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Author Topic: Tour journals  (Read 2679 times)

sp2

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Tour journals
« on: 11 Aug 2005, 03:10 »

Okay, so most bands are boring as shit when they keep tour journals.  I dunno if those bands are just boring, or if they just don't keep accurate journals.

I've been talking a bit today about a band called Siobhan.  Well, their tour journal is absolutely fucking classy.

Selected samples:

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A hundred meters down the road, I screamed at Beardo to pull over (this seemed to be a theme of the tour) and I gacked nine whiskies onto the posh Berlin neighbourhood of Kurfurstendamm.

The next morning, I awoke, reached over to Beardo and began to touch his thigh. "Beardo," I asked in a drunken haze, "Are you getting a boner?"

He smiled and said, "Of course, Jimmy. Of course."

"Good," I slurred. "Still got it."

Not sure why I just told you that story.


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Unfortunately, we realized that due to the previous night's drunkenness at our accomodations, our camcorder footage now consists of several minutes of mooning the camera and shouting "Cack! Cack!", with a cut directly to a concentration camp. This is what is known in the motion picture world as "poor planning".


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Ghostface, Senor 9.5 and I went to see a "Live Sex Show" in Amsterdam, spending roughly the GDP of Guam to get into the building. The sex show itself was very interesting. They had quite a few shows, from an adventurous and interestingly limber British lady to a couple who somehow found the fortitude to have sex onstage once every 90 minutes or so. But when we got into the bar, we first saw an act from an enormous black Brazillian lady, who, well, to put it in politically correct terms, was "As Ugly as Cainine Roadkill". Seriously. This woman was frightening. I mean, I honestly didn't know Andre the Giant and a Kiko the Gorilla had a daughter. Her act consisted of getting on stage, shaking around to some Salsa music, and dragging some poor sap up onstage to perform the unspeakable, UNSPEAKABLE act of eating a banana out of her, um, nether regions.

So, when the place went through all of its acts, started the cycle again, and this gigantic woman came onstage again, we knew what was coming. She jiggled, she wriggled, and then she jumped offstage, looking for her prey. She wandered around down near the stage, away from us for a while, but she had no luck(go figure!) finding someone to do the dirty deed with her. Then, the horrible moment came (I replay this in my mind every time I watch the cantina scene in Star Wars), and she started waddling up the aisle towards our row.

I froze in horror(being the guy who was sitting on the outside of the row), turned to Senor 9.5 and started shouting:

"Senor! We're gay!! We're gay as the day is long!!! You and me!! Gay!!"

She came closer. And closer. Finally, her eyes set on me, and I knew things were going to get horrid. I turned back to The Senor.

"KISS ME!!", I screamed at him. "FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, KISS ME!".

But he would not. And this mammoth of a woman came right up to me, and started to try and persuade me to get onstage with her. I was frozen in fear. She became very agressive, grabbing my arm, shouting, etcetera. Finally, in a desperate and highly stupid attempt, I pointed at the girls in front of us and said: "Hey! What about them? Why don't you get them onstage? I think singling out men to come up with you is very sexist."

The Mammoth's eyes got wide, her teeth flashed, her flesh bulged, and she shouted at me: "I am no lesbian!! I am no lesbian!!!" and began to beat me over the head with her purse again, and again, and again. And again. And when she was done, and it was all over, I was a changed man. No, really. To this day, I can't touch a pork chop.



Seriously, you have to spend a couple hours just reading through this.  You'll thank me, you knoiow, if you don't hemorrhage something from laughing.
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sp2

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Tour journals
« Reply #1 on: 11 Aug 2005, 03:18 »

Had to post this, too:

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You know. You see what I’m getting at. So anyway, she said to him, “I really like your bass player, what can I do to make him like me?”

So, Ghosty got a pensive look on his face, thought for a good long while, and said helpfully to her:

“Why don’t you try tickling his nuts? He really likes that.”

She looked at him flabberghasted. “I can’t do that,” she sputtered.

“You asked,” came the sharply dressed reply.

And then, as if to demonstrate, the drunken Ghostface walks over to me and grabs my balls. Then, he grabbed The Admiral’s balls, and god knows who else’s. I’m just glad mine were grabbed first, for some vaguely homophobic reason that I don’t quite understand and won’t explore at this point in time.
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KharBevNor

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Tour journals
« Reply #2 on: 11 Aug 2005, 03:20 »

It's always great when bands have stuff like this. Another piece of essential reading is the Sisters of Mercy's 'Dear Doktor' FAQ page.

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Dear Doktor, My snake has no ears and no balls. How does he smell?


Like a record company.


