This is the very first Live Report of our drunken adventures.
It must have been around five when we finally arrived in the city. Venetian Blinds had spent the last two hours half-joking that he had been sober for too long and that he needed beer ASAP. Finding the club where we were playing seemed easy enough, but the one-way streets made things interesting. For some strange reason, the only way onto Kayserstrasse was through a crowded plaza. 'Fuck it,' I said, and plunged into the square. Here and there people watched us awkwardly. Most of them cowardly muttered something in a language I could only partly understand, but their look of fear and loathing was the best give-away. Stupid Cartesians. Marvelling at the absurdity of the situation, I almost hit a young dick on a bicycle who deliberately swerved into our path and whined that we shouldn't be driving here.
Eventually we arrived at the venue. A young lad who looked and dressed like us asked what our purpose was. 'We're 'The Drunk Monks,'' I answered with a smile. He opened the gates and let us in. A bloke dressed like a 70's-nostalgic millionaire greeted us upon entering the club. It turned out it was Helmut, the organiser of the gig. We immediately began wondering whether he would turn out to be what we crudely referred to as an arse-comber. He later confessed that his uptight look was intended as a joke.
Perhaps because you had to pay 10 euros to get in, the rest of the staff provided free fake glasses at the gates, but when the majority of the crowd arrived, they also circled around with caviar and whatnot. Seen as we had never tried it, we all did. It tasted salty and overrated – a fitting metonymy of this glossy venue. Pink strips of tape indicated the way in and the interior was finely carpeted, which made the place all the more fancy and arty. We all shrugged and unloaded the car. It turned out that the pleasant-looking young lad at the entrance was the sound engineer – and would become our closest ally during the concert. Oddly, he had a strong NYC accent, which him sound pompous upon sight, but later became a reassuringly distinguishing feat amidst the sea of bobo locals.
During the sound-check, our chief concern was to score some beers fast. The first round arrived presently, during which Archibaldo - as always - was keen on setting up the stage quick so that he could freely interact with everyone around. But Venetian Blinds and myself were fearing that our hosts might only give us discounts at the bar. I, for one, did not relish the idea of going dry for the next three hours. Luckily, the mouth-watering Turkish bird in charge of catering gave us an unlimited pass to the fridge behind the counter. 'What can go wrong now?,' he said grinning.
After shotgunning a few beers, Helmut decided that we should check in the hotel, which was just around the corner. As we left the venue, he told us that it would be wise not to take our beers in. Of course, at that point we had no idea what the hotel would be like. As we hid our beers behind a rubbish bin, Venitian Blinds wondered why he was still sober. 'Is it the long journey, or is this beer non-alcoholic?' Archibaldo agreed. 'This is my fourth and I'm not even tipsy,' he moaned. I too, was puzzled. One of us then realised that we were not drinking pints. In a country that boasted such a high rate of beer-drinking per capita, we found it somewhat fitting that such a poncy club should only offer 33cl Beck's.
The hotel was indeed just around the corner. The moment a coloured doorman (a doorman, for fuck's sake) opened the door, we knew our stay would be luxurious at the very least, otherwise surreal to a point of no return. It was. Although the staff was, like every other local in the country, fluent in English, Helmut helped us check in. How had things come down to this? What had we done to deserve ludicrously high ceilings and an automatic shoe-polisher? Unfortunately, we were not drunk enough to fully appreciate the situation. But at least, things were starting to get interesting.
The lift was an old-school circulatory system that took you all the way to the 6th floor, by going constantly up and down. You just had to hop on and off to make your way in the building. The whole thing was silly, but fascinating nonetheless, and we pondered what it would be like to use it with a head full of Beck's.
Being used to sleep in the odd spare room of friends' apartments, we were almost shocked to learn that we would have the luxury of having two separate rooms. Archibaldo was on the fifth floor, so we agreed to call him once we had finished our inspection. Only the instant we opened the door and feasted our eyes on the ostentatious luxury we realised that we had set foot on another planet – one that wholeheartedly shunned modesty and restraint, and fully embraced luxuriance and greed. On the other hand, it amused us greatly. The first thing we did was turn off the obscenely-large flat-screen TV that was presumably left switched on on a permanent basis. By then, we had forgotten that it was a reminder of the kind of world we were visiting. The whole thing was laughable. There was also a large and transparent shower unit in the middle of the room. Venetian Blinds immediately saw the connection. 'This is so the bloke can wake up to the sight of his bird soaping her tits while he's still in bed.' We shuffled around the room, marvelling at the sheer stupidity of all the gadgetry and accessories we now had a freehold of, until Venetian Blinds found a well-concealed door on under the desk that was part of a mini-bar. We whoopied around the room crying victory. In a way, it was the icing on the cake – the idea that you get to do what you do best and actually get paid to do so. On the other hand, there was something deeply transgressive and licentious about the mere presence of such an apparatus that reminded us of the long-lost innocence of our childhood. It was almost as if the president of the country had excused us from PE and sent us to the nearest off-licence while everybody ran around a football pitch - huffing and puffing, but sill accepting their duty.
