To get a glimpse of what the life of a Roady is, I'll fast-forward and skip the hungover afternoon we spent after the night the Drunk Monks played. This is not because nothing noteworthy occurred then, nor is it because I'm a lazy and lousy journalist.1 Rather, it is a way of showing the reader that there comes a point when a Roady sees his humble existence going in circles. Night after night, Roady helps set up the equipment, drinks cans of lager to kill time, watches the same gig over and over again and gets blasted out of his head. All other considerations wane, the everyday troubles of existence and the routine of getting up and doing things to kill time simply disappear and make way for that moment he enters a new venue, wondering if he'll be able to get loaded free of charge and if there'll be any arse-combers to entertain him or bore him to tears, depending on his state of mind. Think of it as cliché or an exaggeration; believe me, I have often wondered what life must be like going on tour with the Drunk Monks for several weeks – let alone several months. To get trapped in an endless spiral of boozing and entertaining, of sound-checking and luggage-carrying, of laughing, whining, while hardly ever sleeping is the nearest path to putting on a suit and getting a real 9 to 5 routine, when week-ends seem to matter again, when you actually enjoy getting wasted on those precious nights.
So let us get to the point. I was getting seriously tired with these gigs and managing to sleep 4 shitty hours on average each night. I was not particularly hungover, but I was ready to bugger off the next day and stop being a Roady for a few months – I was flying out the next morning. Needless to say that Archibaldo was in a terrible state when we arrived at the venue. His complexion was pale-grey and his eyes were small and swollen, akin to a pig's back-passage. He remembered very little of he previous night and kept saying that he'd never drink again. He told Shaggy the Camel and Venetian Blinds that the Jerusalem Artichokes would only do a short set and bugger off, because he wanted an early night and because it was a shit venue that did not have the courtesy to give away free booze, let alone a nominal fee for public transports. The three of them were a bit pissed-off at Bruno Parmigiano for organising this date. He naïvely thought that as long as the Jerusalem Artichoke managed to get a gig, everyone would be happy. “This is the last time I'm doing this, said Shaggy the Camel. Fucking about in public transports with all our gear and getting fuck all in return. What a bunch of tight-arsed Jewbags.” As usual, Bruno was late, so we reluctantly decided to check in and see what the deal was.
The venue was quite big, with an open courtyard where you could sit to some big wooden tables. They had a place for DJs and another for ordinary alternative concerts. We managed to find our way through the back door and found the bloke in charge of the gigs – a puny, pompous-looking Japanese bloke called Motorola. There was another band doing their sound-check called “Tour Eiffel en tu Gata”,2 some kind of electro disco band. I immediately disliked the lead singer who looked pretentious and full of himself. He was very tall and thin, and a massive curly mop of hair, which looked like a wig from a distance, sat on his head. For some gut reason, I've always found these hairstyles extremely suspicious. There's something very narrow-minded and latently aristocratic about it that has always made me want to grab these people by the feet and ram their sorry heads down a crapper to put their mops to good use and wipe the smiles off their faces.
They finished their sound-check and the Jerusalem Artichokes did theirs, while I impatiently sat in a corner of a room, bored shitless and almost nodding off. The beer was outrageously overpriced so, I had to wait for them to find an off-licence in the neighbourhood. It was going to be a long and tedious evening.
We found a corner shop and loitered around sipping beers. The cheap lager appeared even more tasteless than usual and seemed to build up more marshy gas in our guts than it had in the previous few days. We did it to kill time, hoping something would happen. But it was Sunday night in a part of town that reeked of fancy alternative entertainment, and the alcohol only made us more cynical and contemptuous. “This is like watching paint dry”, said Archibaldo, who had already forgotten his pledge to a dry lifestyle and was getting stuck into his second beer. We all concurred and wandered around the area, not knowing any better.
Eventually, we headed back to the club and found a young drunken shithead sitting to a table in the courtyard, looking obnoxious and ready for trouble. As he noticed that we were stuffing beers down our pockets to smuggle into the venue, he joked that his beer was empty. “So?, asked Venetian Blinds in a scornful tone. Call Paul Daniels and he'll pull a new one out of a hat.” But the young dick became irritable and claimed that we should spare him one. We all laughed sarcastically. Shaggy the Camel came up to him and gave him a reality-check. “This isn't Disneyland. Get some proper friends to share their drinks with you!” So the other bloke got up and staggered towards Shaggy who remained there unimpressed. I decided to get involved. “Come on Shaggy, leave it here.” But the other one started pushing him around, and I got in between them the prevent things from boiling over. Luckily, they both saw the big black bouncer patrolling the courtyard and retreated, Shaggy sniggering victoriously.