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Dear Doktor, I'm in a tenth-rate goth band. That's as good as goth bands get. Naturally, we don't have the faintest idea what the Sisters are about, but we try to evoke as many superficial similarities as possible.
Our 'original material' is devoid of substance and wit. What would you say to a whole album of Sisters songs, as played by my band and other pasty-faced Californian dweebs? Aren't Cleopatra Records always up for this kind of rubbish? We'll try to ignore everything you put out in the last thirteen years.

Fuck off.



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Dear Doktor, Is it a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife?

It certainly is. And we want yours for another week or so. Kindly keep away from our tour bus.
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[22:25] Dovey: i don't get sigquoted much
[22:26] Dovey: like, maybe, 4 or 5 times that i know of?
[22:26] Dovey: and at least one of those was a blatant ploy at getting sigquoted

http://panzerdivisio

alic3sw0nd3rland

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Tour journals
« Reply #3 on: 13 Aug 2005, 23:58 »

Hahaha greatest thing is the story about the fat chick at the live sex show. And all of them yelling that they were gay.
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sp2

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Tour journals
« Reply #4 on: 14 Aug 2005, 00:56 »

You clearly haven't read the rest of the page, then.

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Aaaannd… we pretty much drank everything.

Aaaand Fanny came back in after they finished, looked down at the pathetic, empty, sloshy little tub of ice, looked over at me and said: “Oi! Where’s all our fookin beer?”

And there I was, stupefied… and frightened to death by this monster of a man who’d just lumbered off stage and looked like he was going to eat me. So, having resolved myself to honesty as “the best policy” these days, I looked up earnestly at him and said the only thing I could.

“Goblins,” I said. “Big ones.”


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We went up to our hotel rooms at around 3 AM. Pissed. Coco walked into his and Ghostfaces' hotel room, and found the good fiddler clinging tenaciously to the headboard of the bed.

"What the hell are you doing, Ghosty?" asked he.

"I... I donn wanna... fall off," came the slurred reply. Good times. We knew he was really drunk. I, however, didn't realize the repercussions this was going to have for me, personally.

You see, there was a lady. I don't remember her name... Sally or Susan or Strokemeoff or something like that. We were singing songs late into the night, Tom Waits and Sarah McLaughlan and Ben Harper and stuff like that. She was a pretty good singer, and all was well. Eventually, it was clearly time for sleep, and she was in my bed. I had no intentions of any foul play, my interests were definitely not in this young creature. She looked uncomfortable, though, and I said, "Hey, look, Jesus, I'm not going to make any moves on you. I'm pissed drunk. Just go to sleep."

You know what she says to me? "You better not. I'll break your fucking balls." Nice company, huh? Anyway, point is, she went to sleep, I went to sleep. We were asleep. She was there. I'm sure of it. She was there.

So around 9 AM, my little eyes flutter slowly open to a blurry, hazy, completely topsy-turvy world. I am still pissed. The lady is in the bathroom, slugging back asprin. I can hear it. I make a mental note to ask her for some, because without them I am truly going to be a wreck. I close my eyes and doze. I hear her getting back into the bed, slipping under the covers. I open my eyes. Turn over. There she is, long brown hair and all, turned away from me. I tap her delicately on the shoulder.

"Hey," I start to say. "Do you mind if I take a couple of those..." She turns around.


...

She's Ghostface. She's the goddamned fiddler.

I screamed bloody blue murder for a little bit. My eyes saucers. Finally I shout at him: "James! WHAT DID YOU DO WITH THE LADY?"

Folks, I've done a lot of things in my life. Hell, once (I am not making this up) I was wading through an African marsh in Swaziland, through Snake's nests, in an area where the black mamba snake, the most venomous of all snakes, was known to frequent. That was a frightening experience. But it was nothing, I repeat, nothing compared to seeing a nice young lady in my bed morph into the fiddler.

What was the story? you're not going to believe this. Keep in mind that he remembers none of this, this is pieced together from various clues. Apparently, around 6 AM, Ghostface decided to abandon his own double bed back in Coco's room, and stagger over to our completely full room. He knocked on the door endlessly, and the lady, being the least drunk of all of us, heard it and went to answer it. She must have opened the door, and Ghostface must have stumbled in and passed out on her side of the bed, leaving her standing there incredulously. She left, leaving only an angry note. This is the sequence of events, and I swear I am not exaggerating or embellishing anything. I don't think Stephen King could dream this up. It was the most mind-numbingly frightening experience of my life.

But, all's well that ends well, and we drove home listening to Greg Hobbs and his wonderful song "Drake Motel". It's a brilliant song, you must check this fellow out. But, just before we pulled into Ottawa, I thought for a minute, and turned around to address the fiddler.

