Life is...The PITS!

First off, Otter completely devoured the cable that connects my camera to my computer, so new pix until I solve that little kink. Besides that...

December 3, 2007
So, tonight my friend Indra and I saw the Boss Martians from Seattle at Wild at Heart. Last time I saw them was for Rocket From The Crypt's second to last show in Manhattan, where I received a mysterious black eye, undoubtedly the product of pre-show Jameson and unlimited backstage libations. This time was far less violent and far more coherent (for me), with the Emerald City kids playing for about an hour and a half solid. In my twelve years in Seattle I've seen this unit progress from straight instro-surf and hot rod rock 'n' roll, to new wave tinged punk, and on to Turbonegroesque hard jams. I was stoked they played my fav tune, "Angela" a sweet piece of Elvis Costello worship that could have been a My Aim Is True outtake. Good times.

December 6, 2007
Turns out I had to vacate my flat due to the influx of tattoo conventioneers, so Robert graciously invited me to stay with him in Groningen, Holland. I Packed up Otter and all my junk and hopped on the morning train to the Netherlands, a four-train expedition which became an exercise in the lifting of extremely heavy luggage. I told Robert I had a ton of stuff, but I think he was slightly surprised by the amount of crap I’ve managed to acquire, the bulk of it stuffed into Otter’s hard shell carrier making it into a big plastic anchor. We took a cab to his place and settled in for some of Robert’s famous comfort food – in this case a hearty goulash of mashed potatoes and endives with gravy and sausage. Trust me, Robert is top chef to rockers the world over.

Basically a tolerable version of Amsterdam, the college town of Groningen has all the attractions of that other town (attractive architecture, canals, quaint cobblestonia, and yes, coffeeshops galore and even a small red light district), but without the steady influx of obnoxious English and American tourists. Not to mention it is home to one of the most incredible rock clubs on this side of the pond, Vera. I had my first Olie Bollen, a fried lump of dough with a healthy dose of powdered sugar added for that extra touch of heart disease. The night brought us on a tour of local haunts with predictable results. At some point my brain experienced total shutdown, so I assume I had fun.

The next evening was spent with friends of Robert’s whom I had met the night before (and of course don’t remember meeting at all). We tall drank generic beers, watched the Dutch version of Who Wants to a Millionaire and waxed philosophic, particularly on why Americans are so hung up on marriage. What I thought to be somewhat of a universal custom ain’t the case up here, as the Dutch are more into extended shacking up. If it’s good for the Dutch…

December 9th, 2007
With the bulk of my junk safely in Robert’s basement, I took another early train to Paris to meet my mom, my sister, Kelly, and her boyfriend, Brad. My hotel was modest by Parisian standards but incredibly convenient –in the 14th across from a Metro stop. I unloaded my gear and took the subway to a hotel not modest by any standards, The Hotel Lutetia. Steeped in history (Bon Marche family, used as Nazi officer housing in that big war, etc etc) this hotel was positively drenched in luxury. My family had arrived from Venice with quite the opposite accommodations, so their digs here were an upswing.

After the traditional French breakfast of cigarettes and sarcastic disdain, we spent the next few days hitting the sites: Eiffel Tower, Montmarte, Notre Dame and the Latin Quarter, The Arc de Triumph, and Pere LeChaise Cemetery, which I had never been to but proved to be an incredible labyrinth of above ground sarcophagi. We snapped pix of the stones of Edith Piaf and Jim Morrison, then followed our croissant trail back to the land of the living. Biggest disappointment: The Catacombs, one metro stop from my hotel, were closed for some sort of skull-polishing renovation, and would remain so until next February. Hopefully when the Hex Dispensers come here next year we’ll have time for a walk-thru. And when I say “hopefully” I mean we damn well better see the fucking catacombs.

For dinner one night we discovered a small bistro where I had a cassolet that apparently had every kind of weird meat ever butchered contained within (everyone else wisely got soup). The overly friendly owner immediately started telling me about his Harley Davidson Fat Boy, even though I had made no mention of motorcycles, and he even brought out a portfolio of pictures of his bike to regale me with. It’s interesting how much feigned enthusiasm you can muster when faced with a language barrier. I told him that I had a Triumph Bonneville, and after a series of attempts to pronounce the word “Triumph” ("ahh... Trey-oomph!"), I sensed some malign acknowledgement that even though I was a fellow "biker", I obviously had an inferior machine. The French can be good at that.