At long bloody last, the band walked on stage and played for about thirty minutes. Archibaldo was still awfully hungover and played like a one-armed penguin on crack, but, like the previous two evenings, nobody noticed or cared. After the show, Motorola, the prat in charge of the evening, grabbed the mike and said how great the show had been and that they would definitely want them to come back again. The Jerusalem Artichokes quickly packed their gear to make way for the next band. Archi looked like he'd just come back from a trip to Mt Everest. “Thank fuck we're done with that.” He grabbed my beer and sucked at it.
For some odd reason, the rest of the crew lingered around the bar, waiting to see what Tour Eiffel en tu Gata had to offer. Unsurprisingly, the lead singer was the star of show – the element of the band that gave it artistic direction and a collective identity. He was creamy and flamboyant. We all stood there watching him twist and turn on stage and kept telling each other how very irritating we thought he was. He seemed like he was suffering from some kind testicular condition, forever bending over as if in utter pain. But he was, of course, deeply into his art. After five minutes, Bruno Parmigiano – who had ended up turning up ten minutes before the Jerusalem Artichokes were supposed to kick off – buggered off, seeming almost furious.
After the gig, we found him outside with a group of his mates - not too far away from the dick-head who had previously attempted to scrounge one our beers. “So, I take it you're not too fond of their stuff, then, eh Bruno?”, I asked him. He gestured and waived his hands around in despair to indicate how atrociously boring he had found their stuff. “Why do zey play sduff like zis? Iz was okay in ze eytizz, but iz jusd ze zame thin over an over again. Come on! Iz no identity! Iz juss imitation!” A little harsh, perhaps, but then the band deserved bad marks just for its lead singer, so I ended up agreeing with him.
We went back inside just as Tour Eiffel en tu Gata were playing their last song. It was a fairly long one, too, and after five minutes, we realised that the staff was beginning to pack up, because the joint was reaching closing time. Employees behind the bar were stacking crates of empty bottles and cleaning all sorts of shite. More interestingly, Motorola was waiting anxiously in front of the stage. I did not understand, until someone else switched on a massive neon light above the stage, in order to politely tell the band that it was time for them to fuck off. Although their lead singer was an arse-comber, I felt sorry for Tour Eiffel en tu Gata, who, to their credit, pretended not to notice and kept on playing.
The farce went on for another few minutes. They finished playing and the lead singer began saying thanks for coming, but bugger me with polo-stick if the sound engineer did not kill the sound on stage. The poor fucker was embarrassed and shocked, but Motorola did not give a flying shit about it and told the crowd how great a band they were and how he thought they had talent. This was over the top. When you organise a gig and book bands to entertain the bored ants who still come out to see them, without giving them a single peso or free beer for their trouble, the least you can do is let them say what they have say, even if your boss is a little uptight about closing after hours. “What a fucking Nazi!”, said Shaggy the Camel. We had, indeed, rarely seen so much loathing and disrespect for artists, no matter how corny they were.
We started grabbing our gear from backstage and bringing it out by the car park, where Bruno's girlfriend was waiting to take away our stuff. While we were doing this, the doorman came inside and kept telling us to bugger off out of the joint – even slightly pushing Archibaldo around because he was doing everything in slow-motion. At one point, I found myself carrying some shit with Venetian Blinds and the moment we walked out through the back-door, a member of staff who seemed keen to head back home ASAP, locked the door from outside, where Archibaldo and Shaggy were still gathering their gear. “Hey, our friends are still in there, you fascist!”, I belted. I heard a bang on the door from within and recognised the muffled voices of the rest of our crew. She became defensive. “Sorry, but this door must be locked after one o'clock! I'm just doing my job!” “Well, isn't that what Adolf Eichman said?!”, I spat out. She looked at me, scared, not knowing what I was on about, but unlocked the door nonetheless.
