January is always depressing, and I felt the need to escape from the cold and grey city that I currently call home. I also wanted to see the Foo Fighters again. Since seeing them at Earl’s Court, I’d bought the missing parts of their back catalogue, and was getting a little obsessed. I needed another fix.
I checked out their upcoming dates, the second leg of their European Tour, while considering the best destination. Although I knew it would be just as grey, and probably even colder, the winner was Amsterdam. A return bus fare of just GPB 9, a Foo Fighters gig, semi-legal drugs and sex shops galore – I figured it had to be better than staying at home.
I had been to Amsterdam before, but at the time of my last visit, I was only 18.The trip was a lot of fun, but potential misdemeanours were limited by my chaperone (my mother). It had also been bitterly cold in October; I tried not to dwell on the mind-buggering coldness that was likely for late January.
Also, I’ve always had a soft spot for the Dutch. Each Easter, my school hockey team would tour Holland. We’d stay with local families, and their children would take us out to bars, where we’d drink with the locals, and cycle back on borrowed bikes (thank God for wide cycle lanes…) The Dutch are also reputedly the tallest nation, which means I can go out in heels and not have quite so many short men give me strange looks.
I managed to score a ticket for the gig, and booked a couple of hotels. Rather than spend five nights in a mediocre hotel, I opted for two nights in a one star hotel, followed by three nights in a five star (it made sense, if only to me!) I spent the rest of the month counting down the days, grateful to have something to look forward to.
Some people wondered why I didn’t fly, but long road trips don’t bother me… I’d even go so far as to say I enjoy them. Frequent childhood holidays to South Africa largely cured me of my English perception of distance*. My pain barrier was completely broken by a long-but-fun Greyhound bus journey from Chicago to L.A. It took around 48 hours, and after that, nothing ever seemed so far.
*It maybe a slight exaggeration, but someone once pointed out to me that, in the US, some people will drive a couple of hundred miles to have dinner with friends. Whereas in the UK, if most people travel that kind of distance, they want to stay there for a couple of weeks, “to make the trip worthwhile.”
After getting up at an ungodly hour to ensure I got to London Victoria in time, I settled down on to the bus and relaxed as we drove out of London. The only disappointment I had was when I realised we were heading for the Channel Tunnel; I’d been hoping for a ride on the ferry. I’d been to Paris on the Eurostar, but it was my first time on the vehicle trains. I’ve also redefined my own worst nightmare… it would now be trying to drive a bus onto one of the carriages. I think when designing these vehicle cars, they took the maximum dimension for a passenger coach, and added about three inches on either side:
I couldn’t tell you how long the trip through the chunnel took. Both ways, I slept like a baby, and now dream of having a bed that mimics the bus-on-a-moving-train motion that so successfully rocked me to sleep.
Four countries, lots of farmland, a couple of rest-stops and countless Ikeas later, we arrived in Amsterdam. I got a taxi to my first hotel; I didn’t mind that it cost more than the London-Amsterdam part of my trip. It was cold and getting late, and I really didn’t fancy trying to navigate the tram network of an unfamiliar city in the dark. I checked in and sat with my guidebook, planning the next day’s amusements.
The Hotel Princess was OK, although suffered from having the stupidly steep staircases that seem to be typical of old Amsterdam buildings. The tatty, drafty attic room was exactly what I would have expected for the price. The American Hotel made for an interesting contrast. A beautiful, listed, art nouveau building, it had warm rooms and lovely bathrooms with more soft, white towels than even I could get through. The default TV channel was the feed from a camera mounted on the front of the building, facing into the square. It seemed odd, but somehow it worked.
Aside from Gig Day, I spent most of my time in Amsterdam shopping and eating. The only really touristy thing I did was one of the cheesy boat trips around the canals. And buy pre-rolled joints... still seems like a wonderful concept. I also had arguably the worst sex of my life. Never mind...
31/1/06
I arrived at the Heineken Music Hall around 1 pm, and joined the queue (well... the three or four people in front of me). Damn, it was cold! Before leaving home, I’d bought a jumbo pack of air-activated, self-adhesive heat pads; they’re meant for back pain, but having frozen my arse off in many queues over the years, they seemed like a worthwhile investment. Not a very glamorous solution (they look rather like sanitary towels, see pic, model's name unknown)... I wore most of a pack and, as well as amusing others in the queue, they did successfully stave off hypothermia.
I was wearing an ankle length fun fur coat (yes, it’s as tacky as it sounds… it’s also very warm), and a woman in the queue behind me couldn’t understand why I was still so cold. I flashed her the very short shorts I was wearing, and she looked at me with suitable pity (though, I suspect, for my stupidity and not my situation).
As time marched on, we realised the gig was to be filmed, probably for a future DVD release. A camera crew were hanging around, asking people if they spoke English, and they were pointed in my direction, I guess largely on the grounds that I am English. I declined to be interviewed, largely as I hate cameras, as well as the sound of my own voice. I’ve also learned that shit like this catches up with you. However, it was having a runny nose, being half frozen to death while dressed in a coat that made me look like an overweight teddy bear that swung it.
The nice security people opened the doors earlier than advertised, and we rushed inside to the comparative warmth of the hall. Five or so hours in the cold were rewarded with a position on the front barrier, dead centre.
