into a feral wreck of a person. The thing is this… France. I don’t want to say the French aren’t industrious, but you never likely to buy a “Les Girard” brand television. We took side roads to avoid the outrageous French highway tolls, and the gas stations on the way are manned approximately 2 hours a day for cash customers, hence we had to park until they opened. If they worked any harder, I suppose those baguettes would just over run the country, uneaten in leisure.

We made the show in Soudan France after 2 days drive. We dubbed it “Les Caliope” after the farm of our friends in Wolves in the Throne Room. A similar good time was had as we always have in Olympia, mainly drunken crusties dancing wildly. That’s our jam.

This night, Aesop broke a spring on his drum pedal. This was beginning to be a curse, as Christy broke a string the night before in Italy. Could we not get through a night without breaking something in the middle of our set? I was sure I was next.

We managed to fix the thing mid set by stripping the other drummers pedal that was sitting there. I breathed a sigh of relief when said drumme walked up and saw what I was doing without asking. NEVER do that. Lucky, he was a nice Belgian man. They don’t have a rep as a very fiesty people. Good for skinny ol’ me.

My gauge for when a night should be over is when people start throwing chairs. It’s a crusty punk gauge that says to me, “you’re probably not far behind… Time for bed”

The next day, Aesop was worried about the freak accident of his pedal and getting to a music store. Needless to say, there wasn’t one on the farm and Paris was far away. I called the promoter, a lovely lady named Emy, and asked if she could acquire what we needed and she totally came through. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to have a promoter get some gear in emergency, and I bless the tour book I printed out with all contact info before leaving home.

We played La Miroiterie in Paris, the last squat in the city of lights. Driver Conny made a ballsy move and decided to just leave th hazards on and park, really, in the street, as opposed to driving and looking for parking for 3 hours. The gamble worked, with police ticketing properly parked cars with expired time and leaving us alone.

This night, I was sure I was going to break something. It was my turn. Instead, we just blew the power out. Oi vey. We are running a combined 570 watts for our backline, which is ridiculous amount of power for some of these tiny venues, but Ludicra are tube junkies. Maybe we could take tubes out and run at halfpower, a tricky thing to set up, but not possible with rented gear. Ill go over that some other time. We still finished our gig fine, only having to swith the fuse box to “on” one other time.

I think sight seeing is important on tour, but some prefer to sleep. There was a lot we couldve gone to see, but as I’ve gotten a good run around Paris before, I let my wee Ludicrans opt for sleep without protest.

We next headed to Antwerp. Belgium… the real home of the french fry.

Our show at Trix was joined by Cough, Liturgy, and White Hills. Obviously, we were nearing Roadburn country. We decided early on to combine gear with Cough for some nice full stack action. Everytime we do this, there is massive confusion about Ohms and what we are plugging into. Christy’s amp is a Mesa Triple Rectifier, with about fifty different ways to plug out of it. John’s is standard speaker outs on the 6550, but still confusion occurs. Ohms are not actually that hard to understand. You don’t even need to understand them to plug in correctly. Let me see if I can make mnemonic for all to remember and never have to ask about speaker Ohm outs to me again… If you have two on the road, use half the load. That is, a full stack, with two cabs at 16 Ohms, will halve the parallel signal when both are plugged in to the amp, so it’s set at 8 Ohms for a match. The math just continues in that direction and… I’m. Bored. Just remember the mnemonic and don’t ask questions. Electricity is weird.

The whole night was great. While we played, I noticed a group of folks headbanging like mad and thought, “Oh, maybe the Belgians aren’t as reserved as I remember.” Turned out these folks were from Madrid on the way to Roadburn. Spaniards… it figures they were the ones partying hardest. I decided to compliment their endeavors by plying myself with wine to a dance frenzy. Aesop joined in. I don’t think Hunter was too stoked, though, for he refused my requests that he should dance. C’mon, dance is transcendental as shit.

