On the first night, the Jerusalem Artichokes were playing in some down-town boozer that would have seemed quite a nice venue upon initial inspection. Here and there were couples enjoying a quiet evening drink after a hard day's work, labourers relaxing on comfy chairs while downing a few, groups of mates looking friendly and joyous and seeing off a few jars, and young, pleasant-looking bartenders all set to get the booze flowing at full speed when the bulk of the crowd would arrive. It turned out to be quite different.
After finding the place, we unloaded our gear on the stage, set it up and went out to score some beers. Luckily, there was a park right in front of the bar, where we could crack a few tubes. Unluckily, a strong wind was blowing from the North and it was ever so slightly drizzling. As a result, the cold nullified the action of the booze and we were forced to go back inside before we could have our second round.
I began harassing Archibaldo for some beer-tokens. “Sure, here you go, Roady. But I'm warning you, you can only get halves of Carlsberg.” I shrugged and replied: “Beats drinking your own piss”. I made my way to the bar and exchanged my token. While the bartender was pouring it, I realised that Bruno Parmigiano was standing right next to me, looking vaguely pissed-off. “Alright, there Bruno? Looking forward to your gig?” He gave me one of his trademark grimaces of discontent and mumbled and grumbled about the quality of the beer, claiming that it was irrational and scandalous: “I don underztand. Ziz iz really dizguzdin. Iz like drinkin your own pipi.” Which was, all in all, probably true. But seen as the Jerusalem Artichokes were doing all the hard work, I shut up and drank my half of pipi.
There soon came a point were Venetian Blinds and I got bored, waiting for something to happen. So we decided to seek adventure outside, where it was cold and wet, but where one could acquire cheap lager easily. The streets were fairly quiet, for a Friday night. The only people we came across were wearing suits and ties and heading back home. Because there was nothing better to do, we loitered by a post box and bitched about the cold that was preventing us from getting loaded. After a while, a middle-aged stuck-up lady walked past our base-camp. She was carrying a beautiful large Siamese cat in a cat box, probably bringing it back from the vet. “Nice pussy, love!”, cried Venetian Blinds. I let go a long burp. She kept on walking. “Fuck me, where's her sense of humour?”, he rhetorically enquired. I concurred. “There'll be more humour in the bar than around here. Come on, let's fuck off. I'm getting cold.” We put the remaining beers in my back-pack and headed back to the boozer.
But as we approached the venue, we realised that the entrance we had been using so far had been locked from inside. We looked around and spotted a bulky coloured person standing by the door. “Is that a bouncer?”, I asked Venetian Blinds. “Looks like it”, he answered. I did not know whether to smile or be shocked. “Maybe Oasis are the supporting band,” I pondered.
As we tried to walk in, the bouncer calmly told me to open my bag. I tried to be clever: “We're with the band.” He became contemptuous: “Does that exempt you from opening your bag?” I stared at him for a few seconds and then looked around, wondering if a joke was on me. “All right, you win.” I opened my bag and produced a carrier-bag full of cheap lager. “Feel free to help yourself to one, I suggested. It's a cold night waiting on the doorstep.” He shook his head and placidly, but with some sort of impatience, opened the door for us to get in.
We still had a good two-hour wait before the gig, so I went up to Archibaldo for some more beers. But - horrorshow - there was only a limited amount of beer-tokens available for all of us. “Sorry, crew, he said, waiving his arms in frustration. That's all we're getting. Actually, they did not provide any for the Roady, so I had to give you one of mine.”
I felt bum-fucked. Without a doubt the most unethical and humiliating treatment you can inflict upon a Roady is to is to drag him into a mediocre venue and tell him that he can't drink for free. This means that he has to fund his piss-ups with his own dinero. That is bad enough – it is contrary to the humanistic principles of keeping a Roady well fed and well drunk. But to complicate things further, even a moderately rich Roady, being essentially generous and full of goodwill, often feels morally compelled to fuel the tight bastards that are employing him.1 Is there a greater paradox in this cold, dark and inhospitable world of arty poseurs? It is, by a country-mile, the greatest victory of capitalism. To think that Adam Smith naïvely believed that CEOs would acknowledge their responsibilities and act as benevolent philanthropists taking care of the weak is a big joke in its own right. To witness the exact opposite from the eyes of a humble Roady is a different story altogether.
