This is what we call the pay-off. The optional introduction
Excerpts from a Travel Diary: Part Duex
or One person's epic is another's unnecessarily long story.
6th of August, 2006
London; Heathrow
03:00
I still can't remember if the decision was made due to laziness or lack of funds, but thinking about it now, at three am in an almost empty airport, I'm kind of regretting it.
"The flight leaves at six-thirty in the morning, which means we'll need to be there by around four thirty," I say. "So I really don't think it's worth spending the money on another night of accommodation when we're barely going to use it," I say. "Plus, we'll also avoid the risk of sleeping in, or not being able to get to the airport on time and missing our flight," I say. She agrees. Perhaps, reluctantly.
And as I walk and re-walk the terminal, I replay this conversation in my head. I think about how I feel now, how I'm going to feel in around twenty hours, and how good a shower and a bed would be right now.
Conviction isn't one of my strong points.
... a plane to Amsterdam, another to Copenhagen, a train, a shower, and a life changing experience later ...
7th of August, 2006
Copenhagen
15:00-ish
I didn't really have a plan. My idea was to have a shower, something to eat and then wander down to find the venue and just hang around to see who I could see. The Vega is about ten minutes walk from the hotel. I congratulate myself on accommodation well picked, although I can't help but be a little concerned about the walk home tonight. Folks out don't seem to be the most savory, and it's only two in the afternoon.
But on the plus side, if I ever have a desperate need for porn or a kebab, I've come to the exactly right place.
I get to the end of the street and find myself in front of the Vega, which is the most inauspicious concert venue I think I've ever come across. I'm not sure what I expected to find, but I have a feeling it was more than this. It pretty much looks like all of the largish buildings that surround it, on a street filled with largish, plain looking buildings.
I guess in my mind it I thought it would be glowing or something.
I begin my plan to try and find the back entry of the building. I'm imagining the scaling of fences. Some sort of ACME disguise kit. Sweet talking bouncers, and trying to decide exactly where I would draw that wavy sexual favors line. And as I peer around side of the building into the ally, I'm greeted by the sight of a big purple tour bus, a trailer, and a bunch of roadie type individuals. And my heart skips a beat. For the first of what would be a few times today. I casually walk up and down the ally for a minute or so before deciding to take the up-front approach.
"Hello," I say politely as I approach the roadie-type people. "I was wondering, if I were to hang around here, y'know for a bit, would there be a chance I might see any members of the band playing tonight?"
The one in the middle smiles, "Yeah, you might." He's got an American accent, so he's definitely with the band. I realise far too late that subtle wit and charm isn't going to get me anywhere, so I try a different approach. Perhaps if I talk their language, they'll be more forthcoming. "So, do you know what time is sound check is going to be?" I ask.
They seem to shrug in unison. "Dunno," he says." We haven't even loaded the gear in yet."
Feeling a little defeated but grateful I live another day not knowing where my sexual favors line falls, I say my thank yous and turn to leave. They obviously don't mind me hanging around, so that's what I'm going to do. I head back out onto the street to find some food and a place to park myself. And then my heart goes and does that skippy thing again.
There he is. Coming down the ally towards me is the Man in Black. No, not that man in black. The other one. The new one. My one.
These are the moments you rehearse. Those situations you run through your head over and over again, just in case. The times you pray for some Matrix like intervention where time slows and all your actions be come fluid, and your words flow from your mouth like liquid poetry.
I have a spiel I rehearse just in case I ever run into anyone I admire or - I'm hesitant to use the word, but I think it's suitable - idolise. The idea behind my spiel is that, in that unlikely situation where I meet one of these people, I'll be able to focus enough to say something bordering on intelligent and thoughtful, rather than just blubbering "I really like you" repeatedly.
The basic premise of my spiel is that I say "hello", politely, and thank the person for whatever it is they do or have done that has enriched my life. And don't bother asking me to repeat it, cause you're never going to hear the whole thing unless your name happens to be Trent Reznor, Joss Whedon or Greg Dulli. And as it happens, I've never really had the need to use it.