"James," I said. "If you ever, ever, ever, ever kick a woman out of my bed again... I will kick you so hard in the balls that your infant sons will be born clutching their privates in pain."

He'd better take heed, too, I mean it. That it not the sort of practise we want to encourage. No, sir. Me? I'm just thankful I didn't accidentally bugger him in the middle of the night. Though i'm sure he wouldn't have minded.


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Now, I began to draw this bath, and I tried to reflect on the previous night's activites. I relized that most of it was a blur, and thought happily to myself that it must therefore have been a good time. I disrobed and began to step into the bath.

Then, startled, I looked downwards at something odd. There, wrapped securely around my willy, three times, was a strange, long, brown curly hair. No joke, three times around and snug as a bug in a rug.

Now, I'm a long-haired hippie dolphin-hugging tofu-sucking sandal-wearing bastard, as you all know, and I first assumed that the hair was simply one of mine, which had become deftly entangled on my John Thomas as I slept. After carefully unwrapping the hair from my Piece of Pork, I examined it. It definitely was not one of mine. It was a solid dark brown, longer and very much different from my own. It was long, very long (it had to be to get three times around MY Beef Bayonet, let me tell you!).

Now, this raised some disturbing questions on my mind. The first, obviously, being, If male private eyes are commonly called "Dick Tracy", what are female private eyes supposed to be called? "Vagina Jim"?.

But, having pondered that for a while, I turned my considerable mental faculties to the question at hand: what the hell is a strange persons' hair doing tied securely to my dingly dangler?

I'm stumped. I must have done something monumentally exciting with someone that night, but for the life of me I can't remember what it was.

So, I'm sending this call out: if you are reading this, and you know how the hair got there, please email me at [email protected], and state your name, gender (please god let it be female) and the nature of the activity which led me to find a curly hair festooned decoratively on my pocket rocket, and I will be very grateful.


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Many people who say this show have remarked to me that it was our best show that they've seen. I can only nod my head and smile like an idiot when they say this. "Remember when you fell on your ass?" they ask, a glint in their eye. "Yes!" I reply, over-enthusiastically. "Of course I do! Why wouldn't I remember it? I always remember things! Screw you!"

Truth is, it's all a blank. I remember coming out on stage and breaking a banjo sting. And then I remember the show being nearly over, and me tossing my banjo across the stage and gleefully watching as it smashed solidly into two pices. That's about it.

This may have had something to do with the massive amount of pre-drinking the band did at a nearby bar, in which we ran up a $190 tab in two hours. I love being in this band. I fucking love it.


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Then we invented a meal. Now, as you know, this band has been on the forefront of culinary innovation for a long time. I believe, however, that we have come up with the ultimate new type of meal. It's called a "burger".

Now, I know what you're thinking, you're thinking: "I'm gay. Gay as a french horn." Don't worry about that, it's nothing to be ashamed of and you should be proud of your sexual individuality and not be hampered by what some backwards sections of society might think of you.

So, anyway, this new meal is pronounced "Burr-Gerr", with a SOFT "g", right? Burr-gerr. Burr-gerr. Like the historical Burghers of Germany, only with a soft "g". Burr-gerr. Burr-gerr. Repeat it to yourself because you will one day be telling all your friends that you knew the guys who invented the food craze that will be sweeping North America.

A Burger is basically a small, brightly coloured and very cute budgie, skewered lengthwise on a metal stick, and boiled in the blood of ten other budgies. And it's served in a pig's head.

We came up with this and quickly realized its marketability. Now, you may be thinking "That's gross. disgusting and filthy. I refuse to even entertain thoughts about such a thing." If you're thinking such things, then that's okay with us, we'll see you when the copyright rights to the Burger are making us millions. Then you'll come crawling back. Then you'll think we're geniuses. Stand in the way of progress now if you want.


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We play like ass that night, but we don't care. We're getting geared up. The nice people at the Merchant McLiam in Kingston treat us very well, and show us to our hotel room, complete with sauna and swimming pool. Sweet. There is one redeeming feature to the gig, and that is Bouzouki Joe's whistle solo during "Devil's Dream". We are going through the tune as usual, and I call out, "Whistle Solo!!". Now, usually, this is the part where Bouzouki Joe plays the tune by his whistlicious self. This time, however, he elects a slightly different course of action and springs over to Dave, kicking him in squarely the gut. Dave drops to one knee in shock, and Bouzouki Joe pummells him in the head and upper back with his fists for the duration of the solo. Like, I mean, really pummells. It gets my vote for greatest instrumental solo in the history of music.


