It’s 12:30 AM Friday morning July 18 and I find myself in Gelsenkirchen, Germany.

Gelsenkirchen.

Home of… um, home of nothing that I know of and I’m too lazy to Google it. Take my word for it, it’s quiet. Even the pub in the hotel was dead except for the one drunk guy that stared at us for a minute and then burped AT us. Seriously, he burped at us like he was throwing something at us. Then he grabbed the waitress’s ass and yelled a lot.

Still, it’s very quiet here; too quiet after the raucous insanity that was Sligo, Ireland.

If you’ve ever read this column before then you probably know I have an affinity for the black stuff. A pint of Guinness in Ireland is as close to perfection on earth as it gets. It can’t be done better. It can’t be improved upon. The only anomalies are the temperature (sometimes it can be too cold) and the pour (most places don’t do it right). A proper pour is to fill the glass about three quarters of the way and then let it settle (when it’s solid black with a creamy head) and then fill the rest of the way slowly so the head just makes a slight dome over the top edge of the glass. It should take about two minutes. Then it takes another minute to settle. As far as I have experienced, the two anomalies I mentioned don’t exist in Ireland.

My first proper Guinness was in 1986 at the Gresham Hotel in Dublin. I went straight to the bar with my bags and ordered from the barman. I didn’t know anything about pouring Guinness then so when he stopped pouring three quarters of the way I thought he was fucking with me, the stupid American. I waited a minute and then ignorantly asked him if there was a problem with the tap and he said, “Sonny, a proper pour takes at least two minutes.” He wasn’t being condescending, and I didn’t take it that way. I sat there all afternoon and drank, probably over compensating for my faux pas and to this day I go have a Guinness at the Gresham every time I am in Dublin.

I had been looking forward to two days off in Dublin since we got these Pearl tour dates supporting Meat Loaf. Days off are like precious stones and to have two days in Dublin is like winning the lottery. The plan was we would stay in Sligo for the show in Bundoran, which is on the west coast and then drive to Dublin to spend two days bowing to the Phil Lynott statue outside the Bruxelles Pub, Guinness in hand. Ah, the best laid plans…

The show in Bundoran got postponed a day due to technical problems with the tent/stage. Basically the whole thing was gonna come crashing down and the promoter needed another day to get it right. The weather was fierce, raining sideways and this circus tent was not going to hold up. They were also going to try and squeeze 6000 people into a space that maybe held 3000. The whole thing was a mess and on top of it we lost our days in Dublin. Wah, wah. Cry for me; it’s such a sad story.

I’m not one to dwell on the negative and it was my first time on the west coast of Ireland so Sligo it was!! The Guinness fight had begun.

We ended up spending three nights in the hotel bar, each night progressively better (or worse) drinking the black stuff. It was a 72-hour cacophony of Guinness and whisky (Powers and Jameson Black Tooth Grins!) and bad singing and swords and metal and fish and chips and more Guinness.

When I woke up today to fly to Germany I was in a zone, in some strange yet familiar and friendly place. I felt like I was walking backwards when I was going forwards. Everything was a little out of focus and for a moment everything was right with the world. Maybe it was the sea air of the beautiful west coast, or maybe it was being in such close proximity to the mighty Ben Bulben (it’s a huge mountain/rock with a head like the Juggernaut), or maybe it was from my dinner the night before that had three different kinds of potatoes (mashed, fried and a side of mashed) on the plate, or maybe it was the really drunk and pissed off guy that I drank with who told me his opinions of Americans had changed for the better after spending some time with us, or maybe it was being with friends and sharing it all.

Maybe it was all of that or maybe it was the Guinness.

It is good for you. The ad says so. Truth in advertising is a wonderful thing.

Getcha’ pull!!

Cheers,
Scott




Scott Ian plays guitar for revolutionary metal band Anthrax and also for Pearl.

Artwork credit: Shepard Fairey