Photoblog: A gathering of the tribe

December 5, 2013 ~ CH3 ~ Leave a comment

Who knew?

We’re loaded in and set on backline, ready to stroll over to Joe Jost’s for our usual
pre-game: Special and a Schooner. Maybe an egg.

Johnny’s doing sound tonight, and he comes in with a box of mics, looks around the room and stops me on the way out.
“What’s going on in here, all these people?” he asks.

I look around, and it’s true.
The room is already half full, this at 7:45pm. Every barstool taken, people already camped out in the booth stage right.

We’re used to the room being empty, at least until 25 minutes into the second band.
Oh, you know… Long Beach.

“Huh.” I say.
“What, some kind of party earlier today?”

I see a few familiar faces in the room, but for the most part it is not the usual Alex’s crowd.
Fewer tats, less ironical facial hair.
Smiles.

These people look, well, excited to be here.

We threw a party of old chums and had no idea if anyone would show.
After all, it’s one thing to join the party on Facebook, just a mouseclick of commitment while you sit in your footie pajamas on a cold Wednesday night, bottle at hand.
But to venture out into the night, post-daylight savings, and brave the bewildering parking laws of Anaheim boulevard?
Iffy.

Oh, they came out brother, and from the looks of things they wore their sippin’ shoes!

The night kicks off with Full Tilt Trio, and Tbone gets his chance to show the hometown crowd he’s all growed up!

The room is packing by now, and it’s a true pleasure to catch up with Joe Wood and his Lonely Ones!

Let me tell you, we’re having fun now!
Drinks are spilled as people rush across the sticky floor—faces from the past come through the front door, shouts and hugs are exchanged.
Wide grins, weepy smiles.

It’s like a high school reunion for all the bad kids—finally!

Mike Eldred Trio is up on the boards, and Mike and company do that thing they do:

Rocks the joint, dusts the broom, shakes the moneymaker:
You know, all those Bluesy sexual things, that’s what they do!

...and free guitar lessons onstage? What else ya want?? — …and free guitar lessons onstage?
What else ya want??

I vaguely remember us up there too, something about shoes being thrown and very bad behavior from fifty-year old men in the pit.
But what the hell?

No one’s working tomorrow, so we let ‘er rip!

It’s like being back in the yard, a Cerritos night party, when I look over and see old pal Larry Kelley onstage.
And the years past are erased when I feel his familiar bass lines coming to me from stage right.

Center stage, we’re singing one of the old ones now, and it’s in my periphery that I sense Larry there: there’s no gray hairs or wrinkles coming between us from this angle.

It’s as comforting a sight as a full bottle of Xanax next to the NyQuil on the nightstand, I tells ya!

All too early, it’s over.

Kisses are planted upon cheek and mouth, phone numbers entered and saved on borrowed phones.
We make drunkenly solemn promises not to let another 30 years go by, but you know how that goes.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and everyone has plans.
At this age, this generation, we’re left largely without parents.

Gone are the days of the automatic Thanksgiving meetings at Mom’s house, maybe still off the 91 freeway and those familiar offramps.

We had those years of just showing up, fighting with our brothers and sisters and going back to our shitty apartments by the beach for bong rips when we had our fill of family.

But it’s different now.
We are the parents now, and new traditions have begun.
It’s a terrifying thing if you stop and consider the ongoing march of time, and how we take the place of those we held solid as boulders not five, ten years before.

But we take our seat at the big kids’ table and now make the turkey ourselves.

And who knows, if we are starting our own traditions now, around our own families, who’s to say we haven’t started another one?
This one, with the family we’ve chosen.

Additonal photos from Ronnie Lyon, Martin Wong, and ripped off of Facebook!

The yard in back: Cerritos, Artesia & Norwalk

November 23, 2013 ~ CH3 ~ 10 Comments

The 91 freeway cuts a perfect part down the middle of Cerritos, and growing up our nights were always haunted by the constant whoosh and sizzle of unending traffic.
A soundtrack that finally faded into subconscious with the years, just as the faint smell of cowshit from those few remaining dairy farms became the normal perfume of a new day.
You would lie in bed and have to listen for the sound of the freeway to finally hear it again, ever present yet unnoticed like the surge of ocean tide.

We’d been practicing in the garage for 8 months, had a set list heavy on Ramones and AC/DC covers.
We played them and played them again, and when Dave Gaumer mentioned a kegger and a chance to play in front of people we said yes, then immediately regretted it.

Oh, we were badass in Mom’s garage alright, playing Blitzkrieg Bop and Whole Lotta Rosie again and again.
Getting the shit down, learning how to play the guitars a little lower, throwing in the windmill now and then. Garage stuff.

But to get out there-to the backyard party!-this was a new and scary day.
The Big Friday finally came, and with it the night of our party debut.