Until today.
I desperately try not to freak out and scare him off. Far too late I realise I'm wearing his band's t-shirt, and I'm pretty sure he's seen me and picked up his pace. As he reaches the door of the big purple tour bus, I decide to take a chance.
"Greg?" I manage to squeeze out of my now very dry mouth. It seems to be enough to grab his attention.
"Yeah?" he says, as he turns to face me...
It's time for an optional flashback. Due to this thing being pretty fucking long already, I've spoilerised for those of you who want the quick version.
So, if this were a movie, your screen would be doing that funny wobbly thing right about now, and you'd be hearing harp music. I have the power to do neither so just go with it, ok?
"Greg?" I manage to squeeze out of my now very dry mouth. It seems to be enough to grab his attention.
"Yeah?" he says as he turns to face me, and I realise now that it's my turn to talk. I should probably say something else. I'm not really prepared for this. I thought I'd have a few more hours of sitting nervously, preparing my spiel.
"I just wanted to say hi," I say, meekly.
"Ok, cool. Just let me put this away and I'll come out," he says as he points to his 12 inch powerbook and steps into the bus. I consider making a joke about how mine is 15 inches, but decide against it.
At this point my hands are shaking and I've become rather light headed. I try to steady myself on unstable legs. This has the potential to go very badly, very quickly. As he disappears into the bus and I fumble around in my bag for something to sign. Luckily I've come prepared - I happened to pick up the I'm Ready 7 inch while in Soho. I had considered bringing some of my Whigs era vinyl from home just in case, but didn't think it worth the hassle on the off chance. Besides, I think handing Greg a copy of the Conjure Me 7 inch on pink vinyl would just look like showing off. By this time, another autograph hunter has wandered up to the bus. She points to Greg through the door and asks me in broken English, "Is he with the band?" I resist a very strong urge to punch her in the face and say, "He is the band, lady," and simply nod.
Greg comes back out and greets me with an outstretched hand and a "Hey, what's your name?" I tell him, shake his hand and pass him my 7 inch and I start to ask if he minds signing it, but before I'm done he's already grabbed it and is checking out the sleeve.
"Cool, I haven't seen these yet," he says, excitedly.
"Really?" I asked, not really sure what he's referring to.
"I took these pictures," he says, proudly pointing to photos on the cover. "In Mexico."
"Oh, cool. They're really good," I say. I'm starting to struggle. Pretty soon I'll be in a blubbering mess, rambling "I really, really like you." I think it's time to start my spiel.
"Is it Mark with a 'c' or a 'k'," he asks, and I have to think about it for a moment. It doesn't really matter, since I'll probably change it to whatever he writes anyway. "Which ever you prefer," I almost say.
"K," I respond, and as he's writing I blurt out, "I came from Australia," without really thinking.
"Pardon?" He's either shocked or didn't hear me. I explain what has brought me to town, and that the short answer is I've come a long way to be here. He signs the autograph hunter's book without looking up or talking to her. She then hands her book to someone else I don't recognise, but could very well be in the band. I'm not really familiar with the current line-up.
"Anyway," I say, "I've been a fan for a while. Since, well ... " - I hesitate saying it cause it sounds like I'm just sucking up, but I do - "since Gentlemen."
Greg looks at me in shock. "What, were you like nine when that came out?"
I laugh. "Ah, no. More like fifteen."
It's only really just struck me. I said something, and then Greg responded, and I then responded in turn. This is a conversation. I'm having a conversation with Greg Dulli. I struggle to make the moment last, wishing I had made a list of questions or something. He's still checking out the photos on the sleeve.
"So, is Mark* touring with you?"
Greg laughs, "He's in bed."
"Oh, that's cool. I was just checking cause I wasn't sure which shows he was playing."