But then anybody with a bit of common sense would realise that bands like the Jerusalem Artichokes or the Drunk Monks were a thousand times more money-oriented than they would want to think. They pass for humble artists, yet shun the opportunity to play for free and wind up giving more money to the arse-combers they play for. Sometimes I fail to understand why I keep hanging out with those nasty pieces of work, who secretly expect me to keep the beer flowing, if plan A has failed or was doomed from the very start of the adventure.
I digress. I knew Archi was lying and felt mutinous.2 I fumed back to the bar, ordered a pint with my own money, and swallowed it in large gulps. I looked around and the friendly boozer now looked very different. The few beers I'd had, combined with the sickening news of the beer tokens and the bouncer busting my balls - all these factors were gradually lifting the veil of happiness I had initially seen upon entering the pub. In the meantime, various other crowds had arrived, while we had been outside fighting the cold and sipping cans of piss. I felt like insulting everyone, so I just kept drinking more and more beer.
At some point, I needed to urinate and buggered off to the pisser. The walls of the men's room were covered in old newspaper cuttings, some of which went back to the 1940s. It thought it was a great idea – a history lesson, whilst simultaneously enjoying a rejuvenating gypsy's kiss. The trouble was I could not linger because the floor of the boys' was full of glass, freshly broken. As I put my pecker back in my trousers, a bloke barged out of a toilet booth, hyper and shaking. As I glanced towards him, he produced a small plastic bag and said with an East European accent “Ah. Well. I'll just have to get another one, eh?” He laughed nervously , plunged his nose into the small plastic bag, noisily snorted, and made a short gargling sound with his throat. “Ha. Yes. Another pint.” Later on, I recognised him shouting abuse at the group of kids who were the supporting band for the evening.
Eventually, the Jerusalem Artichokes walked on stage and did their part of the job – while he was playing, Bruno Parmigiano kept hopping around like an Easter rabbit. Towards the end of the set, an obnoxious drunken cow came up to me with a flyer that read the name of the label – “Picha, Picha” records. “That the name of the band?”, she asked. “No, that's the name of the label. The name of the band is...” “I don't want the name of the fucking label, she snapped. I want the name of the fucking band!” I produced a piece of paper and wrote an Internet link to their music: “myspace.com/upyourcuntstupidtart/music”. She shoved the paper into her handbag without looking at it and staggered off.
When the Jerusalem Artichokes finished their set, the whole audience had the opportunity to dance to DJ Archibaldo's groovy 60s sounds. Though the remaining people did not seem too keen on shaking their arses to vintage garage beats, it was a rather enjoyable moment that almost made me forget about the crappy evening. By then, I'd had more than a few, so I was ready to be entertained. After about twenty minutes, a drunken Shaggy the Camel barged up to me. “Hey, Roady! Come on out and have a splif.” I briefly felt like declining his offer, but ended up following him, because I felt my brain could have done with some THC.
Outside it was colder than in the most frigid Eskimo's fanny. We also had to move away from the Nazi doorman. “Doesn't this remind you of High School?, asked Shaggy. You know, having to hide from the teacher just to have a few tokes?” He grinned. The snake had tempted the Roady to the forbidden fruit of wisdom, while God was busy confiscating drinks at the entrance of the Purgatory. Because of the biting cold, the dope had the exact same effect as the beer - bugger all. “Fuck it, this is getting us nowhere, I said, when we finally stubbed the reefer on the pavement. I'll buy you a drink.” The evening was starting to become increasingly tiresome and expensive.
