Dave's '89 tour diary - part two

 

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 . 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.

Sunday June 4

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.

Thursday June 8

This will prove to be a day of abject madness. Up at 7.00 a.m. to catch 9.00 a.m. flight to Madrid for TV show. Only: the flight is delayed for a couple of hours. At Madrid airport (after a couple of Lufthansa bloody marys) they are expecting big 'Poz" Macartney, but accept us anyway. They (M's record company) whisk us into town (gee let me tell you what Spain looks like ... uh kinda like Italy) and the hotel is "hot shit'. But to get the feel of Madrid life, Teddy, Daubney and I adjourn to a slimy neighbourhood bar, dining on a stream of beers and a platter of pork crackling. Very agreeable - until interview-time beckons. Oh well. This continues (including hilarious TV interview) until dinner - a sleepy, stuffy, creamy affair. By this time I'm ready for a meaningful relationship with Club Fartsack, and I retire. The bedsheets feel awfully nice and I turn the air conditioning up full ... beautiful ...'BRROOING! goes the wake up call. It's 11or I2 a.m. unfortunately time to Brock oneself up for the TV show, due about I.00 a.m. Shit. Shamble into crushed stage clothes, stumble downstairs. Kip out for five minutes in the foyer. Lie on the floor of the van (driven by Alphonso) taking us to the tacky club named Oh! Madrid! and try and sleep some more. The club is brocked up MTV style. Fine Young Cannibals are miming. What a load of tossers. Everything a bit on the surreal side. Looking out from white balcony to poolside disco the night-time scene reminds me of Freshwater Bay Yacht Club, no less.

Brace myself with V&T or 22. Golly - given the opportunity of INTERNATIONAL MEGASTARDOM, at times like these I'd choose CLUB FARTSACK no worries - or what!! Sensing impending avalanche of ZZZZ’s the angelic Shaz Collins convinces two ageing TV technicians to "chop out” a couple for Daubney and your humble scribe; Ok I'll no longer fall asleep in the first chorus of "Trick of the Light' - but will the Triffids pull off a dynamite, tight, professional, convincing performance? BOLLOCKS THEY WILL!! Hey Daubney! Hey Ted! You make Guns'an'Roses look like the Moscow fuckin' Ballet Company - OR WHAT? Jill and Alsy perform well. I'm not the best, but not unbearable! The rest do a facsimile of a deaf, dumb and blind retarded paraplegic "thespian" class's impression of the Beastie Boys on a wee "bit" of Ecstasy and fookin' truckload of mogadon thickshakes. Oh let's forget this sorry scene shall we? Just between you and me dear reader, let's pretend this “Night in Madrid” was just the hazy punchline in a bad scriptwriter's deathbed "gag''.

Friday June 9

And by the airport it's clear that Sally wasn't exactly a BIG fan of Ted and Daubney last night. And - hey, big surprise! - nobody LOOKS VERY WELL! The queue for CLUB SICK-UP lengthens. And guess what? Yeah – 2 1/2hour flight delay on account of French air traffic controller's unofficial 'bugnerisation'. LAUGH? I nearly joined the Spanish army - or what??

Hey Amsters!! It's good to see you, you miserable platter of ham and cheese - Hit the Feebo outlet - mine's a sate croquette. Hit the streets - a Dutch hippy! The Quentin Hotel never looked more Schnookie, nor the Paradiso. Hello Pam (delivering highly important Keyboard thingy OR WHAT). Hello Doug, Justin, Rox, Tim, hello Helena (UK FAN - OR WHAT), hello Putzie twins - Evi and Kirsten, hello Liz - merchandise the fuck out of these cheesebreath-heads! <i>(again let me assure you Mr McComb has a very high regard for the Dutch.)</i>Hello Peter - Mr. nice intellectual Dutch journalist with whom I have a conversation concerning the duty or lack thereof that ART owes to REALITY (hmm the Newcastle Times and the Daily News won't be quite the same after this spate of no-holds-barred shameless arty European intelligence and sophistication OR WHAT). We dine in the old faithful Italian restaurant. The show is very good, Ted and Daub on good behaviour bonds, the capacity audience only unbridled towards the end SO WHAT'S NEW? Nothing's changed since the Stoned Crow.