This year my sister turned 21. And aside from getting a pony, or a bottle of Czechoslovakian Absinthe (okay, that’s what I gave her) taking a dinner cruise down the Seine is a pretty good gift. A surprise I inadvertently ruined (because some people didn’t tell me it was a surprise…) it really was very amazing on quite a few layers, both culturally and gastronomically, with views of Parisian landmarks at night and Vegas style entertainment. The two tables of drunk Japanese businessmen upped the entertainment ante a few notches, constantly mugging for shots with the busty blonde lounge singer, and toasting each other every two seconds. In any case, certainly a dinner I won’t soon forget.

The following evening I set out on my own to meet my friend Louie for a gig at Mechanique Occulatoire, a new club making a healthy addition to the scant Parisian rock scene. Where there is a surplus of rock ‘n’ roll holes in frosty Berlin, Paris is not so lucky, so it’s nice to see a new joint opening up. In a small alley near the Bastille, the MO features a healthy sized upstairs bar and a narrow cavernous room below. I meet Louie and we watch the Complications, a garage band composed of former Magnetix and Fatals members. I discover that we are ultimately headed in the same direction, the 19th anniversary party for a club called The Pits in Kotrijk, Belgium, and so, with some post-show introductions to the band, Otter and I are invited to join Louie and the Complications in their big rental van to Lille, France and then on to Kotrijk.

I call it an early night (which is easy here since the bars have to close by 2am and usually do so earlier), and take a cab back to my last night of Parisian luxury. We had a final delicious Lutetia breakfast, and then the mom and the gang went to check out the Louvre before taking a train to Amsterdam to round out their vacation. I, meanwhile, took a metro train to the end of the Galleni line to hang out with Louie before the Complications van showed up. We drank coffee and listened to French psychedelic and punk records, while Otter barked at Louie’s kitten, Attilla. Finally, after about fifty cups of coffee the van arrived and we jumped in the back row, beginning the three hour tour to Lille. With French being spoken all but exclusively I had little to contribute to any kind of conversation, a pattern that would pretty much repeat for the next few days. I hope they didn’t think I was some mute asshole, but the next time I come here I’m going to up my French quotient considerably. Sure, I can order a crepe or ask for four tickets to the top of the Eiffel Tower, but when it comes to fluid conversational language, forget it.

We get to the club, and the Complications attempt a sound check, except that the club has a sound alarm that flashes red whenever the total decibels goes over 95. Completely ridiculous. They would start the song, and then whenever Thierry, the bass player, would hit a note the thing would flash a defiant red. After a series of misfires to get the sound dialed in they decided that in regards to the rock police, well, que sera sera, and would just play the gig at whatever level they wanted to. The other band, The Bastoums, engaged a similar approach, and of course the show went off fine. After a delicious dinner at the club, we stayed at a house close by, occupied a brother and sister, Sebastien and Amandine, who are the dual front people for a band called Osni (the name being some kind of French joke for UFO that I didn’t get.). While Otter worked the room, I managed to talk to a few people in English, one of whom offered this bit of wisdom about Belgium: “It’s just like France, only without the French.” I guess he can say that because he’s French. We eventually crash and I snore-blast the room into submission. Sorry about that.

The next day we went to a restaurant specializing in Lille-ian cuisine, which is essentially hearty beef dishes. Sebastian explained to me that here in Northern France there is more of a beer culture due to it’s Belgian proximity, and the dish he recommended to me was representative of that: Carbonnade Flemade, thick pieces of beef served in a sweet beer-based sauce atop some kind of sweet cake, endives and fries on the side. Delicious if nap inducing. We eventually regrouped at the Osni house and hit the road for Kotrijk, a tidy 40 minutes away.

