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Tour Diary: 2002 (Eugene) > Page 2 |
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TOMORROW
Fuck. Drunked and jetlagged and NOT ready for the show at all. It's a miracle that I manage to keep the piss INside my body while I snooze in the sleeping pilled haze of the chronic insomniac's taking of matters into my own hands. I stagger to in Berlin and realize that this is my JUST reward for 340 days of totally rigid physical culture: running up hills with bags of gravel, avoiding sugar and processed foods, and lifting weights like a big ol' fucking sissy. My reward: 3 weeks of excessive excess. Well thank you too. Now get me a goddamned steak.
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MR BANGE: THE WORLD'S FOREMOST AUTHORITY ON FUCKING HOT SPANISH WOMEN!
"Looking too cute in my two piece suit, mashing, flashing, looking for a prostitute." - S. Dogg I'm sporting The Gray Suit and walk into the gallery where the show is to be held to be greeted by the track-suit sporting Holger Emil Bange. He looks at The Gray Suit. "Well THAT'S not very punk." I look right beyond him to his girlfriend. "Excuse me. Is there some a hanger back there I can use?" I give her the Dracula eye, working the psychic love magic like Manson. "It's punk enough for you my friend," I say before finally looking at him. "I mean it's either the suit or the cock." "Umm... yes." Good answer. The suit stayed. But something happened to me at some point. I'm not quite sure what it was but it happened between last tour and this one: I've embraced a complete and total lack of concern for approval that leads anywhere other than my cock. Like it or lump it. She passes me the hanger, a glass of a nice chianti, and I peruse Mr. Bange's exhibit. Karin Blaser is there filming for Viva Plus TV, as well as American Documentary filmmaker Christian Anthony who's decided that the world needs to see what happens on an OXBOW tour. It's my strongly held opinion that the world in fact doesn't need to know what happens during an OXBOW tour. But he will learn this the hard way. |
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So the show begins and I begin hitting the chianti and Mr. Bange is doing a fairly sterling job of describing how his bank president father encouraged him to listen to punk rock because his tailor grandfather had chastised the father for listening to so-called "nigger music" back in the 30s. In answer to my question regarding his grandfather's political affiliations. In Germany. In the 1930s. He remained, not surprisingly, mum.
But Manuel had let me know that the TV producers were not grooving on my whole Dick Cavett-smug and smirking genius smack and wanted a little more Carson Daly. A little more MTV. A little more YOUTH CULTURE. Which means "asshole" it up. Oh. If only I could swing it like a real MTV VJ swings it. All teenage insouciance and brio. Well I try because I want my cock sucked and it seems that the clearest media truth is that if you're an asshole you will get your cock sucked. So I spin it like a Solid Gold Dancer. And Bange gets OFF. He's waving his hands, laughing and talking about punk rock history and even dodges my cynical "Isn't this all a bit like being a deadhead?" Perfect. I interview Niko and the liquor is starting to kick in and next thing I remember we're in the room and the room is packed with people either to see us or to read 25 year old punk fanzines. We rehearsed this. Sort of. Which means 4 times. Which means not enough times to blast through the drool of a man unaccustomed to drink.
So I sing. And there is an encore. And I get a call on my $5 a minute cell phone in the middle of the show. And I answer it and tell whoever called that I loved them. Because I was full of love. And chianti. And love. Especially if by love you mean copious amounts of semen (or bullshit - editors). And our swedish friend Kicki walks in the right at the end with her baby Killian and I demand that she bring me the baby! And the show ends. Well not really. The "show" didn't end until the next morning when I found myself on the dance floor at some rave club doing all the new dances the "kids" are so fond of - the snake and suck, the scrod grabber, the pole vaulter - with 19 year olds in bell bottoms and tube tops emblazoned with the word PORNSTAR on them... in rhinestones. Do we need to say that "medicine" was involved here? In any case the real OXBOW showed up the next day and I was already slammergasted. This was a good sign. After 18 years of relatively rigid sobriety, I think we all can agree. Well maybe we all can't agree. Well I mean I think, this was a very good fucking sign. So says Dino Martino who appears to me and only me in moments of high stress always saying the same thing: "Go ahead kid... I won't tell nobody!" |
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