I just may have been still drunk when I woke up in the van and kept dancing in the street while jamming some Karp in the iPod. I’m pretty sure I got some hard Belgian looks from the passing traffic. The rest of Ludicra stayed in the hotel, but local parking wasn’t too be had. So, beer was drunk underneath some train overpass until passing out amongst my own stench. This is the life.

Roadburn is happening now, and I should get back to it. Full entry to follow in the whole grand event.

Meanwhile, here’s the faces people make when drinking the worst beer in The Netherlands:

Mr. Davey D’Andrea, official poster artist of Roadburn…

Doktor Ross Sewage
www.doktorsewage.com
dispatched from Die Struwwelpetra Ludicra 2011 European Tour

It’s more than just the best Jane’s Addiction song, it’s also the amount of time it takes to feel decent on tour. We have played three shows, all with my neck aching from headbanging, and this morning I forgot that it ever did until someone asked how it was feeling. Okay, that probably means some vertebrae is liquifying, but what’s a few neck surgeries in my old age?

This is why I hate short, 2-3 day band trips, i.e. what Ludicra called a tour for the first six years of our existence. It’s just enough time to feel like shit and then head back to work.

3 is a special number. Christy might say, “magical,” because she believes nonsense. Who knows? 3 is the number of guitar amps we should have had at the show in Leipzig. When John’s borrowed head crapped out during line check, there wasn’t one to spare. Kudos to John, however, for having spare fuses ready to put in this boutique Marshall clone. Oh wait! This “boutique” designer decided to use a non-standard fuse. You can’t possibly argue about fuses affecting tone, so I deem this amp retarded. Superkronik superpromoter Kristoff came to the rescue and acquired us a Marshall 900 lead in 10 minutes, and we had a great show. Check one list against uncommon gear and alway pack some standard replacements like fuses for tour.

3 is also the number of amps I thought was too many to take when we finally picked up our rental amps from Nomads of Prague. This is the best gear rental place in Europe. Walking into their warehouse is depressing in that you’d rather spend a month playing with all their reams of insanely classic gear instead of tour. It’s the place to go to get exactly what you need for tour. Plus, they loaded us with a back up head for guitar and bass. I thought we didn’t need a big heavy back up to cart around. When we did soundcheck, Sir Cobbett’s 5150 sounded dreamy. Come time to play, it took a crap. So I was wrong. It happens… But not often. It’s making me think of playing around more with some of these prissy little modern solid state numbers a bit to find one that I can stomach to bring around for when my beautiful beast of a tube head invariably craps out at the worst possible time. Hmm…

The show in Prague went well enough, making some new fans and playing through the hangovers that we brought with us from Leipzig. One personal skill I never thought would be handy in the Czech Republic surprised me: knowing some Spanish. Turns out the 1 Spanish speaking Czech was at our show and he didn’t know a lick of English. I felt reasonably good about our long exchange considering I feel like an idiot when Impaled goes to Mexico. Maybe I rely on Raul too much there, but it’s just so fun to make him have to baby his gringos.

3 is also the number of times poor Sir Cadbury Cobbett has had problems on stage so far. Our show in Črnomelj, Slovenia was not so well attended, and we’d driven about 11 hours to get there. John normally changes his trusty GHS Boomers before EVERY show, and then, when he has Internet access, he tweets a photo of his guitar to let you all know how awesome and dedicated he is to the craft. Surely, for this little show and after the drive, he could skip this ritual, Christy and I assured him. Turns out we were both wrong. Don’t skip your rituals, or the guitar gods will be angry.

3 is the number of instrument cables I should have brought. 3 is the number of times Rambo, the simple-giant of a Slovenian who had a bike accident, freaked me out. 3 is how late we were walking around in beautiful Prague before 3 of us took a taxi home. 3 is the number of people in this van divided by 2.

The point is you can see something anywhere, anytime you focus so hard on it. This can also include focusing on having a good time. Even though last night for us wasn’t so spectacular, we had good time and got this amazing picture of three people at the hostel: John, Aesop, and the old Slovenian man who dozed off in the common area while watching pornography.

Doktor Ross Sewage
www.doktorsewage.com
dispatched from Die Struwwelpetra Ludicra 2011 European Tour