The current FF stage show includes lots of lasers, but I prefer their description:
First up were Rye Coalition. Their tour blog makes for amusing reading, and it also made their attitude (angry and pissed off) make a little more sense. They didn’t really seem as one, and I was amused by their bass player, who seemed fed up, and rolled his eyeballs at his fellow band members antics with the disdain that only a bass player can.
From their tour journals:
We made our way down to the stage, but Jon [one of their guitarists] was nowhere to be found. We waited for a few minutes, but our set was supposed to have started. The lights went down and the fans started cheering. I guess the rest of the band thought it was a good idea to go out there, but I knew better. After about 30 more seconds and no Jon, I knew I had to go out there and say something. So, I went to the mic, introduced the band, and asked it anyone had seen our guitar player. All of sudden here comes Jon running on to the stage with his yellow beer socks pulled up to his knees. He kicked into “Clutch the Pearls” the second he got his guitar strapped on. . There was no monitor sound for the first song. There was another blunder somewhere too, delays in counting in songs. Nothing that would be too noticeable by anyone but a few [keep telling yourself that...]. But I always feel the need to be as honest I can with our faithful readers.
Next were The Secret Machines. I’d never heard of them before, but was pleasantly surprised. Although pretentious (and then some, see below), they had a great sound, and fantastic songs… I made a mental note to check out their stuff when I got home.
To anyone who thinks the pretentious tag may be unfair, you can read more like this on their website:
Imagine the worst thing you’ve ever said to a loved one. Now recall the instant you realize you can’t take it back. Your stomach drops; your mouth tastes metallic. What is done can’t be undone. A short time later you’re defiant—feeling that you don’t need anyone and will die alone. That naïve, insolent, singular moment is thoroughly explored and set to crystalline music on Ten Silver Drops, the new album from the propulsive trio Secret Machines.
I don’t think that was supposed to make me howl with laughter. Oh. Dear. God.
Before the FFs hit the stage in London, you could feel the anticipation and excitement in the air… not so in Amsterdam. Here, the audience seemed really laid back and mellow, and I honestly don’t think it had anything to do with the occasional cloud of sweet-smelling smoke that wafted over the audience. When the house lights eventually dimmed, a cheer went up, and there was a little pushing and shoving, but it was all... well, rather civilised.
This time, starting the show on the barrier, I could at least concentrate on the stage instead of trying to pre-empt the movement of the crowd and slam people out of my way. My spine tingled at the opening chords of In Your Honour, and I smiled as I sang along, grateful for the best view in the house.
They played all the songs that I've recently come to love... a particular favourite being Stacked Actors. Monkeywrench and DOA were also highlights.
For some unknown reason, an audience member threw a carrot onstage. Dave looked rather puzzled, and made some comment along the lines of, “of all the weird shit… well, you’re certainly a very healthy audience!” Then someone threw bread...
I also suspected that Dave was, quite possibly, a little tipsy. Everlong was sung with “up the butt” added to most of the lines. I couldn’t help thinking that all he needed was a Metallica T-shirt and a life-size cardboard cut-out of Beavis by his side.
Dave introduced Big Me by taking the piss out of some poor guy in the audience. I suspect Dave's laughter, and the guilty look on his face, meant that even he knew he'd overstepped the line and was officially being an arsehole. Maybe I wouldn't have minded as much if I actually rated the song...
During the encore, Taylor took the lead vocals for Cold Day in the Sun, with Dave heading to the rear to smack the shit out of Taylor's drums.
All in all, a damn good show :-)
And if you're not totally bored yet, there are more photo's here.
A quick note about the internet:
This is the first show I’ve been to where I’ve found bootleg videos online (such as this one), shot by people standing close to me. I thought this was cute and amusing. Until I stumbled across a short clip of Everlong (the quiet, pseudo-acoustic bit). The moment it started to play, I realised it was shot by someone who must have been standing pretty much next to me. And I could hear myself singing along. Really, really badly.
*winces*
The bus journey back to London was less relaxing than the outbound one. I've been told that the braking distance for a bus is around three times longer than for a car. The bastard of a driver insisted on sitting about 15 feet off the vehicle in front of him, and braking every 10 seconds or so. I was just glad to get home, seething, but unscathed.
The other downer about the journey home was French Customs (and I'm not talking about abusing the English). We were ordered off the bus with our baggage, while it was searched by humourless officials armed with guns and sniffer dogs. The bus had AMSTERDAM - LONDON emblazoned on the front and both sides... Although I could understand the temptation, could anyone be that dumb??
We were also sent through English passport control [located on the French side, so that any alleged asylum seekers could be detained on that side of the channel]. There were several men on the bus who I would guess were not (western) European by birth. They collectively seemed to think it most unreasonable that the guy with:
a) a non-EU passport
b) one-way ticket and
c) no work permit or visa
was not allowed to continue his journey. Duh!
After the long journey, I was glad to be home, but less than happy when I realised that in my absence, tickets for the Placebo gigs I would like to have gone to had:
- been announced,
- gone on sale, and
- sold out.
This leaves me either ticketless, or at the mercy of the fucking-bastard eBay touts.
Long post, I know. Sorry!