June 3 to June 7

Saturday June 3

Still under psychotic tiredness, but it gradually lifts throughout the afternoon, partly thanks to an unusually refreshing ferry ride during which our entourage sprawled beatifically on the poop deck (see pic above right – G.L.). I finish a couple of letters and find I can talk again. Our crew now includes Roxanne which means there is a higher female ratio on this tour than any we've done, a great and wondrous blessing and aesthetically pleasing; not as smelly as a boys-own tour. And from the colourful and frank phrases that trip off Sally Collins' tongue after a couple of red wines at an expensive restaurant, the fine art of elegant tour conversation can maintain its undiluted quality. And I understand that as a further sign of comradeship between the genders, Sally and Teddy have agreed to an unwritten contract whereby they agree to procure sleeping partners for each other. How civilised. (None were procured by either signatory – G.L.)As the ferry pulls into sunny Arhus, life is looking pretty good. True, the hotel rooms are shitty and don't have television (just what are these quaint Danes playing at?) but Teddy gets on the blower to Birgit and the likelihood of a Jack Brabham source in Berlin is promising. Then follows the day's undisputed highlight:- an uproarious en masse visit to the laundromat which provokes many moments of high comedy, including a harmonious rendition of the “Comfort” softener advert, a Goon-videoed laundry interview, a farcical attempt to understand the labyrinth process of 5, I0 and 1 kroner pieces and their relationship to laundry tokens, a general inspection of everyone's most personal undergarments. After this, the soundcheck, show etc. is a mild letdown. The venue is two inches across. It makes the Strawberry Hills look like Wembley Stadium. We are denied much choice of evening meal and are still forcing down roast beef thirty minutes before showtime. The promoter, perhaps sensing our disgruntlement at his selling out 450 tickets for people to see us in a matchbox, thoughtfully supplies a bottle of Stolichnaya and a bottle of Jack Daniels on top of our usual Smirnoff. The show is impaired by G. Hall's over-enthusiastic use of white floodlights to assist his plans to become the VHS Elia Kazan (he videos the concert and we feel like trapped blind mice). But the Arhusians go - how can I put it? - mental anyway. Later Dougie is seen with the bottle of JD ... he clearly intends to have a night on the Mabel AKA the tiles.



Now I will instruct you in the gentle art of not paying for 20 minute phone calls to Australia. 1. Have a nice cup of coffee in the restaurant. Relax. Shoot the breeze and compare poleaxers with fellow travellers, attempt to piece together what happened the night before. 2. When it is almost bang-on time to go, return to your room. 3. Dial Australia (this morning I rang Jo; it was 6.I5 on a cool Perth Sunday evening) at your leisure. 4. With the room key firmly still in your pocket, walk good naturedly, even absentmindedly, through the foyer, past the reception, out the front door of the hotel, yawning and scratching pleasantly, and climb into the van. 5. Pray in painful sweating anxiety that the concierge is not at this moment sprinting towards the van. 6. Relax only when the hotel is out of sight.

This morning I was walking through the foyer when someone ran up to me shouting "sir, sir" in an agitated Danish accent. Oh shit. It was a hotel employee and she was pathetically waving a bill in my face. 'Sir, you forgot to pay...' my heart dipped ... 'for your coffee". Why, so I had. I smiled, paid, and left.

Nine hour van trip from Arhus to Berlin. Have a bit of argy-bargy with the East German border guards over visa fees. Gulashsuppen at the roadhouses. Begin Brando biography starting at the end. Teddy and Daubney purchase rectified ethyl alcohol in the duty free shops in the Berlin corridor. Tonight is supposed to be a night off. Birgit comes to the hotel and a mini soiree ensues with Goon, Evi, Teddy, myself. We tell the frauleins quaint Australian vernacular expressions and try and squeeze the Deutsch equivalents out of them, to not much avail. The Germans have ONLY ONE slang term for testicles: aya (eggs). This is a sure sign of cultural impoverishment. We eradicate I0 cans of beer, 2 bottles of red (Ted loses some of his down the long white telephone) and some red Russian champagne. Keep trying, Ivan. Almost go to nightclub but at the last minute (they won't take five in a taxi) I pike.