We didn’t have a guitar tuner, so we brought our guitars up to Kimm’s bedroom and tuned up to Led Zeppelins’ Custard Pie, that riff a perfect key of A.
We tuned the guitars and took one more look at the casual outfits we’d spent a week assembling. We put the guitars in case and went to Dave’s.

Now, I don’t know how you kids do it these days.

Oh, you got your GarageBand apps and Bandcamp profile, and I hear this new Myspace site is all the rage these days, am I right?
And then what? is it pay to play at the local shithole?
Just another event created and posted on Facebook, distributed as casually and exponentially as the charming herpes simplex virus2 of our day?

I feel sorry for ya kid, I really do. Set loose in the wilds of sleazy promoters and soul-dead club owners, it’s no place for young pups to grow free range.
What happened to the backyard party, hmmm?!

What happened to the chance to set up next to the pool, what became of the kegger and blankets hastily thrown over Mom’s best coffee table?
The chance to play Rock Bottom very badly while the neighbors either called the cops or wandered over with an empty quart mug in hand.
And when the cops came, the word had already spread of the next party, Maybe Later or Metro Hotel playing just the other side of Studebaker, someone’s parents out of town and an Aunt already passed out upstairs!

High school days, it was the rockin bands that played the parties.
And admittedly, there was no way we were ever going to master the axe compared to those guys.
But what a thrill, to see someone playing music live, right there!
Ground level, in your face-loud!
To witness an actual band playing on the shag carpet, or out in the mud.
To be able to see what made the pick slide sound or see a drummer lose his stick–you couldn’t witness that from a Loge seat at the Forum brother!

And when a new type of band started playing at the parties, a rawer stripped down noise, it was all over!
Perry and Joe show up with Der Stab, the Hated brings the Pistols to the party: it was wild.

Each week someone else would show up with their surfer/stoner locks chopped off, maybe a fishing lure hanging from a bloody hole in earlobe or cheek!

And for some reason, our old hometown became a fertile place for these parties, two or three any given weekend night was not unheard of.
Directions and flyers were copied and copied again in Social Studies class, rumors of 2 keg bashes passed along the copper wire of actual landline telephones….

How did we get away with it? And where the hell did all the parents go?

Oh, occasionally there were those parents present, Dad more than willing to break out the booze for the kids and show them how he used to be, ya know, hip himself.
Moms with gleaming eyes amidst the palpable hormonal funk of teenage boys, this decades before the term Cougar is coined.

But for the most part, the house is empty and parents out of town. The kids are in charge.
We load in through the garage. Put a combo amp on the ottoman. A few planks of plywood on milk crates for a drum riser if we’re really going fancy.

Downbeat at 9 o’clock, and with the first chord of My Generation, the main breaker blows and the house is plunged into thrilling sexual darkness.
I would ask you, what the fuck could be better to a 17 year old kid?

Shut up. Let's see your old photos..... — Shut up. Let’s see your old photos…..

We cut our teeth in the backyards and living rooms of that town, though sometimes the parties lasted only a few minutes into the first song.
Ah, but there were those magical nights, maybe the neighbors were gone too (or they were deaf!), and the party would go long into the night: 3 sets, maybe 4.
We’d play Devo and Monkees, Clash and Judas Priest, anything we could pull off, if barely.
20 minute versions of Wild Thing/Louie Louie, with six different people taking turns at the mic.

And we were learning how to play.
Slipping in an original here and there, keeping tabs on the other bands to see when they made the next logical jump:
The Hated gets an actual gig at Cuckoo’s Nest, Injected Insanity cuts a demo tape in an actual studio.

The day came, it always does.
We moved on.

Out of the backyard, and into the clubs.
Out on the road, into the studio, into the grinding machine we all jump into willingly.
Hopefully keeping our heads just above the blades that threaten to shred our very spirit as we keep playing the music we love.

And so, a real honor coming up.
A chance to play a show with our old chums from the backyard days.

And yeah, although there will be a cover charge and drink specials, a proper PA that doesn’t hide the thrilling threat of electrocution, we’ll have a blast!
We’ll play our songs like we were back in the yard, under the stars on a sultry Summer night, in a place that was home.

Dave had cleared out the service porch off to the side of the kitchen. We set up wordlessly, combo amps on the washing machine and our rental PA stacked on the kitchen counter.
We kept our backs to the drunken kids packed into the hallways.
And when we reached for knobs on the amps and guitars to turn and turn again, our hands shook.

We turned to face them and for just a moment they hushed in anticipation. We kicked off–999’s Let’s Face It was the first song we played.

We’d practiced the song endlessly, but we played it too fast and mindlessly, like rolling off the Act of Contrition at the end of a rambling and awkward confession.

But played it right and when we finished, all on the beat, there was a delicious moment of silence.
And then the whole party went whooo! and Yeah!!
And we were now, I guess, in a band.