But back inside, horroshow! DJ Archi was no longer blasting out his favourite tunes. Instead, a bird was playing some of the most tasteless so-called “avant-garde” house music. A mildly dunk Archibaldo came up to us, looking cynical and frustrated. “I don't know about you, but I preferred when DJ Archi was deejaying.” We agreed. “And look around you, he added, before leaving us and going around the boozer in an attempt to whore a drink off someone. There must be about ten arse-combers dancing to this shit. Where did those fuckers come from?” He was right. But upon closer inspection, I remembered that I had seen them behind a curtain right next to the bar, as if they'd been having some kind of private party throughout the evening. At the time, I had thought nothing of it, but now it all made sense: they were the other DJ's friends who had only come for her and stuck behind the scene, patiently waiting for her to cue in, and snubbing the other gigs.
“What a load of cock!”, said Shaggy the Camel. “Yeah, answered Venetian Blinds, sipping a newly-poured pint of beer. You know, arse-combers are like vampires. They'll only come out at the right time.” “So what do we do now?, asked Shaggy. I reckon it's time to bail out, don't you think?” We all agreed on the idea. We could not find Archibaldo, so I got beers for Shaggy and myself and we all lingered at the bar. Eventually, Archi came up to us, looking drunker and vaguely excited. “Hey, I've found us a party around here! I've met these three arts students who're having a party at their house. Come on, I'll introduce them to you.” We finished our beers and followed him outside.
There were our hosts for the evening. We shook hands with them and Archi, polite and sociable as ever, did the introducing. “This is Stavros Justakis, from Athens. And this is Grahamovitch Mushnikovski-Resort, from Bulgaria.” But turning to the third character, he fumbled his name and scratched his head nervously. “And this is... Shit, I'm sorry, I did not catch your name.” The frigid-looking stocky young lad stepped up and introduced himself. As he spoke, I noticed that half his right cheek was suffering from partial paralysis. “The name is Bobnar Lukewarm-Chop, but you can call me Bob.” Archibaldo feigned to remember. “Yeah, that's right. Sorry, Bob. You're from Serbia, Right?” “Croatia.” For some odd reason, I did not buy into that. Still, I did not really care. I just wanted to get out of this stupid joint and get wasted. They gave Archibaldo their address and told us that they were busing back home – we were getting a taxi. As they left, I noticed Stavros Justakis was giving Shaggy the eye.
We stopped to get some beers and presently arrived at their place. There must have been a good twenty people in the kitchen, with the stereo blasting out old-fashioned boogaloo. We started hitting the beers hard and passing splifs round. Much better scene. It turned out that it was Bob's birthday, so we had to sing happy birthday at least half a dozen times and were made eat one the most revolting chocolate cakes I have ever sampled. Inexplicably, a half-drunk bird started crying abuse at Venetian Blinds, who eventually was forced to leave the room for peace and quiet. As he did, a young French would-be hippie got up and decided to give him a hug. When the hug lasted for too long and Venetian Blinds tried to break free, the kid broke into tears. “Come on, there's no need for that. I mean, I don't even know you, what do you expect?” The situation made another bloke angry. “Now you've hurt his feelings!” At long bloody last, something was happening.
There was hardly any space in the crammed kitchen, but a few, myself included, managed to get our arses wobbling to those vintage beats. A fat Cambodian nerd called Ping-Pong To-Fu, who was toking on a small hash pipe, kept falling on everyone, causing some to spill their drinks and spark annoyance. A smiling and cheerful Grahamovitch, apparently used to coping with him, grabbed him by the shoulder, got him to sit to the table with him and Bobnar poured him a liberal dose of the Glenlivet. Sensing something interesting, I made my way to the table and tried to scrounge a swig, feigning that I had never had the opportunity of sampling such delicacies. They bought it and poured me a hit. I bowed. After spending the night drinking tasteless piss, it was like swallowing pristine melted gold. A few minutes later, I cracked another beer and switched to auto-pilot mode.