While Venetian Blinds had a quick shite on the immaculate and spacious toilet, I called Archibaldo in his room to see what he was up to – naturally, we could have just walked there, but it felt a lot more appropriate to use the phone. In his room, we exchanged opinions on our new sanctuary and he discovered the New Testament in one of the drawers. We pondered our next move and decided to check out the restaurant on the top. Presumably, it was a good place to have a drink, because it overlooked the city. It turned out to be despicably posh and uptight, full of business people and holiday-makers. But then again, we were not remotely drunk.
Eventually we decided that we were sobering up to a critical point, so we headed back to he club. We picked up our beers behind the rubbish container and decided that they were getting us nowhere; so we had some shots of vodka at the bar to liven things up. A nice little crowd of smartly-dressed arse-combers had started to mass up at the entrance. Although the dress code had been stated as a joke on the flyers, they clearly did not mind. 'Makes a change, doesn't it?' asked Archibaldo, rhetorically. We shrugged and sucked at our beers, finding the whole thing only vaguely amusing.
We then decided to walk the streets of the city. There did not seem to be much happening. Sipping our beers, we trudged down a crowded avenue that glittered and sparkled from too much care and attention. Although it must have been around 9 in the evening, many shops were still open and had customers coming in and out with large carrier bags. Entire families patrolled the avenue stoned on shopping. The kids were always hungry for more, while the parents tried not to think about the upcoming bank statement. For a second, we thought the whole area stank of X-Mas.
In a darker alley, we went passed a tramp pissing up a shop window. 'We should put him on our guest-list,' said Venetian Blinds. 'That would be good humour.' It was the first dirty person we had come across in this aseptic city. After eating a contender for the worst chips ever in a Turkish kebab place, we went back to the club to get a new round of Beck's. We hung around for a little and watched scornfully as the crowed grew stronger and as we guzzled down a more beers. Luckily, I was nought but a mere roady who could afford to get loaded while the Drunk Monks performed on stage. My part of the deal was to make enough noise to shake up the audience and get them to buy as much merchandising to keep us going.
After messing around for a while I got bored and realised that Friedrich, the sound engineer, was quietly sipping Rhum and coke in a corner of the room. I enquired what he was up to. 'Nothing much,' he answered in his Yank accent. 'Just waiting for the thing to start.' The same applied for us. Although the place was highly repulsive, there was something deeply fascinating about it – some kind of paradoxical reconciliation of high entertainment and world-class tedium. Possibly with the exception of Friedrich, nobody had realised that the real show would not occur on stage.
After promising me to score some pot when the show would be over, I buggered off to get some fresh air. There I found Venetian Blinds smoking a cigarette. 'Should be a good show,' I said. 'How should you know? You can just sit back and enjoy the ride, fucking Roady!,' he answered. That was true. Whilst I would have the leisure to scrutinise the crowd, he would be up there earning the petrol money and justifying our beer and hotel tab. By then, we were starting to feel to alcohol pumping through our veins, and for a reason I fail to record, I began speaking with near-perfect Cockney accent. 'Owight, lets gaw dahn the appaws and score some wacky-backy'. Some elements of the crowd were outside as well, and one bird gave us a short Victorian laugh.
When the Drunk Monks finally walked on stage, the tiresome journey to this place had completely waned and given birth to a joyous and spinning ride that was beginning to get entertaining and unpredictable. The show was good, but the reception seemed rather lukewarm. Being part of the audience I desperately tried to infuse something in the static and uptight crowd by bleating and yelling. Only here and there were my calls answered. Never mind, I thought. At least we're having a good drinking bout.
After the show, a friend of Friedrich who was also hiring him for a nearby party put us on the guest-list. 'What sort of scene will it be?,' enquired Archibaldo. 'Mainly techno,' he answered. 'Stick around with Friedrich and he'll get you some free beers.' We thanked him, but decided to stay a little longer. Helmut was playing a few soul and hip-hop records. By then we no longer needed to order our beers. We just rocked up at the bar and the frigid-looking young lad kept magicking them from behind the counter. Increasingly drunk, we danced for while and feasted our eyes on the few nice arses wobbling about to the music.
After a while, Archibaldo and myself got bored and looked around for Venitian Blinds. We found him engaged in a conversation with some locals, one of which was a young Asian kid named Yang Tsé Kiang. I barged into the conversation and shared my views on whatever the topic of the conversation was – possibly cultural differences. Yang Tsé Kiang, who was obviously drunk, seemed offended by my presence and called me a Nazi, thinking I was commenting on the shape of his eyes. I cannot remember whether it were the case, but I decided to get him a Beck's, just to show there were no hard feelings – and because it made me feel important and powerful. This seemed to please him, so he took back what he had said, went on with his drunken monologue which raised more smiles and laughter.
