The wine of youth


You wouldn’t think they’d let us cranky old bastards to stay in a Youth Hostel, huh?

I mean, really.
Left to our own devices, we’d be cashing in those Hilton Honors points to upgrade to the suite.
It would be the Wellness Spa after High Tea if we had our choice, but that just isn’t done in the world of Euro punk touring.

Keepin’ it real, as they say.

Shady characters, Kiel.
Shady characters, Kiel.

And so once again we wake in our efficiency room , all bleached towels and body wash canisters upon shared shower stall tile.

We pile into the elevator, en route back to the gig after a fitful nap, and wordlessly wonder at the vibrance of youth surrounding us as we read the bulletins posted up:

HackySack Tourney East Lawn tonight! Bring your own sacks!

Sisters for Celibacy drum circle has been moved from Activity Lounge 3 to Cafeteria Sunday. No men please—this means you Kevin!

As we move past the shadowy figures lougning in the warm Summer evening, their faces illuminated by the azure twinkle of Iphone or pad, we think this might be perfect:

After all, these kids seem to be doing nothing on a Saturday night, so wouldn’t they be interested in coming out to the club hmm?

But we are met with only blank stares when we try to explain just what we are trying to achieve here.
What? You want us to see 4 men on a cramped stage, sweating trough a setlist of 30 year old songs?

And for a 6 euro cover charge? Pffft.
Yeh, right gramps.

Ah, but tomorrow’s electro fest, (90 euro for 2 day pass), and they are all in.
This generation is right there when it comes to dancing to a beat only they can extract from the lone Swede Dj, hopped up on cut rate Ecstasy and toxic glow sticks.

It seems to us , this DJ business, it’s about as exciting as watching somebody onstage typing.
But that’s just us.

Look at this guy rock the qwerty!
Look at this guy rock the qwerty!

But what do we know? We are clearly the suckers here, lugging Marshall and Ampeg across the steaming continent, while ‘ol Dane up there has his set list for the night on a Macbook pro, private jet purring patiently upon tarmac to whisk him to Ibiza for the late night set.

This concludes today’s grumpy old fart rant.
Join us tomorrow for a discourse on baggy pants and Aviator shades.


We get outside of Kiel before pulling into that beloved German institution, the roadhouse.
We top off not only with diesel, but also a sensible lunch of Schnitzel and Spaetzel, all commodities surely bonded by the same petroleum based mushroom gravy!


I axe ya, why can’t we have this kind of stuff at home?
Oh, you can keep your Chevron Quik-Marts with the Subway kiosks brother!


I’m talking hearty German delicacies and Frosty Hefeweisens to go, not to mention the charming Euro porn displayed eye level, right next to the latest Game of Thrones paperbacks—what’s not to like!?


It is not long before the ominous tower of Berlin comes into view, it’s globed peak rumored to be either a rotating restaurant or a ward for the criminally insane.

And then it’s back to one of the truly great clubs of the world—we’re talking Wild at Heart, with convivial hosts Uly and Lea!!



We meet up with our new besties, the lads in Top Buzzer, and run through some quick soundchecks before a generous meal.

Top Buzzer tour van.  You win.
Top Buzzer tour van. You win.

And then the night begins and time starts flying, as it does.
The long Berlin dusk finally gives into the dark, and the sinister shadows of the gray architecture are held at bay by the sparkling chums and chuckles that fill the night!

The Buzzers buzzin!
The Buzzers buzzin!
Frank the tank.
Frank the tank.


Texas T!
Texas T!

We get up there and do the damn thing, and the crowd is fantastic.
A mixture of actual fans and depraved citizens of the streets, they urge us on every song.
We play an encore, then 3, our guitar strings already rusting over with the sweat that has rained upon them.
We love ya Berlin!


And then it’s wacky time, the dj starts in with the early Jam tracks and those tiny frozen blocks of Jagermeister soon accompany every pilsner!


Uh oh...Gardener behind the bar.....
Uh oh…Gardener behind the bar…..

And so it goes, another night in the books.
We come back to the Hostel exhausted, happy, ready to lay down upon those tweedy thin pillows without a care about how many dreadlocked nogggins have lay there before.

The first light of dawn comes through the curtains as we finally fall to sleep, and we hear the first ponks of the early bird table tennis tournament getting started.
Some wise guy fires up the Daft Punk in the courtyard.

And we smile.

Ah, you kids–

3 thoughts on “The wine of youth

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