Outside, after, Red Frances comes up and says we did ok.
I’d known her since 9th grade homeroom, but she was miles away from us all now.
The first girl in Cerritos to dye her hair and start hanging in Hollywood with the actual punks.

She smiled, and then cracked a Black Beauty capsule underneath my nose.

And later, as she had me pinned up against a palm tree trunk, I tasted not only the medicinal drip on her tongue, but also cigarettes, alcohol, lies—-the flavors I would end up living with for then next few decades as a musician.

The waves of the 91 freeway crashed once again and I shuddered involuntarily.
And though it was probably the amphetamine racing through my heart, I closed my eyes and kissed her back, and pretended it was something more.

For all the Rovers……

September 13, 2013 ~ CH3 ~ 4 Comments

This weekend, an early set at our beloved nautical dive The Redwood.

A benefit for Punk Rock Rovers supporting Pasadena Humane Society ya say?

Hell yeah, and why not?
These furballs are us, and we them–and they need our help.

Well, the dogs do, anyway.
Cats? They can take care of themselves, thank you!

Oh sure, we all know that cats are the goths of the domestic animal set, sneaky little devils that lurk in the shadows selling fake black beauties to minors and barfing up half eaten sparrows.
They drink absinthe, listen to Morissey a lot and smoke cloves still.

I know, I know–ya love the little bastards.
That’s cool.
Just be aware that they will not give a fuck when you have that aneurysm and keel over mid sentence:
They’ll simply slip out into the night and find the next sucker with a can opener and record collection to destroy.

Who's the pretty kitty? You are! — *Who’s the pretty kitty?*
*You are!*

The pup, on the other hand— this guy is pure punk rock, am I right?
Dogs are all beery slobber and panting enthusiasm, heart upon fuzzy sleeve.

The canine prefers Sham 69 and cheap domestic lager.
He is willing to stage dive at a moment’s notice, not caring if someone’s there to catch him or not!

Ah, fuckin’ dogs–how do they do it?
We bring these guys into our lives, easy as buying a new end table or leasing a car.
And you think–ok, another thing in the house.
Buy some kibble, couple squeakies at Petco, and that’s it.

But somehow, they wedge themselves into your life, into your heart, and become the very dearest part of your daily being.
In the darkest days of Winter , when you leave the house in weak gray light and make it home well after dark after that 75 minute commute, who’s there?

Ears up, mouth open, as excited as you feel on a sunny Summer Saturday, a world of promise and love, the last day of school—-and all of this on a rainy Monday night.

A dog truly teaches us not just what love is, but how to love.
To love without judgement, and more importantly , without words!

After all, why do ya think it is that we love them so?
It’s because they don’t talk back, no matter how many heavy confessions they have to endure!

And, oh, what they’ve seen.

Our triumphs, sure.
The walk in the park, a day at dog beach–those are the easy ones…

But the pup also bears witness to your lowest points, waiting on the other side of the front door as your drunken ass stabs at the lock with key for seven agonizing minutes, one eye closed and pissing your pants.

And do we really need to mention what else she’s seen, hmmm?–
Solo and shameful acts that the poor old girl had to witness, and never utter a word or go tattling to Facebook?
God bless them all!

Owner? Of a dog? yer fuckin kidding me–
It is at best a partnership, but in the end we know that the dog owns us, gives us the very reason to go on.

A tentative tether to the real world, so when you’re off on that 3 day bender, what keeps you from hitting the highway to Vegas or jumping the channel to Catalina?
The bowls need to be filled with food and water, the door needs to be cracked open—–don’t you see?

Who’s going to keep your heart filled?
Who’s going to keep your soul propped open, if just by an inch, to love?

You know the answer.

Lucy is with me every moment: lying across my numb legs all night, farting in the corner of the shop all day.
Enduring awful practices late at night, walking endless loops around Old Town Seal with me, hauntng the streets like restless ghosts.

That’s her snoring in the corner of the Irisher, only the occasional kick of legs and yelp signaling the never-ending rabbit chases of her dreams.

Dog hair has covered my house, car and clothes–my entire life—- the twelve years past.

We’re on stage, House of Blues Hollywood, a million miles from daily life.
They hit you with proper spotlights on the downbeat and there, floating in front of my eyes, I see the floating brindle hairs that come off of my shirtsleeves—

Son, you are never to escape or be able to forget–you have a dog!

But why am I even saying it? You know these things.
Every one that has ever had a dog in their life, they know.
They know the joy and sublime security of having a dog there.

And we all–we all have to some day know the devastation of loss.

And how else to say this?

Say you were parked on some side street in Westminster a recent Saturday morning, 10am.
You might see me, a mess, up all night, and carrying my beloved dog in arms into the vet.