December 14th, 2007
The Pits is legendary. I had met Ramses, Pits bartender and official hotelier to touring bands, in Berlin at the John Schooley show, so it was nice to finally see what all the fuss was about. The band room is, um, cozy, but the most identifying feature is the two urinals facing you right as you enter. They are the only men’s toilet, so it is very common to be having a conversation with a dude pissing right next to you. Ramses mentions to some of the other bartenders that I am in The Hex Dispensers and this earns me a free beer. Pits longtimer/DJ/bartender Bowy saw us at Budgetrock and gave us a great review in the Kotrijk fanzine, Up Yours (yes Alex, I have a copy for you), and he told me that the whole club is excited for us to play there in May. I have to explain somewhat bittersweetly that I didn’t play a single note on the great, great debut LP, but it’s comforting to know that we’re gonna have a good turnout when we get here.

I meet Robert and Mark from Mepple and we start off the evening. The opening band is called the Shirley MacLaines, a group composed of Austrian 20-year-old girls, whose single was actually put out be a friend of mine in Seattle. Later I told them my last name is actually Austrian, so it was cool hearing it pronounced with the proper accent: "Bey-soon-ohffer." They put on a great, energetic set, followed a mindblowing set by the Complications, eclipsing the past two nights by a wide margin. Watching all these great bands has really put the desire to play with my own group, and I feel a painful sting of home, nay, rocksickness.

Besides the conspicuous urinals, the other interesting feature of The Pits is that the shows have to be over by 10 pm due to neighbor considerations. So people get drunk much earlier. And the club stays open as long as it wants to. I don’t know if drunks milling around outside a club is more annoying than the sound of a live band, but thems the rules. So, by midnight Robert, Mark and I along with their friends Gary and Youri walked to the house of another friend of Robert's to crash. The place is comfortable yet eventually becomes freezing, and even though I had Otter curled up next to me the night became quite chilling. I think the beginning of my cold can be traced to this moment. Only some pseudo-drunk ingenuity of folding my blanket in half saved me from frozen death, as it essentially doubled the heating power! Thanks Belgian beer!

The next day we the four of us are set to travel to Rotterdam to see the Masonics. A small adventure I will tell you about...later.

If it's Thursday this must be Antwerp

November 21, 2007

Thanksgiving. Far and away my favorite holiday, aside, of course, from National Sleep Until Noon Day and Pizza Appreciation Week. I thought last year may have been my best Thanksgiving yet, which I spent by myself watching all three original Star Wars movies accompanied by that Thanksgiving staple, a DiGiornos frozen pizza. How could this year possibly top that? How about this: Antwerp, the only turkey in Belgium, and cardboard costumes?

My friends Perrin and Emily are also doing an extended Euro jaunt, and after finishing an involved collaborative art project at a farmhouse in the Czech Republic, relocated to Antwerp. Their friend Salem from RISD already lived there with her German boyfriend Jens, and managed to get a fairly large flat for the month for a very good deal while it was under renovation. I had no idea they were there, but a week before Thanksgiving I received the call via MySpace, which I heeded immediately. Probably counter-productive to my adventures in monolingual isolationism, but speaking English with fellow Americans is exactly what I needed.

The day before t-day the alarm went off at 5:30, for today was about a ten-hour train day. I left Lina’s flat at 6am, and she sent me a groggy “goodbye” from her room as Otter and I left for Warschauer Str station. The train day followed thusly : Warschauer to Ostbahnhof to Dortmund to Cologne to Bussells to Antwerp. The train from Brussels to Antwerp involved a 20 euro supplement on my Eurail pass, due to it being a Thalys high speed train – probably the nicest in Europe outside of the Orient Express. Infact Otter and I had the front of the train, (the Salon) to ourselvex, and we immediately brought a meal of sliced beef, potatoes, bread, cheese, chocolate and coffee as soon as I sat down. There’s something great about train travel, something I admittedly have not done much of in the US, but am pondering doing once I get back. Maybe it’s the foreign countryside that rushes by as the miles tick way, or just that movement, the barely noticeable motion of train on track. I’ve never really been that bored on trains, and find that I can actually sleep on them, as opposed to airplanes which I find almost impossible. Plus, there’s no dining car on an airplane, so that may have something to do with it. Now if they could just figure out how to put high-speed internet on the cars I’d be set.

I arrived at Antwerp Berchem station at 7pm, crossed the courtyard to the number 8 tram, which brought me through the center of town to Perrin’s pad. Antwerp is a curious place: a mixture of old world Belgium and high finance, which means lots and lots of shopping. Being the diamond capital of Europe might of something to do with it, as well as its role as one of Europe’s busiest ports. Whatever the reason, one has the opportunity to buy lots of shit here, from jeweler to furrier.

