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.