And say you had reason to sit there by the curb.
You might be there thirty minutes later, when I came out alone, holding only a dog collar in hand.

And maybe you see Mr. big tough punk rocker shattered: real tears, unstoppable.

Tomorrow we’ll load in and unpack the gear, untangling cords last packed up in Blackpool, counting the drum sticks broken in Belgium.
And then we’ll open the guitar cases, and i just know what I’ll find.

The tell-tale brindle hairs still covering the guitar strap of the Fender.
BrownBlack strands, fine as whispers, reminders of something very precious that was once in my life.

Fear of Life

August 30, 2013 ~ CH3 ~ 1 Comment

Liner notes for the upcoming Fear of Life reissue on Drastic Plastic Records!

We were surprised and thrilled when Robbie Fields called us one day, it’s probably early in the year 1982.
We were to report back to the Brian Elliot studios in North Hollywood to begin work on this record…..an actual full length album!

Oh, we were getting along pretty well on the CH3 EP, playing bigger gigs all the time and snipping out some glowing reviews, but there weren’t many bands that actually went on to record that next record on Posh Boy, not to mention a third!

A lot of bands recorded one stellar EP or a smoldering track for one of the compilations, and then were gone.
But we were beyond proud to be on the Posh Boy label, and wanted to be known as one of the stable. Amazing to think we were on the shelves next to our heroes: Simpletones, The Crowd, Agent Orange!
And the mere fact that we had songs out there in the wilderness–-played on some college radio stations out there in the darkness for God sake! was beyond our sheltered Cerritos comprehension.

We would get interview requests from Lincoln Nebraska, Minneapolis MN—people wanting to know the back story of Manzanar, and Wetspots—is that song saying what I think its saying?? –and we were floored.

To think of a low wattage radio station, maybe playing for a just few pie-eyed students in the dorm on a Sunday midnight, but still–playing our songs!

So when we came in to do this album, we brought in all the songs that we’d had since the garage days.
We had these poppier songs before the EP, sure–Wanna Know Why and Make Me Feel Cheap, tracks that showed a slower—dare I say more sensitive?–punker than those leering knuckleheads on the back of the EP.

But Robbie in all of his wisdom left the love songs off the first go round, opting for the leaner meaner introduction. The plan worked: we got a foot in the door, but now it was time to let them all see what we really could do!
I don’t know who suggested Fear of Life as the title track, but looking back on this collection of songs it certainly fits:
This is a collection of songs reflecting our mindset at the time: confused, aroused, and yeah…..maybe even a little bit afraid of, for lack of a better word…. life!

The song titles pop out at you like the chapters of a cheesy self help book you’d see in the airport display rack: A Parent’s Guide to Troubled Teens.
Out of Control, I Wanna Know Why, Catholic Boy, Fear of Life, You Lie….oh yeah–Life Goes On!

Oh brother, I can only think now: Each a fitting working title for an afterschool special or a very special episode of Growing Pains!

Ah, but somehow they all fit together in a way, and I can forgive our former teenage selves for being a bit too earnest and over sincere. We ended up with a sort of concept album for the times: that the theme is drunken bored teenagers try to destroy themselves is irrelevant!

Musically, it was the magical mix of the original lineup that made the sound.
Madman drummer Mike Burton, never one to be restricted by coming in on even numbers or playing a song the same way twice, put down some remarkable tracks. And our dear Larry Kelley, whose up and down strum of index finger provided and unmistakable bass line completed the foundation.
We did all we could think of to differentiate between two guitars playing the same song, and Jay Lansford was never far away with a suggestion or even a line of his own to set a song to sail.
And now, listening to the test pressing, with all of these songs brought back to glorious audio life, I think:
Fear of Life, indeed!

We faced those fears as teens, and now we are worn men looking back on the smoking ruins: of lives remembered, the friends lost and the cars crushed.

But the record brings back all those sweet years as well, the freedom and wildness of being boys in a landscape that was just being defined. And as we plunged ahead into the unknown we did the best we could, relying on friendship and cheap beer to make sense of it all.

And you think, then, that maybe being afraid isn’t the worst thing after all.

The end of days

August 17, 2013 ~ CH3 ~ 2 Comments

9:35 am on Thursday, already black up to my elbows with metal flecked machine grease.

The Whitney’s sprung a leak in clamp 2 again, and I’m under the goddamn thing now, trying to get an allen to gain purchase on the rounded bolt, squinting against a fine mist of hydraulic fluid baptizing my face.
And the phone is ringing.

The ringing stops after seven, there is a beat of silence, then the ringing starts again.

The wrench flies out of hex, my knuckles slam against the mill sharpened edge of the ball screw.
And, naturally, the hose gives way, and an imperial pint of DTE40 flows onto my face.