Saturday June 10

Thanks Philip- or was it Frank, for the wake up call. After breakfast (ham and cheese WE ACCEPT NOTHING LESS, GUV) Pamela and I proceed to the American Discount Bookstore (best Bookstore in the world, no contest) and proceed to blow at least £30 each on spurious books - Brodsky's collection of C 19th Russian poetry, Kundera's “Art of the Novel", biog of Fassbinder, “Death in Venice" G. Greene's "End of the Affair", Warsh's "Methods of Birth Controls", the Eighth Edition of the Paris Review's "Writers at Work" series. Then off to Utrecht. The Tivoli again. Sold out. Silly German interview. Soundcheck. Procrastinated, but tasty, Thai meal in canalside eaterie. Obscene UK support group. Weird motherfuckin' hotel. No beds in Marty and Liz's room. I have no key and have to be escorted to room by receptionist. Rooms aren't ready until 4.00 p.m. Weird.

Good show of course. Bit of an aspro Ted disco in Pam's room with "Paul's Boutique” and “Avalon Sunset” but I say one too many stupid Ted jokes and Graham gets fed up and I feel like a right twat. Sometimes it's wise to grow up, no?

Sunday June 11

Breakfast en masse in Utrecht Central train station where we are dropping off Pam and Helena (at this point the entourage is the biggest ever in Triffids' history: Justin, Tim, Dugald, Sal, Liz, Goon, Evi, Kirsten, Pam, Helena, Roxy, Jill, Alsy, Bob, Ted, Daub, Your Scribe). Then two Dutch cuties give me a pink rose whilst ensconced in brekkie -glamour of rockn'roll OR WHAT? Difficult to be blasé. Joy of joys - English Sunday press (Observer and Sunday Times) at newsagent makes for a highly enjoyable drive to Belgium. Hey, Ghent you're my kinda city, and Vooruit is my kinda venue. Meet up with good old Jacky (Belgium journo), immediately plunge into stimulating (seriously) triad of simultaneous interviews. The hotel is 40km away so we "shower" at the venue. Highlight of the day - Belgian geezers BROCK the backstage area up with 2/3 of a South American tropical rainforest, NO SHIT. Leafery blocks all eye to eye contact over dinner. Chimps swing from vines, anacondas twist around branches, parakeets chatter in the foliage (but I ordered eucalypts you Belgie incompetents!) and half the Triffids fill up the northern hemisphere with ... dope smoke. Bevvies on board at conclusion. Drive to hotel whilst watching ELVIS ALOHA HAWAII on the video and, yes, it's just a teensy bit pertinent to the spirit of the occasion OR WHAT.

Monday June I2

Let's go to France for something completely new and different. Most likely it will be the same as Belgium only more so. In a fit of abject spontaneity I ask to travel in the Putziemobile, a tiny buglike creature that transports Goon, the Putzies and (usually) Roxy. Roxy gracefully concedes to a trip in the bus of molecular disintegration. I knew the Putziemobile would be cramped but I didn't know my kneecaps would hammer my Adam's Apple L.A.M.F. for the next three hours. Kirsty plays the Deutsch equivalent of John Peel on her tape player - lots of slimy gtr bands (where's the motherfartsackin's Tyree, homie??). I am enthralled in C19th Russian poetry and Kundera's egotistical self-exposing espousals on the theory of the novel. Goon and Evi canoodle like two sleepy little stuffed koalas in the back seat. Kirsty jabs the tape player with her fist when it refuses to act in a civilised manner. Well, it's nice enough - didn't that Mr. V.V.Gogh motherfartsacker once preach to potato-eaters around here (North Belgium) before he got into some serious aspro Arles mindfucking and body flagellation? - but, lo and behold (here's the rub) I sort of miss that old tourbus, with its myriad stenches of impregnated spleggy, anchovy, Smirnoff, beer-sickup, sweat, athlete's foot, leukemia, gangrene, ham, cheese, tomato skins, scabies, fartbreath, coffinguts, eyelid secretions, decrepit fruit, demoralised lettuce, tubercular mustard, urine and poor morale. The tourbus has that - how can I put it? - atmosphere.