Because it was Bobnar Lukewarm-Chop's birthday, the Cambodian insisted that he have a toke on his pipe. But Bob did not seem too keen, essentially because he'd just witnessed him get completely blasted on his shit. “I don't know Ping-Pong. It looks it's pretty strong stuff. It's turning you into Pol Pot.”3 But Pol Pot insisted, so Bobnar accepted. He pulled a face of discomfort, as the smoke reached his lungs, and immediately passed it over to me. It was thick and almost acid. I instantly knew I was going to be sent rocketing around South East Asia. “Fuck, this is strong!”, I told Ping-Pong. The stuff did not take long to kick in, though, and soon, he looked like I felt – dizzy and disoriented. I went out of the kitchen to get some fresh air.
Outside, the late-winter drizzle had resumed. I tried to come to my senses and and deeply inhaled the fresher outside air. This was a bit too much for me. I had two long gulps of beer, hoping it would get my brain back where it belonged and progressively act as a counter-point to the dope. It was a lot quieter and somewhat peaceful out here, although I soon came to notice the presence of two arts students apparently engaged in a heated debate on the works of Vasili Kandinsky. I was incapable of understanding what they were rabbiting about, but I do remember that they ended up turning to me to have my opinion. “Hey, don't look at me, I managed to mutter. I'm just a Roady.” They looked away from me and resumed their discussion. I went back inside, feeling increasingly nauseous.
I looked around the kitchen, blasted out of my mind, soaking up the atmosphere and scanning the various scenes. Venetian Blinds was hugging the French hippie again, whose surroundings were preparing shots of whisky to celebrate their restored friendship. Bobnar and Grahamovitch were requesting autographs from a polite and deferent Archibaldo, who was trying to tell them that he did not like being treated like a rock-star. A stoned Shaggy the Camel was unconvincingly trying to chat up a Brazilian bird with shockingly big knockers, with Stavros Justakis desperately trying to barge into the conversation. I found a space between Bob and Ping-Pong, who was loading yet another pipe, and the thought of Sartre's absurd-induced Nausea briefly entered my mind. What happened after is rather hazy, as far as my recollections go, but believe I more or less passed out on the chair I was sitting on.
I was brought out of my slumber when a drunken Venetian Blinds pushed me off, prompting cynical laughter from Archibaldo. I hit the deck with a loud thud. “Hey, Roady! Wake up, you dozy bastard! Grahamovitch has cooked a massive dish of pasta with lots of onions and garlic, just like you always do!” I had no idea of what was happening and felt like I'd landed in Hell. On the floor, someone had spilt some ouzo and the strong smell of anise, combined with cigarette ashes, was too much for me to cope with. I painfully got back onto my chair, my eyes still half-glued from sleep, trying to fight the nausea. “You sick cunts,” I managed to mumble, and presently began mechanically shoving food down my throat.
Everyone had left the party, save the Drunk Monks and Grahamovitch Mushnikovski-Resort, who was too polite to tell us he needed his bed. Venetian Blinds and Archi were working their way through a bottle of Chilean wine, and talking a whole load of bollocks about politics in American Samoa. The food was greasy and fulfilling, but I felt my stomach was not going to hold it. I had managed to get some ouzo on my hair and the smell was still getting to me – as was the sight of Archi drinking wine out of the bottle whilst simultaneously scooping pasta into his mouth with a large ladle. “Fuck this,” I said getting up. I went to the crapper, waited a few minutes and finally purged my wretched body, knowing it would buy me a good night's sleep. Tomorrow brings a new day, as they say.
1This is something Venetian Blinds in particular seems to have understood well and exploited.
2What he probably has only just realised as I write these lines, is that I got my revenge by defecating into his suitcase.
3Wish I'd come out with this one - Gilbert Shelton, some issue of the Fabulous Furry Freaks Bros, in case you wonder.
Copyright by Roady, 2011
Copyright by Roady, 2011
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