Bleeding at hand, drenched in oil, I stomp over to the phone and yell what into the receiver.
But there is only a recorded voice on the line:
Would you like to update your listing on Google search network?
Press one to connect with a specialist that will be in your area…….

The cordless, it now takes thrilling flight.
It arcs high across the shop’s corrugated ceiling, hits one conduit and smashes down amid the scrap bins, a satisfying burst of polycarbonate and circuit board, then silence.

There is a square of #8 mirror finish stainless propped up at the shop sink.
I catch a glimpse of myself now, sleeved in grease, dripping light weight oil from hair and Type A Rh Negative from my paw.

For this I came back?

After our fanboy adventures of Saturday in the Wintergardens, it’s up and back to it for an early set Sunday…..1:40pm downbeat!
It’s a new one for us, this early slot, but we are in the lovely Empress Ballroom today on a stellar lineup of all our chums from So Ca.

Guitars, bags and bodies in one car.
God love the black cabs of the UK!

We crack Red Stripe #1 at the first chime of noon, trying to settle our stomachs against last night’s cider fest and GravySausageChips gluttony.
We pretend it’s 10pm since we play in an hour, and watch the other bands straggle in, already a 4 hour drive under their belts on this day–suckers!

...alright kids, you got Kimm's autograph. Now beat it! — *…alright kids, you got Kimm’s autograph. Now beat it!*

...one more to go baby. Hang in there! — …one more to go baby. Hang in there!

We’re backstage now and worried about this time slot–who the hell is gonna wake up this early for a set?
Ears still ringing from the chanting crowd at Cocksparrer last night, not to mention the pub crawling along the vomit soaked streets of Blackpool, and I’d rather still be in bed myself, brother.
Couldn’t blame ya for sleeping in!

But we hit the stage and the lights come up on the opening chords of I Wanna Know Why.
And there is an actual crowd of people there: watching, listening!

I guess it's not so bad,this early slot. Our only competition was the bingo tourney! — I guess it’s not so bad,this early slot. Our only competition was the bingo tourney!

It comes back quickly, why we love this fest.

The RebellionFest brings it all together, the music and culture, the intellect and sleaze.
The people here love their punk without shame, and point to its’ accomplishment and dignity in the face of so much phoniness swirling about.

Sid by Those Who Knew Him in the Punk Cinema — *Sid by Those Who Knew Him* in the Punk Cinema

Sensory overload at its finest!
We have time to towel off and wade back into the crowd to catch up with old chums and catch The Stitches frenzied set!

And then the yucks continue until the Adolescents & TSOL hit stage!

Ant slingin' merch. Still no clean clothes. — Ant slingin’ merch.
Still no clean clothes.

JW brushes off the shoplifting skills... — JW brushes off the shoplifting skills…

It’s all too fine.

We meet all the chums once more before we all go off on our own ways.
The other bands are going on, and even now I read their Facebook posts with a wistful tinge of envy.

Ah, but it’s that time for us to wrap it up.
No more hostel (hostile?) wake up calls of us, no more midnight wanderings along cobblestoned alleys, perfectly happy to be lost.

Kimm is heading straight back to the States, back to the real world: a world without curry sausage breakfasts and daily soundchecks.

I’m hopping a train for Glasgow at dusk.
Alfie jets on to Barcelona and the South of France, the fucker.

And Anthony?
Oh, he’s is still out there, chasing his luggage from airport to airport, his soiled t-shirt and socks giving him the funk and earthiness of a true European!

One last loop around the midway — One last lap around the midway

I wipe a few more drops of oil out of my hair with a bandaged hand.
There is a haiku bleat of airhorn, la cucaracha , the lunch wagon pulling up outside right on time.

The daily beats of the day, they are back now.
I go out to the Roach Coach, order up a green chile burrito from Rosa Maria.
She asks where I’ve been, what? last 2 weeks?

And as I pull out the cash to pay her, there in a handful of change I catch the glimpse of an odd coin, hole punched in its’ center:
Danish Kroner.

I hold it up, up to the California Sun that’s hovered above me my whole life.

And the light piercing it’s center, that spot of bright in the belly of its dark shadow?
It’s the same old sun, seen in a different way.

The scrapbook Blackpool

August 15, 2013 ~ CH3 ~ 2 Comments

Charleroi, Brussels to Manchester on the world's shittiest airline, Ryanair! — Charleroi, Brussels to Manchester on the world’s shittiest airline, Ryanair!

Where the guitars need to buy their own seats. Inhaling free, exhales 5 pence per! — Where the guitars need to buy their own seats.
Where inhaling free, exhalations 5 pence per!

UK Subs---still doing it! — UK Subs—still doing it!

..and that's a wrap! — ..and that’s a wrap!

The kindness of strangers

August 13, 2013 ~ CH3 ~ 3 Comments

So if you look through the last few entries, you’ll find the usual features:
Snarky commentary, a drink or two, glamour photos of sausages being inhaled.