Getting into Paris is of course a poor Benny Hill joke. The trick to driving in Paris is in re-viewing "Apocalypse Now" and complying with its logic. My only regret is missing that cyclist when we were barrelling down the wrong side of the road near Gare du Nord. Above par navigating lands us swiftly on the Rue de Petit Epicuries - we find the hotel is not named "Carousel" but “Caravelle”. I find Gavin Friday in the foyer, and Man Seezer his instrumentalist (who profusely bursts into praise of Les Triffids, to my amazement). Gavin says,"The hotel is shit. Good luck".

The others in the tourbus aren't so schnookie. They have difficulty changing money at the border, embark on a wild-red-herring-turkey-chase through a few towns AND WHAT! (Aust. equiv. of 'OR WHAT) it's a "Phew, wot a scorcher' day in Paris and they arrive sweaty and flustered.

Then - WOT IF THEY GAVE A RECORD SIGNING AND NOBODY CAME? It happens to us right now in the Paris Virgin Megastore. Y'just had to laugh, otherwise you'd be a little on the embarrassed side. We are holed up in a glorious waiting room above the Champs Elysees for an embarrassing but quaint thirty minutes, then wander befuddled through the megastore shaking' `hands' with important employees. This store sells 5% of France's records OR WHAT!? Then ... fuckin' record company cafe drinks on the Pigalle and the prospect of din-dins at a hopelessly expensive restaurant near our hotel. All well and good until I decide for once that I can't endure a total translation of every second word of the menu for 13 people. I walk out, storm up to Rue de Poissonieres, buy a little pizza thingy, fume and ferment, and wait till I stop hating certain people. (Ne'ertheless Brune (record company) spouts of "Goodbye Little Boy" - 'EEs a hit, deefinaately, ees a hit'). I buy a couple of beers from a grimy delicatessen, drink them in my room, walk up to Montmartre, think of revisiting the Rue de Martyrs just for old time's sake; but alas the Dwyer family won’t be there anymore. Back in the Caravelle I chance upon Room 502 to find my cavalry - Goon, Roxy and the Schnookie twins. We merrily go on a cafe-crawl, sitting on the boulevard pavements with Ricard et grenadine avec whiskey KNOW-WA-A-MEAN? End up in slimy dog cafe near Gare du Nord on our fourth round. I've always been impressed with how much yellow light there is on the streets around Gare du Nord. There's a good post cartinvest shop around here too. The Putzie's, Roxy and G. Hall get looser as the evening progresses. HIGHLIGHT OF THE MATCH (CORRESPONDENCE ENTERED INTO) Evi: 'What wine shall we drink, Goon?' 'Ah, I think perhaps a bottle of Chateau Legopener'. PAUSE, somewhere we hear the strains of La Marseillaise ... Evi: "... er, ... Vat ees 'LEGOPENER'?" Perhaps you just had to be there, but we laughed until we stopped. Our jaws and cheeks ached. Paris may well be a schnookie city but by then it was time to put one's name on the guestlist for Le Club de Fartsack. OR WHAT?

Tuesday June I3

Yes and bollocks to you too dear reader. Of a Parisian morning I like nothing better than a bracing round of interviews over coffee. The first, Stephan, was actually clued up and he was a cutie to boot. The full range of Euro-absurdity was only reached in the third interview, for a French technical "Guitar and Keyboard" magazine. After telling us we were an ecologically-minded band (Ted's jaw hits table) he demands that we write out one of our musical passages (i.e. score it) on a sheet of notation paper he produces. This monsieur refuses to believe that Ted and I can't score music. He storms off incredulously into the heat of the afternoon. For Stephan's magazine we go to the Vincent de Paul cathedral for a photo session but - hey Catherina! - no photographer shows up. Through the afternoon the entourage disperses on shopping expeditions etc. I make it to Galleries Lafayette but just buy some antique postcards.

We are playing in a jazz club called New Morning. Soundcheck. Eat fruit. Think for a while I've lost all my note books. Panic. Decide to leave panic till after show when I've got more time to panic effectively. Although we hardly get a huge crowd, the performance is a lot better than last year's (not a difficult achievement). Find note books in Kirsty's car. We are given our food money and Goon, the Putzies and I retire to a brasserie to liquidate ours.

Wednesday June I4

At last, the tour has ended. But not yet. I am taken back to St. Vincent de Paul Cathedral by mad French motorcycling photographer. How romantic! He's quite a Gallic DISH too I might add, so I propose marriage, he accepts and we honeymoon in Tahiti. AND THEN WHAT!?

 

 

© David McComb

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