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Ferry rides are fun. But even more fun is coming off the ferry and immediately realizing that you are in a different place, a more fun-loving, devil-may-care sort of place. A place that, unlike certain central provinces, does NOT take itself too seriously. You know how we knew this immediately, despite not having talked to a single NewfoundLabber? God showed us. Yes, even as the Pope was landing in Toronto and getting ready to croak out his sermon to the masses of boisterous and apparently tone-deaf world youth, God was working over on the western shore of Newfoundland. I swear this is true: We came off the boat, and drove for 5 minutes, and were instantly confronted with two towering mounds of rock, which bore a frighteningly wonderful resemblance to a pair of boobies. It was as good an omen as I can imagine, and we got to drive straight between those babies, tounges wagging and licking at the car windows. It was as if God was calming all of our fears. From that point on, we knew we would rock the Rock, and that nothing could stop us. Perfect, I remember thinking, as I gazed up to (I am not making this up) the two red weather-stations positioned at the top of each colossal mound, this place has tits. Perfect.


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But YEAH! They played traditional Hollandic music, heavy and European and fun. They also drank like fish. My favourite song of theirs was introduced by the lead singer as "A love song... about an impossible love... between me... and a mermaid." Sweet mermaid love! I mean, honestly people, we all want mermaid love. You've all watched "The Little Mermaid" and thought to yourself, "Hrm, I'd like to tear those sweet green shells off of her and give her the old yo-ho-ho and a bottle of HUNGH!!!(pelvic thrust)"

So, the song really speaks to humanity.


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How drunk were they? At one point, I saw one of our fans from the Glengarry Highland Games take one of the copper-topped tables, and spin it with all his might, sending pint glasses and shots flying all over the place. The bouncer was so occupied with his new role as urgently-needed bartender that he didn't see a thing. Drunk and burly.

How drunk you ask? At one point in the night, one of our extremely drunk friends could be heard loudly describing his theory that "All women are secretly bisexual" to a group of near-strangers. IN the interests of decency, I won't tell you his name, but it does rhyme with "Feffan Fmith", and you can e-mail him here to voice your opinion on his theory. His home phone number is 730-5354, he lives at 477 Sunnyside Ave.,(Apt#2), he's a shoe size 11, wears jeans to social occasions, is a moderate smoker, likes long walks on the beach, candlelit dinners, and sitting at home eating Zoodles and watching "Buffy, the Vampire Slayer" until he passes out in a tomato-sauce-stained "Pink Floyd" T-shirt at 2:30 AM and shouts loudly in his sleep about Sarah Michelle Gellar coming after him and his family with a wooden spike.


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Early on Friday, we all began consuming beer individually by the pitcher. Later, at some point, I had a glass of red wine shoved into my hand, and I would like to thank that blurry, anonymous person for diversifying my alcoholic experience that night. Lord knows, the eight Guinness I remember drinking weren't nearly enough.

Things got really out of hand. The New RO came in to film us playing at one point, and I decided for some reason to shout: "UP THE I.R.A.!" into the microphone as we played "The Celtbot" for the nice camera man. Hrm. Yes. Shamrocks and Shenanigans, indeed.

Things got phenomenally out of hand. Cocochunk and I started giving audience members the finger (though, in my opinion, each of them had it coming to them), and at one point I teased the 'chunk over the microphone and he clocked me in the side of the head, snapping me poor wee noggin to one side and causing me to forget the words to the song we were in the middle of. I think I momentarily forgot who I was, as well.

Ah, well, no matter! I didn't really feel it until the next morning, and I probably had it coming to me. And, the next night, in sweet, brutal revenge for the heinous act of drunken lead-singer-abuse, I smacked Ghostface upside the head in the middle of a song with a half-closed fist. He was quite upset, but I was adamant in my argument that he really had had it coming to him.

But after that, things really actually got out of hand. Dave and Coco and I started bashing around into each other on stage in the middle of songs, shouting obscenities at each other and cursing each others' ancestral lineage. Then, we were called for encores. Saturday's encore was performed for a huge audience, and for (I kid you not) 14 members of the Welsh National Choir. Friday's, however, involved an impromptu performance of a certain filthy limerick about a man from Nantucket, followed immediately by a reading of the same limerick again.



Totally worth reading through the whole archive.
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RyanA

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Tour journals
« Reply #5 on: 22 Feb 2006, 21:54 »

Wow... really weird to see this here.  These guys are good friends of mine, and I used to do all their marketing stuff.  They're really fun guys, as you can probably tell.  I can personally vouch for a lot of those stories being true.

My favourite part about it is the number of times the word "apparently" appears in it.
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