He hands me back my record, and I figure it best to let the man go about his business, rather than over-extend my welcome. I make my best attempt at a shortened version of my spiel, and thank him for taking the time to speak to me. We shake hands again, I wish Greg a good day and an awesome show, and stumble back to the hotel in a daze. My face hurts from smiling.
I curse my phone for not having a signal. For some reason, my global roaming isn't working here. All I want to do is call everyone I've ever met and tell them what just happened. Although, it's probably better I don't, as I'm pretty sure if I even try to talk right now, I'm going to start bawling.
On the walk back I think of all the things I could've said. All the questions I could've asked. Like, whether he and Mark were going to do any Gutter Twins songs. Or perhaps Number Nine, even though I've never seen it on a set list. Or if they were going to play Fountain and Fairfax, as they have been recently. I could've told him that There's Been an Accident is, in my opinion, one of the greatest songs he's ever written. Or how great his solo album was. Or how much I love that live version of You My Flower I have on an old Gentleman era bootleg. I had my camera! I could've asked for a picture with him. But then I think perhaps that would've been pushing it. And how I'm a little cooler for not asking for a picture. I could've told him that I love him, and I want to have his rock star babies.
In hindsight, I believe it's better that I didn't.
I'm in Copenhagen for one night only. And I'm here for one reason - to see The Twilight Singers live in concert. And today, just now, I shook hands with Greg Dulli.
... later ...
The next few hours are spent wandering around Copenhagen in a daze, taking photos of buildings I think may be of importance. I'm not taking any of it in, but I've got so much nervous energy all I can do is keep walking. Sitting would not be helpful right now. I manage to waste enough hours, and at around six-ish I head back towards the Vega for a bite to eat to try and calm my nerves. I'd made the decision earlier in the day that I'd like to remain sober during the show, which meant I wasn't really in the mood for a kebab. Unfortunately this limited my options somewhat.
... later ...
I'm outside a Mexican cafe eating an enchilada when the Norwegians find me. Sitting at a table on my own, I notice they've been glancing over at me for most of my meal. And considering how nervous this part of town has already made me feel, I'm keen to be done eating and move on to The Vega. One of the two heads inside to the bar, and the other - a tall man with short blonde hair - says something to me in what I assume to be Dutch. I give my standard response - "I'm sorry?" - which communicates that I neither understood what he said or am able to respond in the language he just spoke in.
"Are you going to The Twilight Singers?" he asks. And once again, my love of merch has done me in.
"Ah, yes. Yes I am," I say, a little reserved. I'm not sure where this is going. But as it happens, he and his friend are also going to the concert. In fact, this would be Hans' third time seeing Singers, and forth seeing Greg in concert having caught The Afghan Whigs on their last tour. We spend the next hour or so discussing all things travel, Australian bands - he and his friend are huge fans of Rose Tattoo and The Angels, which I find hilarious - and of course, The Twilight Singers.
... later ...
The Norwegians and I make our way down to the Vega at around eight. There's no line, so it's straight inside, a quick stop at the merch table, and the walk upstairs to the hall. None of us have any idea of what to expect, and after two flights of stairs I'm convinced we're going to be entering some sort of massive arena using Tardis-like technology to disguise itself as an office building.
We stumble into an empty hall that, given it's size, I figure to be another foyer. Except at the front of the room is a stage. I peer back through the door to check we're in the right place. It's not at all what I had in mind. A tiny hall probably suited to fit around five-hundred people. A bar at the back of the room, and a small balcony running along each wall. And at the front, a smallish stage with no security barrier or wall of bouncers. The Norwegians and I exchange gleeful smiles.
It's perfect.
... later ...
From the bar we can see the room is starting to fill, so it's decided we begin our push to the stage. The aim is to get as close as possible, and we're ready for the fight. Except, there isn't one. After wriggling through the initial wall of drinkers, we come out into an opening right on the stage. There is literally no one standing against the stage.
More gleeful smiles are exchanged.