There is also a huge Cirque De Soleil is semi-permanace, and their white circus spires are my signal to get off the tram. A few directionless rambles aside, I find Perrin and Emily’s flat, a fifth floor walk up with the steep narrow stairs you find in as you head West. Greetings, hugs, and warmth. As I drop the bags and Otter gets busy running around the joint, I notice that all the furniture is made out of cardboard. By furniture I mean the kitchen table, which is at a low Morroccan level, as well as the seating cushions, each decorated in revolving patterns by removing sections of the top cardboard layer by knife. There was a cardboard cornucopia filled with cardboard corn, tomatoes, and fruit. Even Perrin and Emily’s mattress was a creation involving a cardboard box spring. The flat came unfurnished, but they were supplied with a generous cardboard donation, which they obviously used to the maximum potential.

Perrin and I set off to pick up the turkey. At the local supermarket, Du Haze, the butcher presents us with two choices: a little five pounder and a massive fifteen pound bird, each decorated with a gold ribbon. Of course we take the biggun, as we’re expecting 10 hungry people, five US (Indians) and five Europeans (Pilgrims). As Perrin and Emily were commited to other dishes, I as only happy to provide turkey–cooking services, which I have done many times in years past and was looking forward to doing in a foreign country. Since I didn’t have enough time to do my usual brine method, I decided to do it breast-down, which supposedly results in a much juicier breast than when it is roasted in the traditional fashion. We shall see.

November 22, 2007

Today was spent in largely in preparation. After all, there was food to be made, and an argyle tablecloth to be made out of tape, created by Salem and Jens. Friends arrived from various locales: Emily's brother Everett from Amsterdam, Cecil from Groningen, Pieter from down the street. The kitchen was was packed with too many dishes vying for crucial oven time, the same as any american Thanksgiving. While I was occupied with all things turkey, Pieter and Cecil finished my aborted project of constructing a cardboard Mayflower replica. Perrin, Emily and Everett, meanwhile busied themselves with the all important costumes, truly authentic native american head dresses for the Americans, mad-hatter sized "pilgrim" hats for the Europeans. Nuts. When we finally sat down to eat it sort of resembeled a school play, only with a lot more wine. I late night excursion to the "Nachtwinkel" (night store) for more wine in full costume garnered appropriately confused looks from the Antwerpers, but Emily attempted to ease their confusion by explaining "It's Thanksgiving!", although I doubt that changed their perception much. However, from now on I am requiring costumes at every future Thanksgiving, cardboard or not. Oh, and the upside-down turkey turned out delicious!

November 23rd, 2007

Tonight I was to set off for Amsterdam to meet my friend Robert, but before catching the train we did some important walking around. Ostensibly a search for Belgian waffles, we wandered along the harbour, through the Maritime museum, into an creepy abondoned building and through the main square. The merging of semi-ancient and modern is perfect here, with the narrow winding streets opening into grand spaces and back again, trams running back and forth and shoppers spending an ungodly amount of euros. I decided on Beligian Frites rather than the pre-made waffles across the street, and sadly have determined that the Dutch version is decidedly better, based solely on crunch factor. These things are important, folks.

Perrin and Em were kind enought to watch Otter for the weekend, so I set off to try to catch the train. While I eventually did, I could not find a cab to the station just didn't feel like messing around with trams. I eventually found a cab willing to take me to Antwerp Central, wandered around the staion for a bit, and boarded the train for the 2 hour ride to Antwerp Centraal. One stop before the end, at Shiphol airport, the nearly empty train was invaded by obnoxious English 20-somethings out to party for the weekend. Excruciating. I broke free of the mod squad and met Robert outside, where he took me to punk squat bar Cafe The Minds, while we waited for his ex Kat de Lijn to show up. The thing about Amsterdam (and Europe in general) that make most Americans shit their pants is that they really don't care about how old you are in regards to the drink, and saw a lot of kids in that bar that couldn't be muc older than 14. I mean, they looked young. Which means Robert and I felt old, so when Kat showed up we bailed via taxi for a club called Pacific Park.