Monday June 5

Today is hard to write about, but I'll try. Resist the temptation to lapse Into silence, incomprehension, mute under glass. The temptation is strong because events seem to grow more and more senseless. It isn't that there isn't joy (and sadness), it's just that they don't follow any pattern; can't be predicted or ordered into any recognisable form. So why don't I give up the diary, lapse into silence? I don't know. I'll just keep on talking while I still can, while I've still got breath! Woken by perfectly surreal Japanese phone interview, the absurd torture of grinding out answers in slow motion to a young Nippon translator girl who then conferred with the male interviewer, whom I did not speak to, but whom at one point held up a Todd Terry record (in Japan) and asked that I be told that he was doing so. Bear in mind that I am lying ¾ asleep in bed in a Berlin hotel. Now today is the day when the world is attempting to comprehend, take in, react to the events in Tiananmen Square. It's the first day we really hear of it, but only the barest details from German news broadcasts. We can't work out the full story (well, nobody can but we are doubly removed). Everyone is stunned, shellshocked. But the translator asks me if science fiction is a major influence on our band because of our name. I spend five minutes spelling 'Rilke' for her. Teddy lies in bed, listening to me, my words paced at kindergarten level. Rob, Martyn, Liz and I manage to drive to the Brucke Museum which has a large collection of early C20th German expressionist painting. I am shaken by what we find. For some reason the paintings (particularly Kirchner and Nolde) are affecting me in a physical sense; waves, shivers. I hadn't thought it possible. One of the most powerful experiences ... silence tempts.

We learn more about the massacre, as the day goes on. Back at the hotel Jill has thrown a complete fucking wobbler, triggered in part by lack of coffee during a series of interviews. I empathise entirely; tour madness strikes at different times. I organise dust contact by phone with English geezer Bud; it seems certain. Soundcheck is complete chaos. Virtually every electronic appliance refuses to work. It drags on beyond despair into dazed comedy. We were supposed to bring our stage clothes to the venue, but Graham either forgot to tell me or told me in a subsonic voice, so a trip has to be made back to the hotel. The dust connection falls through. Ten minutes before going on stage I get very drowsy, then panic, wondering if it's wise to go on. The show is an absolute nadir - I'm incapable of speaking, the atmosphere is dull and sour. Ashamed, angry, caught in a vicious circle, it's my worst and most despicable show in years. What has happened? Perhaps those paintings took away my allotment of life for the day. Why does Justin compare one of the reverb units to a trout? How many are really dead in Beijing? Why is the Japanese interviewer holding up the Todd Terry record in Tokyo? Why can't I eat? Why does the (pathetically small) Berlin audience seem so jaded? Why is our Deutsch record company such shits? Why is the dust drought so relentless? Why do I try to write about these events when I fail to convey even a vague likeness of their effect?

Tuesday June 6

I am (clearly) ashamed of last night's show, or my part in it. Excuse the messy writing (in the car); things can only get better. As usual Roxy has immaculately cleaned the bus (she sleeps in it). Now permanently on tour with us is Kirsten as well as Evi. It's a long drive to Bochum, which is in the Ruhr. We have enormous wurst at an East German eatery in the Berlin corridor. If I can concentrate on reading in the van, I am usually happy. We pass around biographies of Brando, John Phillips, the Beach Boys and Hank Williams, and I have my cache of Russian poets in a plastic bag.

We miss the turn-off to Bochum and go to Essen or Dortmund or something instead. Luckily Evi can translate directions. The venue is a big barn, there are the inevitable Noiseworks stickers to make us furious, the inevitable ham and cheese. No time to go to the hotel; just soundcheck, interviews, sandwich, wash and shave, scribble setlists, grab the bottle of Stolichnaya and walk out onto stage. The tiredness and dustlessness is now comic, and I enjoy myself - despite the small, incredibly dour crowd. Their humourlessness makes me jolly.

Wednesday June 7

Short drive to Frankfurt, home of the Schnookieputzies! But alas - our hotel booking is cancelled and we are sent to another one - joy of joys - in the red light district. I am immediately kidnapped by Dorus the record company woman to do a radio interview with a complete wanker who accuses the Triffids of being the Go-Betweens' younger brothers. I snarl at him: “That is a disgusting insult; you've offended me and I should very well walk out of this interview. I think you should apologise.” Dorus is silent, and I despair of the Deutsch record company. After soundcheck we are taken to the same Mexican restaurant we went last time. Fine Margueritas. Very little time. Grab some clothes from the hotel. Get very tired, tense and foul tempered before the show. Lock myself in the toilet backstage to have solitude and a little primal scream or two. Kick a few things. Finally convince myself to try and do a good show despite everything. It works. The state beyond caring can be quite effective. When we come off before encores Sally says "Dave! Marty!” and leads us into a room. Lo and behold. Been so long I'd forgotten what it looked like. Do the encores with, ahem, renewed vigour, including a great re-emergence of Sin City. A big audience, but only especially noisy towards the end.

© Copyright David McComb



[<<] [<] [>] [>>] [Contents] [home]