But there is one thing missing, these past few days, yeh?
Sleep!

10am Thursday: We go back and forth through the baggage claim in Brussels airport before finally admitting defeat in claiming Ant’s luggage.
That Anthony’s bags don’t catch up to us in Belgium, (and not Blackpool or even London as we speak)—this is another story.
We can only hope they are giving Ant’s worn dufflebag the mileage incurred on her roundabout journey—perhaps it can get that free Hawaiian vacation she’s always dreamed of!

..last sighting: dirty laundry and clean socks!

We ask to have the stuff shipped ahead to the smaller Charleroi airport and head out to the curb where we said our goodbyes to Frank not 20 hours earlier.

So now, a funny thing, this leg of the journey.
Frank had obligations to pick up another band for yet another loop around the continent, leaving us to our own devices between Sweden and Blackpool.

Listen, you can bitch about Facebook all ya want, but on this journey it has saved our ass a few times at least. The last minute gigs, a plea for a decent Tikka Masala in Hamburg—it is through the vast web of faceless friends that the answer is found.

And so when a friend with Belgian roots hears our dilemma—need to get to the countryside festival gig from the airport for an afternoon set, then back to a different area of Brussels for tomorrow’s flight to UK—he chimes in with informed options:

Train? Car rental? Hitchhike by side of road with guitar in hand and weepy eyes or flashing calves?

Tim puts us in contact with Luc, who assures us via email that he will handle everything and be at the curb: a dozen correspondences compressed through the binary code and translated at the other end….done!

I suppose this whole thing, I mean, the relationships of the internet—-they require if not a bit of a suspension of belief, then maybe a blind trust, no?
Yeah, I know you Match.com people must know what I’m talking about here, but really, how do you know I’m not just posting this shit from Alex’s Bar the last week, simply photo shopping pictures of Ant eating a sausage in front of the Danube, hmmm?

So the thought crosses our minds as we stand curbside in the wan Brussels light, waiting for a stranger in a van, with set time not 98 minutes to go, that perhaps we’ve been had.
Maybe this Luc is really just a 12 year old brat from Chino Hills, fucking with us through his Xbox account a world away.

But a clean rental appears on the horizon, and we meet Luc, a proper gent and well humored man of the world.

There are angels out there people!

Ieper is on the out-outskirts of the countryside, with only a few circus tents and the smell of braising tofu to guide us backstage.
We set up quickly, no time for the usual primping & preening in front of the full lengths this day, as it’s on in 10 and away we go!

..we do our darkness impersonation for the brunch crowd. — ..we do our *Darkness* impersonation for the brunch crowd.

The set is fine if a bit rushed, and then we are out in the Summer sunshine, waiting for the rest of the crew to arrive.

We sit on long benches, vegan snacks in hand and free range beers before us, and chat the afternoon away with Luc. He is a swell fellow, and it’s not long before we are introducing him to the royalty of So Ca Punk!

It’s high school reunion backstage once again, class of 19-eighty mumble mumble, and we are caught in a blizzard of bro hugs and grandchildren photos , as the crew compares battle scars and blood pressure medications!

View from back---Kids of the Black Hole! — View from back—Kids of the Black Hole!

Fashion Faux Pas: Jack wears same outfit 2 days in a row.

...don't call him Chavo yo! — …don’t call him Chavo yo!

Cali roll call: TSOL, CH3, Adolescents, Face to Face, Black Flag... — Cali roll call: TSOL, CH3, Adolescents, Face to Face, Black Flag…

Another grand fest we have to leave all too early, as Anthony’s bags have refused to touch down, and circle our innocent heads as silent and uncaring as enemy drones.

Luc drives us out to the Charleroi Airport area as we all crash hard, the days finally getting to us.

We calculate Tuesday was the last full night of sleep in a bed, but that must be little comfort to Luc, as he drives 4 sleeping, farting men across the country yet again.

Sundown, we rouse to go inside the lounge for one last toast to our new friend.

But earlier, out on the highway we sleep with smiles, comforted and cradled as babies.

As a gentleman we’ve met but 8 hours earlier stands guard over us far better than we could ever guard ourselves.

The Swede life

August 12, 2013 ~ CH3 ~ 2 Comments

I stumble into a truckstop bathroom, it’s Luxembourg: 5am.

They’ve got me trained, the Germans, to fumble for .70 euro every time I need to answer the call.

And there’s been plenty of close calls at the WC turnstile, brother, as I pat every pocket and go through backpack, desperately searching for suitable coinage, clenching orifice tight against the threat of messy disaster.