This place is huge. Probably as big as the Sage in Berlin, but more open, and with an upper balcony that provides an overview of the dancing throng below, which I completely forgot to get pictures of. Japanese tourists, rockers, artists, old dudes, young girls and everyone in between packed this place to the gills. Wooden Tit was supposed to play but they cancelled, so another garage combo played in their stead. A great night, marred only by the sudden appearance of unstoppable hiccups, and I was unable to find my only remedy (peanut butter) until we reached Kat's place, where we were staying that night. As soon as we got there, relief could not come soon enough as I'd been hiccuping for about 20 blocks, and with sweet peanut butter putting my hiccups to rest, we called it a night.

The next morning/afternoon consisted of a concotion that Robert made involving turkish sausage, cumin cheese, scrampled eggs and mayo on a baguette that was miraculous. We later boarded a train for Ahrlen, a small Dutch town occupied primarily by an outdoor shopping district. I didn't but anything, but I did come across a curious display of wax ears. Apparently Ahrlen is the center of worl'ds ear supply. We wandered around while we waited for Robert's

friend Mark to pick us up for Koln, were I would make my second visit to the Sonic Ballroom.

First we stop at the Underground, to catch Two Tears, the new band fronted by former Red Aunts shieker Kerry Davis, who were opening for the Donnas. As none of could stand the Runnaways-redux of the Donnas, we stayed only for the Breeders-esque Tears, then walked back to the Ballroom. Tonight's rock provided by German teenagers the Dead Rats and garage punk superstars the Hidden Charms. Both bands ruled, but I gave the edgee to Rats, based on enthusiasm and creative Hot Snakesmanship. We stayed, rocked, drank Robert's patented white wine/water concoctions, and finished the night off with pita kebaps and a stay at Cellophane Suckers guitarist Hauke's flat close by.

The next day I declined the invite to carry the party on to Utrecht to catch Two Tears again, as I was anxious to relieve Perrin and Emily of dog watching duty. I arrived back in Antwerp just in time for Thanksgiving leftovers with Salem and Jens, with a ghetto-kids-make-good double feature of Roll Bounce and Drumline. Lessons learned from each film: girls like guys with big skates, and one band, one sound. True 'nuff.

The next few days in the 'Twerp were filled with pinball, walking, more movies on the computer (Disturbia and Real Genius) and the search for a reliable internet connection since the freebee we were using was shut off by the man. We spent some time an Antwerp staple De Vagant, home to Jenever, a belgian grain alchohol infused with a variety of flavors. The final night we went to club on the edge of town to see French art punkers Papier Tiger, and became involved in a dance party that lasted until 4 am, in which I somehow managed to tear he crap out of my shoulder, an injury for me when I have too much to drink and become obsessed with lifting people. The next day would be a long one, as I had to go to Diegem, Belgium to resolve a work issue. Diegem is basically the Brussels airport and a succession of Office parks, and the "station" is merely a platform. Getting to the Belgian office involved a train a tram ride to Antwerp Berchem, a train to Brussels, a train to Diegem, a mile walk with Otter and my all my bags, then a walk back to the station, then on to Brussels, to Koln, To Berlin. I needed to move into a rental apartment for a few days, so from I went to Lina's grabbed my junk and we huffed it the four blocks to the apartment and up the five flights of stairs, finally capping off the night at Fuermeder, a sweet punk bar we had a beer, battled it out on Spiderman 3 "flipper" and retired to our respective flats, exhausted.

December 1, 2007

Tonight I met with Daniel, the owner of the Alien Snatch record label that is putting out the Hex Dispensers album, at the John Schooley One man band show in Kreuzberg. We talked official rock biznatch and had a few beers at Franken, then mover on to The Bull Bar, a small uncrowded joint with good music. We met again the next night, with Phillip from the Kidnappers and had amazing pizza at a gigantic, bustling Italian joint called Due Forni, and caught the last two-thirds of the set by a reunited Undertones, which was a great show save for the presence of two shirtless skinheads who insisted on the "skinhead staredown". I met my friend Jessica and her boyfriend Dav who were travelling from Seattle, and we shared a shot later with fellow ex-seattleite Chris Bell, who was DJing at the Franken. Always great to see friends from back home, but I called it an early night and got back to Otter and sweet, sweet sleep. Next its off to Paris to meet the mom and sis, and hopefully a successful search for more permanent digs. Stay tuned.