May 26 to May 29

Friday May 26

8.00 a.m. woken up by aforementioned sleep babble. Helsinki is blue, sunny and very Russian. Momentary drama at customs as Dugald is breathalysed. One notch on the safe side. We are in the most expensive hotel in the city, the Strand Intercontinental. Perhaps when I have more energy I'll itemise for you every luxury feature of the rooms - I mean, a bidet with an extension nozzle? A phone next to the toilet? Complimentary edible condoms ... sorry, just checking you're still awake. First of all the record company paid for a glorious sunlit suite overlooking the harbour for the interviews to be conducted in. I did five in a row, mainly sitting on the balcony drenched in warmth and giddy with coffee. Fairly painless, but what do you say to an earnest Scottish emigre journalist who asks you perfunctorily if you're afraid of death? "Well, not if you leave the hall light on"? Speedboats skidded merrily below us and Helsinki imitated the green copper domes of Leningrad; the entourage munched gourmet sandwiches, whilst Graham embarked on a benderette, triggered by the hotel's tardiness in supplying him with a room key. He played George Jones and Flatt & Scruggs through his Pignose amp. Know the feeling, bud, know the feeling. Come 5.00 p.m., depart for sound check. Difficult to make this part of the day sound exciting. They gave us food, drink and Jill's keyboard retired injured. It was, all in all, a very good first show. The bubble machine must have done a couple of caps of amyl nitrate, because it spluttered glorious reams of bubbles with uncharacteristically enthusiastic speed and volume. Back at the hotel I blithely invited all and sundry to room 703, to be serenaded by The Reels' "Beautiful", the Torch's Songs (1 hope Teddy still wants to cover if You Ever Think of Me in the morning) and Jo's dance compilation. For some reason I proceeded to dance uproariously for a long while in front of Pete and Evil before taking the hint and calling it an embarrassing outburst. It had been a long day. It was late.

Saturday May 27

Managed to make it to 12.00 noon. Why is sleep such fucking hard work? God I hate people who can do it easily... "I'm just going to take a nap" what, without 60ml of horse tranquiliser? You mean you just shut your eyes and relax and all the lights go out on cue? I need only the flimsiest pretext for all my sleep-workers to call a random stop-work meeting, everything starts buzzing and flaring and the faces of ex-lovers are hysterically looming in and out of view, effectively putting the old ticker on 3 minute warning. Sleep is a tough job. It takes it out of you.

Thus, I woke up knackered, and the day never really got off the ground after that. True, I tried to get some blue-stained white shirts washed, but: "So sorry, sir, but afraid I am zat we have no - how you say..." "Bleach? no bleach." True, I summoned up the nerve to order a £7 room service pot of coffee. True, I even went for a long walk with Peter (during which he congenially said hello to a duck on the foreshore and looked at world maps to see where on earth we were - "Do you realise we're on the same time zone as Greece ?”... “No, really? Who would have ever thought as much!"), visiting cathedrals and achingly searching for a hotdog stall. (Fucking icecream stalls everywhere. Who the fuck eats icecream these days, anyway?) But the day really never got off its knees. I went to the Amos Anderson art gallery and bought 12 cards; one, entitled 'Primadonna' by Hakan Brunburg, was an instant limpid sub-Chagall favourite, and put me in a jolly mood for all of seven minutes. By 4.00 p.m. I was back at the Intercontinental for a couple of beers ("Shall I try and go to sleep, or shall I try and stay awake? Eeenee Meenee Minee Mo...") and a hearteningly excellent haircut from Ms. Collins; thus I joined the illustrious company of Rob, Tim, Justin, Graham and Dugald as a member of the exclusive "I got pruned by Sally" club. Should I have kept a lock of hair for my old age?

Apparently about half the entourage have been suffering recently from bouts of sickness symptoms, allegedly some food poisoning. This only reminded me of what Dottie Parker was reported to have said when told that Calvin Coolidge had just died "... Really, How can they tell?" I mean, we are on tour, after all ... God, I don't even have the get-up-and-go for a sleeping jag, let alone a crying one. Is everyone else's life such an undignified blur, or is it only me? I'm sure everyone must have variations on the "undignified blur" theme. Save for a few hideously orderly, stoic individuals. To cut a long evening short, we proceeded en masse (ugly sight!) to an excellent Indian restaurant. Various parties and shindigs lured others out into the off-white Helsinki night, but I attempted to hit Club Fartsack. The mighty zzzzzs, however, were not immediately forthcoming, and had to be coaxed, gently but firmly.

Sunday May 28

11.00 a.m. Hmmm. Definitely do not feel on top of the world. Gather up a roomfull of bombscattered debris, sort wheat from chaff, cram into suitcase. Checkout. £7 pot of coffee actually £10. Thanks. Swell. We waste the six hours until ferry departure time at a blues festival (a wh-a-a-at??) in a park, and at a lakeside coffee shop with Kimo (Radio City DJ/journalist) and his girlfriend. This day never really gets off its shins. At the ferry bar Graham says "I'm going to die if we keep touring" and we talk to some Finnish rock musicians and to Jailbait and her mother. I went to the disco for all of 30 seconds. Not very inspiring. Try to sleep but instead end up lying in the bunk having a long conversation with Sally and Graham about sexual frustration (particularly on tour) and how the process of chatting someone up is too repellent for words. I can remember simply repeating the phrase "Oh it's all just so depressing" over and over, before drifting off.

Monday May 29

Ferry pulls into Stockholm and we disembark at 9.00 a.m., without drama, without passport checks even. The hotel "O'Henrys" is in a ridiculously BORING part of town, and is only half finished. Surrounded by factories and freeways, once more one is subjected to Super Channel (same 10 fucking pop videos) and CNN cable 24 hour news. A handjob? Forget it, think of the motivation required. Visit the supermarket instead and get completely shellshocked trying to comprehend what everything is. 3.00 p.m. and Marty and 1 do interview at what seems to be a mainstream radio station. The DJ, Ulo, has a guestbook signed by millions of "stars" including "Johnny Diesel" (cue sound of lunch rebirthing) and - wait for it - KYLIE! I am genuinely starstruck. What a girl - she even signed it "Thanks for the chat and the cuppa". Down to earth, I'm impressed, what a girl. The venue looks good too. A big old seated theatre with our name on the marquee thingy, "Emma proudly presents The Triffids! (0k, no exclamation mark, but still ... Stylish. Very early show however - 7.30p. m. is not exactly tres rock'n'roll. Enthusiastic audience, clapped along with the songs (what the fuck??), the old larynx was a little threadbare by the end. After the show the record company took us all out to the obscenely trendy and crowded Cafe Opera where Rob etc. had been refused entry a few years ago. The meal/drinks would have cost about twice the GNP of a third world country but hell, that's showbiz. I could have bought myself a plane ticket to Perth and THAT would have been productive. It was a sumptuous meal and the G&Ts were top notch but, just between you and me, I hate going out to eat after we play. After we play I like an anecdotal bottle of port, but not three hours being polite to Mr. Record Company; I excused myself and promptly went to sleep in the van. That's called asserting your own destiny.

© Copyright David McComb


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