But it’s a rich country, this Luxembourg, as the luxury of a toilet and sink is free!
And soon I am brushing my teeth next to a portly Belgian trucker, he naked from waist up and lathering his furry body at the sink.
His attention shifts from his underarms inversely reflected in the mirror to my bleary eyes and he gives me a sly wink.
We’ve shared this same dawn stretch of road and both have a long day ahead of us.

Brussels Zaventem airport at 8am.
It’s a bittersweet goodbye to Frank ‘le Tank, as fine a gent and handler as we’ve met over here.

We’ve bonded these last few days, and the long stretches of road allow for the ease of brotherhood that allows for both tearful confession and competitive farting, the true payoff of traveling in a box.

Goodbye Frankie---see ya on the other side! — Goodbye Frankie—see ya on the other side!

We’re through security with an hour to spare, and it’s time to consider the Belgian version of sausage for breakfast.

We change flights in Copenhagen, and our heads are swimming at the currency change when we hit the lounge bar.

Euros can be used, yes, but change given in Danish Krone.
Shall we exchange some Euros at the desk, since they use these Kronen in Sweden, right?
Well no, as they use a Swedish Krona, worth slightly less.

Alf’s delirium tremors start to kick in as I thrust handfuls of dollars and euros and pounds at the bemused bartender, all the while pointing at the taps and making the universal drinky-drinky sign.

Listen pal, all we want is a goddamn pint of beer, not a lesson on global economics.
Next time we vow to get paid in only Krugerrand and hollow point bullets, the only currencies that know no border!

Touchdown Göteborg, and this is where the tourbook gets a little hazy.
Benny the booker only gives us a few cryptic notes about venue and hotel, and we see a festival poster that baffles us:

..it's about time you can see Neil Young, Alicia Keys and CH3 all at the same venue! — ..it’s about time you can see Neil Young, Alicia Keys and CH3 all at the same venue!

There’s little info about transportation and, well, what the hell we’re doing here—but there is a cheerful driver waiting for us at the gate with our names on chalkboard, and soon we are rolling through a beautiful countryside in a whispery quiet Volvo efficiency van.

And soon we are checked into the swanky Scandic Crown, and the hospitality and kindness of the en-blazered reception staff baffles us–what’s the catch?

Beers and chips on arrival--the dream comes true! — Beers and chips on arrival–the dream comes true!

It feels, for lack of a better term, really expensive here.
But the promoters have handled every single thing, and we’re soon in cheerful blonde bedrooms that are ripped straight out of an Ikea catalog.

A catnap and it’s back to the lobby and another smiling, impeccably groomed driver.
They take guitars out of our hands and hand us water bottles for the drive to the venue along the lovely evening streets.

We think perhaps we died on that last bumpy flight out of Copenhagen and we’re experiencing that Twilight Zone episode where the dead hood gets everything he wants without question.

...ah, but Mr. Valentine--who ever said this was heaven? Bwahahahah! — …ah, but Mr. Valentine–who ever said this was heaven?
Bwahahahah!

We meet up with TSOL, and they are all fresh and chipper as this is their tour start date.
It’s a quiet backstage and even quieter onstage, as they have a 100db sound limit—in the club!!

Hey! We eat fruit too ya know.... — Hey! We eat fruit too ya know….

I finally get to meet up with our internet pal Pete, maybe the only guy here who knows who we are!

We don’t know what to expect, what with our loopy lack of sleep, the library-hush of the place, the bizareness of us getting onto the tiny stage.

But guess what? It turns out to be a rockin night, we do an encore, and they call out for more, but it is a tight schedule and this place is nothing but on time!

Jack come out in his latest breezy summer ensemble from Olvera Street, and the TSOL fellas rip it up for their night one:

We have time for the usual laughs and drinks with the locals.
The polite chaps come up and tell us the show was great, struggling with the Nordic reserve they admit to–
really, I am very excited right now! they tell us with straight faces.

And soon it is back into another van, with another cheerful, prompt driver, who lets us know his replacement will be back in 90 minutes.

There is a brief debate on sleep or power through, but soon enough it is back in a van, back to the airport.

The tiny Scandinavian Air mini jet is struggling for liftoff, with all of TSOL and CH3 aboard, not a man under six foot one, only a couple of us admitting to being under the 200lb mark.

Onward!

We hurdle back towards Brussels, where it’s going to be a tight touchdown and 90 minute drive out to Ieper for a 12:40–pm!!!! —–downbeat.

And as we skid across the fourth tarmac in 18 hours, Anthony’s luggage rests comfortably back in Copenhagen, refusing to go on any further.

The home on the highway

August 10, 2013 ~ CH3 ~ 1 Comment

Any Euro tour is defined by the ease of wifi access and the luxuriousness of the Sprinter van in which you roll.

These rolling Legos are the workhorses of the continent, and they become the familiar clubhouse over the course of a few long drives.
You learn which seats suck, and which prized ones afford the extra five degrees of recline tilt, allowing your back to uncoil just enough to welcome a 10 minute nap.

