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Tour Diary: 2002 (Eugene) > Page 5 |
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They said this still clutching my hand. The hand that until very recently had been lovingly cozying my cock. Their small, sweating hands still lodged in mine.
And we talked for an hour. Through the other band's set. The band that they liked so much. And at the end there was one woman left and she hugged me and told her friends "he's not so bad. We're mates now." And I was enjoying this lovefest immensely and even more so when a guy slams out the door and screams at her "I'm LEAVING!!!!" It was the sound guy, friend of the blonde-dreadlocked fella I've come to understand as a 42 year old man named STICK, and apparently boyfriend of Christine, the woman who's been leaning into looking for all the deeper meanings in the OXBOW oeuvre. Downstairs Greg hears him shout at her "THEY WERE THE WORST BAND EVER!!!" as they went off fighting down the street. And then it was the Big Mick. The guy I choked was apparently from Belfast, taller than me and probably outweighed me too. Which is why he had done what he had done in the first place. "For fuck's sake. You almost killed me! Jay-zus! I was just having a little fun!!!" "Well so was I. You don't look too bad now though." "Look too bad?!? You almost killed me!!" "Well a man in your condition," I say, quoting Eastwood from The Good, the Bad and The Ugly, "If he saves his breathe, might make it through something like that."
It goes back and forth until we take off but Greg says it best. "ANARCHY: FUN IN THE STREETS! NOT SO FUN IN YOUR LIVING ROOM." Another SUCCESSFUL show. Later when showering at Promoter Ewan's house he sees me wandering around trying to find him to help me figure out the completely bamboozling British shower system and he says... "For fuck's sake. Are you naked AGAIN?" "What do you mean AGAIN, man? I'm as naked as the nose on your face. As an azure sky. As a..." He backed down the hall. Slowly. 
When an epileptic named Wayne (pictured) offers you drugs, take them! But we stay at his friend Wayne's house and Wayne is a prince. Not literally. Figuratively. And an epileptic and an hour before we play the next night's show he pulls out his crusty wallet and produces a tablet. Two in fact. "Let's take them." I take mine, he takes his and away we goooooooooo...... |
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Packhorse, Leeds, Great Britain
Well the club was packed, yes, the Packhorse was packed and it is a 5 band bill and we're playing last and it's like a midnight curfew and a few of the bands that played last night are playing tonight and so we can see the writing on the wall. The writing that says "perhaps YOU will be begging to let another band have a chance tonight wise guy". I can see it in the quickly averted gazes. The deliberate set ups and take downs. The Brit bands are going to have a good ol' time with OXBOW. Mad Cow, my ass. Eugene eats beef. Manuel waits for the inevitable. Uh hunh. But do I have to go into the fact that the time "cock up" (see... you're in a Britain two days you start using words/phrases that would get your ass kicked in America) the night before in regards to time had nothing to do with us playing a long time and everything to do with 1. All of the bands starting late 2. Bands being slow on the changeover 3. Me scaring the shit out of the audience by almost murdering an audience member 4. And the fact that they were all heavily dosed on Ecstasy and NOT being ready for the OXBOW show Anyway, it's 11:00 and the third band is sort of finishing and the room is like a fucking sweatlodge. The Devils have a lead singing duo who are collectively great front men. Their drummer is the 42-year old fella named STICK from the night before. Their bass player is the one that told his girlfriend that we were the worst band ever (his girlfriend is nowhere in sight and I imagine at home chained to the radiator with a chastity belt on). Their music is perfectly fine but their calling card was their Abbott and Costello front man duo. They finish up at 11:10. Pale Horse, the band that played after us in Bradford is playing right before us in Leeds. I like these guys as well and they play well and they play until 11:40. Not out of malice I now detect but just because that's what they needed. OXBOW is grousing. Should we cancel? I mean there's no way we're getting a good fucking in in 15 minutes until we remember that WE'RE GODDAMNED AMERICANS AND THE SAME CAN-DO SPIRIT THAT'S RESULTED IN DENTAL CARE ADMIRED ALL AROUND THE WORLD CAN GET US ON AND OFF IN UNDER 15 MINUTES. Like Prince in Purple Rain. One song. Maybe two songs max. And then off into the waiting arms of a heavily mascara'd dude. Or some such shit like that. Dan, grinding it out in the heat We get on stage at 11:50 and HIT it. HARD. The audience from Bradford is there (I found out who threw the glass the night before and said to her quietly before we played... "Can I ask you a question?" "Yes?" "Will you being throwing glasses at my head again tonight?" She laughs and says "No." She has no idea what kind of massacre that nearly precipitated)... and I see a few of them lurking toward the back while we play three songs like we were about to be shot. A kid is near the door and screams downstairs, a scream comes from downstairs and he says "Play one more," and the audience is cheering and so we do and we finish and they cut the power and having snatched victory from the jaws of defeat we sell merch, pack shit and hit the Kebab shops. But where's Wayne? "I saw him staggering around outside," says Greg, looking into my eyes like Dr. Trips. "Mumbling. Waving his hands. What the fuck did he take?" "I don't know but whatever it was I took it too." "Wha?!? How do you feel?" "Me? I'm as naked as the nose on your face. As an azure sky. As a... I mean I feel fine." |
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Stoke on Trent
Let's right away dispense with the "I'm stoked on Trent" jokes. They're not fucking funny. We play on a bill that's pretty solidly a heavy metal bill. Greg, soundcheck Midway through the show I hear screaming and look over to the bar and see this woman pointing to the bartender saying something that sounds like "Him...him...him..." And I feel myself slipping into the auto-pilot that has me exiting the stage, leaping over the bar and stomping him into the rubber matting behind bar back. And I start moving that way before I see two women pointing at my cock and my animal brain resets from FIGHT to FUCK and the song ends and I hear what the women are saying. "The Full Monty!!!" "Yeah. That was a great movie." "No. Take it off." "What? My underwear?" "Yes. Yes. Oh god YES." "YOU come and take them off." They hesitate. "Come on. I won't hurt you. I'll just fuck you a little."
And the women come up together, the more adventurous one tugging her friend, both of their hands tremblingly outstretched. I grab their wrists and pull them into... like a car wash chain... into the healing powers of my cock. And they make a good show of getting away but I notice only after thoroughly rubbing my cock. "Great. Now how about putting it in your mouth?" Well, while this stuff might work on the dates I go on, it doesn't fly stage-side Stoke-on-Trent and they flee. I remember nothing else about this show. |
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