Soon after, we grabbed a few beers at the off-licence, feeling that we needed to celebrate, having fled this ghastly place. Bruno Parmigiano's girlfriend had some neighbours who were having a medium-sized party and we decided that we all needed some proper entertainment. Although deep down I wanted to crash and fall into a heavy rejuvenating sleep, I was so pissed-off by those alternative fascists that I was desperate to return to civilisation and interact with decent and honourable human beings, far away from arse-combers.
The place was in some kind of old warehouse that had been turned into a loft. The walls were barren, displaying greyish concrete and the floors were covered in industrial carpet, which made it look slightly inhospitable – it was almost like walking into an office. Still, we arrived in the living room, where several people were sipping beer and smoking Afghani hash, sat down and cracked a few tubes. Venetian Blinds immediately smelled the strong aroma and became friendly with the hosts, hoping that he would scrounge a few tokes.
One of the hosts, an Irish bugger called Paddy O'Murphy, was the centre of all the attention, bragging about how he was going to buy an old derelict warehouse and turn it into a fancy club. Here we go again, I thought. I switched over to Venetian Blinds, who'd managed to get a hit of the hash. He looked stoned, but the stuff also seemed to magnify all his accumulated fatigue of the past few days. “Try some of this, Roady. It's good for the soul.” Archibaldo kept drinking more beer, as if his life depended on it, and simultaneously stuffed himself with crisps and peanuts. Shaggy the Camel and Bruno, having slept and remained sober for a much longer period than the Drunk Monks and myself, looked a lot fresher and more composed, and convincingly managed to feign interest in Paddy O'Murphy's monologue. Oddly enough, the other guests seemed genuinely fond of him and kept asking him all sorts of questions, as if they were really interested in his entrepreneurial scheme.
It went on for a while. I just drank more beer, smoked hash and talked about our past evening with Bruno Parmigiano and Venetian Blinds, until I realised that Paddy O'Murphy had changed subject. Like the Geiger counter makes more noise when the setting gets more radioactive, my arse-combing detector started beeping louder when the conversation shifted to Youtube videos. Paddy thought that having parties where people take it in turns to choose a Youtube video was a fun and original idea. “See, if someone knows, like, a really cool video of a baby chipmunk doing somersaults, then I just grab the laptop and a few clicks later, bingo!”, he said with a hand clap. Archibaldo, who by now had had quite a few, did not want him to get away with such bollocks: “Wow, that it so alternative! Would you, for instance, play a video with arse-combers during a party?” He was not sure he understood well. “Well... We wouldn't play any porn, if that's what you mean. But funny and cool videos on Youtube are a great way to spend an evening with some mates, you know? Like, when you see a buffalo sneezing on a Pygmy?” Shaggy decided to get involved: “You must be struggling for good conversations with your friends if you're going to spend the evening playing videos!”
I lost track of the debate when young and specky sociology student from Panama tried to get me to talk about my country, etc. Where was I from? What was the weather like? What were the women like? I answered politely, while simultaneously sucking at my beer. Then, cracking a new one and taking a swig, I was suddenly hit by a shattering epiphany, realising there was something terribly wrong. It must have been around four in the morning. I'd had enough beers to knock out a Siberian caretaker, enough splifs to send the ghost of Bob Marley back to its grave, I was not even particularly tired. Nonetheless, I put down my beer and told my newly-found friend “It's all yours. I'm crashing.”
The reasons I did so still elude me to the present date, but I can at least speculate that I was extremely weary. Not tired, nor drunk, nor stoned, but my body had had enough and was sending signals to my pallet and throat, telling them that the stuff I was pouring and smoking was having no effect whatsoever. Maybe I'd gotten sick and tired from seeing too many arse-combers in a single week-end. Perhaps it was also because I had gotten stupidly drunk over the past few days, who knows. Label me blasé, party-popper, or spoilsport if you will, but nonetheless, I believe I had gotten to the point where the exercise becomes futile, when one reaches this paradoxical and anti-climactic state of finding oneself with unlimited quantities of party equipment, no longer deeming it a valid form of entertainment. It was an unprecedented sensation and I did not like it.
1Although some of my better-read readers will contend that I have just ran out of steam and that I'm getting sick and tired of going on writing this bullshit.
2During the afternoon, Venetian Blinds, Archibaldo and Shaggy the Camel had seriously pondered cancelling the show because it was going to be crap. In the end, they didn't, but interestingly, two of the four bands that were supposed to play were rational enough to bail out at the last minute.
Copyright by Roady, 2011
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