When we load in to the clubs, we check the other bands’ rides out of curiosity.

There are larger boats, sure. Some have bunks built atop the gear storage, seen some with x-boxes and personal screens onboard.

But we are perfectly happy campers in Frankie’s van, stretched out across a couple rows of seats and a hot spot gently beeping in the usb port as we pass in the shadow’s of the Wurzburg castle.

It is a short drive over to Karlsruhe, plenty of time to stop for a Greekish meal of souvlaki and gyros on a sunny patio.

And then a quick stop at the local music store to stock up on supplies, as Alfie has left a trail of broken sticks in our wake: each stage littered with enough splintered wood to resemble a hamster’s spongy cage.

We get to Karlsruhe, a check into the hotel but there is no sign of Adolescents.
It seems just as they roll into town, the Sprinter they had picked up back in Poland has called it quits.

The relentless schedule those chaps insist on was apparently too much for the old girl, and at this stop the differential threw up it’s ground down guts in protest.

We work it out with our van and Frank the Tank to get the gear to the club as we trip around the whimsical beer garden under the hotel grounds.

It’s a cross between a beer garden and Pee Wee’s playhouse down there, just the place for childish drunks–ahem!

Another grand night in Germnay, amd we’re greeted by a few fans who actually know us!

And then perhaps the nicest treat, gettting to see the Adolescents play two nights in a row!

There’s time for a few yucks after the gig, but all too soon it’s back to the hotel and back to business.

Dan Root and the duct tape Hulkster costume

The Ads camp out in the WiFi zone of the lobby, trying to get a replacement van in time for their gig Thursday night in the Netherlands.
We only have time for a quick rinse and it’s back in the van for us, as it’s a night long drive to the Brussels airport.

We say our goodbyes til Ieperfest Friday and hit the darkened Autobahn at 3 am.
And as Frank outs on a Creedence CD and we roll on through the dark, we slouch across the seats, backpack pillows under head and merch duffels as quilts.

Just another Sprinter rolling on towards the next dot on the map, and as close to home as we can claim this far away.

The adolescents at the grown ups table….

August 8, 2013 ~ CH3 ~ Leave a comment

It’s a winding drive down to the Bavarian region, stopping only to top off our fuel tank with diesel and bellies with sausage, as it had been a dangerous 8 hours since last we ate the tubular essential!

We pull into Würzburg during a refreshing Summer shower, and we immediately jump out of the Sprinter and let Mother Nature rinse the sticky grime from our skin.

They tell us Germany has been a balmy 38 Celsius the last couple days, which we calculate with humidity levels to be, what? 145 Fahrenheit?

Don’t quote me here, you know us and Math……

Then it’s over to that gritty little rascal of a venue, Immerhim club down the street, a wacky little space down two flights of concrete stairs in what looks like a Eastern Bloc train station.

And then it’s a pleasure to run into happy faces from home!!

We pass off urgent care item to the weary travelers.

The Adolescents have been out a long time, and in fact Steve tells us he locked his front door sometime back around Memorial Day….you go man!

There is a photo shoot set up post-dinner, and we all go through the poses that have served our portfolios so well through the years:

.....I call this one Blue Steel.... — …..I call this one *Blue Steel*….

We had no show booked for this night just a week ago, and neither did they.
2 days off would be a mere annoyance for us, as we would just tend to drink the day away and then try to break into the local zoo at night.

But The Adolescents are truly road machines now, and they only pace like caged cats in their stuffy hostel rooms without a show to play.

So Tony put out the word across Social media, and we find ourselves on this night playing to a truly great last ninute crowd, selling a load of merch and then getting to stand back and watch dear old chums rip up the joint!

Inevitably, we end up chatting, Steve and Tony, me and Kimm, of the days and years that have passed between us.
We’ve known these guys a long time, since we stood in wonder at them at the Starwood back in ’80, to the days when we could unbelievably share the stage with them.

And yeah, we’ve all put on a year or two.
We know how it goes: that the morning conversation between us punker AARP types the night after gigs is no longer, hey man, did you get laid? but, did you take your pills?

Our generous hosts bid us to try the local wines and craft brews.

We learn of the local hills and the climbing vineyards, and taste brisk wines that dance on palate.
They bring out serious looking bottles, and we taste the smoky flavors thanks to the toated hops.

Alf declares he will move here..tonight!

the Adolescents crew packs it in and heads to hotel, but we are not done with the night just yet!

So it’s up to us to cavort with the locals at the local dive, a lot of really great people in this town-

We’re gpnna feel this one tomorrow, brother!

First and second tallest men in Wurzburg

And we call it a night once again.
A happy thing: to see pals from home so far away from home.

The End, as it were. Good Night! — The End, as it were.
Good Night!