I pick a spot just to the right of center stage - between the Greg's mic stand and the piano - in leaning reach of a foldback speaker. And it doesn't take me long to figure out who's foldback speaker it is.
It's Mark's*. Mark Lanegan's foldback speaker.
... and then ...
There is no opening band. The lights dim and the familiar sound of Towards the Waves fill the PA. The band walks out onto stage and take their places. And as the song fades, out saunters Greg Dulli, and the room erupts.
And thus begins one of the greatest concert experiences of my life. I really don't know how else to explain it. Everything was just ... perfect.
... two hours later and my face hurts again from smiling. The Norwegians and I grab another drink and something very much like a kebab, and avoid being accosted by a gang of eager prostitutes. We say our goodbyes and I head back to my hotel.
It's one am. I've been awake now for around forty hours. And I've just experienced one of the greatest days of my life.
8th of August, 2006
Copenhagen
Today a sleep-in cost me three-hundred and eighty dollars. Sitting in my hotel room at eight am - around half an hour before my plane is due to take off - you probably wouldn't recognise me. Once upon a time, this would've been the end of the world. There would've been panic. Probably tears. Some hyperventilating.
Now?
Now, I am a fucking zen master.
I open my eyes. I see the daylight. I swear a little. I see the time, swear some more. Then stop, take a deep breath, and think.
"Oh well," I say to myself, as I lay back down for a minute. My face still hurts from the day and night before. And despite having completely missed my flight, I'm pretty sure I'm still smiling. Even when the lady at the ticket counter says how much another ticket is going to cost, I'm still smiling.
-----
I have one more kinda holiday update to go, and you'll probably be thankful to know it's mostly photos. I call it, The Tamest Trip to Amsterdam You've Ever Witnessed.
And you should also know that I am well and truly home, and have been for some time. It was only a short trip so I can't even really use recovery as an excuse for being a lame internet friend. Truth is this update took far longer than I intended. For some reason, despite the fact most of it was already written long ago, it was a fucking struggle to get it all out. I think the hardest part has been trying to find the words to explain exactly how amazing the whole experience was.
But here it is, for what it's worth. The most of the whole thing.
I had always hoped this would be the final chapter in a much longer story. A story about the line between passion and obsession. The story starts with me as a fourteen year old boy, discovering the band that would be the soundtrack to so many of the major events in my life. But what I hadn't imagined is that the final chapter would be so perfect. That all of those things that it hurts to imagine would actually come true and play out like a living fantasy.
If this were a movie, we'd fade to black and roll credits here.
Powder Burns by The Twilight Singers
Canberra, so far, is angry. This is a mathematically invalid description, as I appear to have taken all my information from the set containing things that are me (as if that were anything new).
I came here to get away from people and get some space. Instead, I have twenty six phone messages from my father over seven days. Clearly, he fears that my mother will kill me and leave me to die in an alleyway.
And my mother... GAH!
I had been under the misapprehension that there was no creature in the world as needy and whiny as my Luca. If only I'd known how wrong I was.
She says everything that comes into her mind. Immediately. She talks about me as though I were some prized fucking shetland, when I'm in the room no less. She wants to spend every fucking second of her day talking to me, whereas I want to spend every second of my day talking to absolutely fucking nobody. She's one of those people who knock on a door and then open it. She thinks she's entitled to make comment about everything, and that every aspect of my life should be determined by a comittee decision of her and I. *
I might kill her. No jury would convict me.
Also, Canberran folk are oppressively nice. This is irritating, on account of I don't enjoy having vapid strangers ask me invasive questions about my day to day life.
Also, Canberran water is made of chlorine, rather than water. My skin is so very frelled.
Apart from those minor grudges, I'm ok. I think it's too early to determine in these unpleasantnesses constitute a problem or not.
* Yes, yes, I've been known to do the comittee descision thing. Most recently, I think, with you and/or Ellie.
Wow. That made me cry. All truly lovely things make me cry.
Wow. I'm so very happy for you!!