Ya know, after all these years, these travels entries should just write themselves, yeh?
Say I start typing the typical rant, mentioning the ungodly LAX traffic or the the indignities suffered at the grabby hands of the TSA.
And then I just sit back and let some algorithmized autofill gadget take over::
…and then the lady in front of me pushes her seat all the way back into my knees and then the airline lost my guitar and then we ate the awful local food and then we played to a half full club and then the promoter cried and then we went back to the hotel to eat more of the awful local food…
Say what you will about the threat of Artificial Intelligence brother, but I see plenty more of this grumpy old punker on the road clickbait crap coming your way, ya got me?
It’s our first ride on the new Elizabeth line that connects Heathrow with Tottenham, just a fraction of the cost of Heathrow Express and just trot away from our beloved Holiday Inn at Camden Lock.
Oh, don’t make that face.
UK Holiday Inns are a completely different animal than our inbred dumps in the states.
Serviceable and clean places, perhaps a bit on the antiseptic side, but that’s just fine in this post pandemic world.
Besides, the Inns usually have a bar that stays open way past the local closing time and a breakfast buffet in the morning with all those puzzling UK brekkie sides: beans and mushrooms, stewed tomatoes, copper wire.
After check in, it would be far too easy to hole up in the room and nap away the jet lag.
Plunder the flatscreen’s HDMI inputs with our Firesticks and AppleTV devices and snore away to another episode of Succession, as if we were back home on the couch.
But there’s a nagging vitality to the touristy streets just outside, and so we rouse and meet back in the lobby.
And though we vowed never again, we surrender to the usual spots and take those grinning tourist photos all over again.
Lining up for a photo at the Clash steps, popping into Dublin Castle to worship at the Madness shrine.
A brief stop at the Amy Winehouse statue, suddenly feeling guilty as everyone else gathered to silently consider her memory.
Her tragic fall witnessed by all, yet not one of us stepping in to save her.
The Underworld is a muggy affair in its own right, but that fake news global warming has somehow conjured a blistering summer day in London once again: the room is already baking at load in,
We’re on a bill with The Dreadnoughts tonight, and two young ska-flavored acts, Deadbeat at Dawn and Dakka Skanks.
It’s one of those puzzling bills we are on tonight.
What, not one other ancient punk act on the bill?
But we are grateful for them having us onboard, for the night is already sold out.
We meet hese vital young bands on the rise as we tilt downward in our twilight years.
Our glances meet on our respective escalators, one heading up to designer goods, one down to the bargain basement, and we wave hello and farewell at once.
The jolly Dreadboughts crew is sound checking, and as we have no interest in such professional protocol, we just drop off merch, ensure backline is in place and make our way back to the Market.
Nick has discovered some mad concoction online, at one of those trendy food stalls that populate the former stables.
They serve up a sort of Sunday roast dinner burrito, the whole mess wrapped up in a Yorshire pudding tortilla.
We take turns taking photos of the monstrosity, decrying its bastardized existence, poking at it tentatively like chimps daring to touch the monolith.
Then we take a bite and gotta admit that it’s not too fucking bad.
Return to the Underworld to find the place packed to the rafters, the crowd skanking along furiously to Deadbeat at Dawn and then the Dakka Skanks.
A quick bit of math confirms that the combined age of either band still can’t match my own.
I’m startled to find lots of the crowd dressed as pirates or perhaps cosplay gypsies, but when the Dreadnoughts take stage it all makes sense.
Their set is a wild mixup of old sea shantys, Gogolian waltzes, manic ska and honest to God polka numbers.
The crowd action so dense and frantic that fat drops of condensed liquid drips from the ceilings, the floors soon slicken with sweat.
And our set?
Surprisingly, it goes over well, these 40 year old punk songs still somehow finding connection.
The young crowd gives us a chance, which is all we can ask for..
There is actual movement on the dancefloor, shouts of encouragement, hearty applause at the breaks.
We emerge to the streets of Camden Town as if renewed, the lights brighter, the honking taking on a sweeter tone.
Our jaded grumpiness now melted away on that blistering stage, and we feel nothing but welcomed and grateful for the night.
A young couple come up to us, their clothing drenched as if they’d been thrown into a pool.
“You guys were great,” they pant. “Who are you again?”
And really, is there any better compliment?.
The CH3 Blog 