Later on, the Drunk Monks got to sign autographs. '10 euros is a great price for your records,' one kid told us. Little did he know that we had jacked the prices up upon setting foot in the club, having briefly assessed the crowd, which was evidently wealthy. I decided to have a go at him. 'You're right to make the best of it. This may very well be their last tour ever.' He seem surprised. I got up closer to him and starting gesturing in his face. 'Yeah,' I went on, 'the Drunk Monks are going to split. Archibaldo thinks Venetian Blinds is a pseud and that he is not 100% committed. To tell you the truth, he is a tight old bastartd who wants a bigger share of money.' The kid seemed a little uneasy. 'Hey, I'm not a journalist.' The volume of my voice rose by a few extra decibels. 'What? There was I thinking that we could get extra publicity! You’re fired!' He laughed politely with us and wished us good luck for the tour.
What happened after is extremely fuzzy. I remember arriving at the other place we had been invited to. Finding it was easy: there was a constant belting of techno bass emanating from within and a group a 'alternative'-looking people drinking out in the street. It was a derelict building that was supposed to be demolished but a group of entrepreneurs had managed to stop the process and turned it into one of the only 'alternative' clubs in town. We went up the crowded stairs and before I knew it, I had a beer in my hand. It was hard to really make sense of the place. The smoke and dim light made it seem like it was obscured by smog. The constant noise blended with drunken laughter and shouting added to the infernal atmosphere. You needed to watch your step from fear of tripping over a collapsed drunk or treading on some Nazi's foot.
Luckily we immediately bumped into Friedrich who gave me some pot. 'Thanks, Brother!,' I shouted, before he disappeared down the corridor. I then remember trying one of the dance floors, but giving up because of the nausea. Then Venetian Blinds started whoring me for some grass. 'Fuck off,' I snapped. 'He gave it to me. Besides I'm not going to do pot in a place like this.' And who in his right mind would have wanted to? There was enough smoke in the place to use it as a gas-chamber without having to add more. In retrospect, I have realised that the cunning bastard wanted to push our boat even further out. How we landed in this stupid city, in our luxurious hotel and in this wretched purgatory was way beyond us. But what mattered to him was to fathom the intricacies and niceties of absurdity in a way that we had seldom had the chance to do in the past. Still, I told him to get lost. 'Let's get out of here. This is too much.'
Trouble was I desperately needed a piss. We all proceeded towards the gents, from fear that one of us might get lost in this drunken maze. Then some cunt decided to jump the queue right in front of me. 'We all get our fucking turn!,' I belted. He turned back and muttered something about how I couldn't even speak his language. The other blokes queuing noticed I was blasted on beer, and found the interaction amusing. I believe I confounded the crowd by mumbling something in the natives' languages about human dignity and the right to piss. The remainder of the conversation I cannot remember, but I can still see Archibaldo and Venetian Blinds' drunk smiles that probably translated into the satisfaction of seeing me take part in this circus.
Outside we crashed on a small square. I ended up giving the pot to Venetian Blinds, who promptly rolled a splif. I more or less passed out on the small brick-wall. He had to drag me back to the hotel. While he and Archibaldo got some beers out of the mini-bar I plunged head first into the warm comfort of the bed and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
We awoke in a state of shock to the sound of the telephone. Archibaldo was calling to tell us that we should get up so as not to miss breakfast. We dragged ourselves out of the bed, still very drunk, and headed to the top floor. Although outside it seemed like it was a nice day, the whole place stank a lot more than the night before. Nonetheless we tried to shove some food down our throats, less because breakfast was included in our stay than because we needed to sober up. I looked at Venetian Blinds and Archibaldo to see how they were coping with their hangover. Their eyes were red and their cheeks seemed swollen. They both smelled strongly of alcohol and looked like they had been beaten up the night before. We all went outside to drink our tea and get some fresh air. I could not stand it any longer and went back to bed.
I woke up two hours later, again because of the telephone and Archibaldo. We needed to go and have coffee with Helmut. I felt better, but did not fancy socialising before waking up properly and a long and leisurely shower. 'Bugger that,' I told Venetian Blinds. 'If Archi and yourself need to behave with him so that he hires you next next year, that's got nothing to do with the roady.' He shrugged and left me sipping my fourth bottle of soda I had found in the minibar.
After a good shite and an epic shower, we checked out of the hotel. Helmut was waiting with Archibaldo. His clothing seemed a lot less uptight than the night before, but still looked like an arse-comber. As we gave our keys back to the bloke at the reception, he asked us if we had taken anything from the mini-bar. At first, I cowardly looked away, thinking that Venetian Blinds should deal with this. 'Well, I think we did have a few drinks, yes,' he answered gingerly. 'How many did you take?' Then it all came clear and simple. I leaned forward and said 'Just put in on the tab. They'll take care of it.' Which they probably did.
Copyright by Roady, 2011
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