Heilbronn is a town in Southern Germany known for its vineyards,
and for its punks who think the wine farmers are fat dumkoffs. We arrived uncharacteristically early and characteristically hungry. Schnitzel was what we craved so we went to a graveyard. Next to the graveyard was a sports bar that served traditional German food. However, since it was Saturday and football trumped lunch in importance, they were only offering chicken foot. We declined. From the graveyard you could hear the ghost of Sammy Hagar laughing at us.
After a decent spread of Turkish food, Mike, Justyna and I retired to the graveyard for a nap. Alan’s limp followed him like a shadow. In his new Parisian sunglasses he resembled a crippled Elvis. Greg and Esther perused the city center where a shopping festival would occur until midnight.
I woke up surrounded by a rag tag bunch of camouflaged vagabonds, looking to see if I was dead. Before they could begin digging, I walked to the Freihaus, which ended up being a photography studio. A nice man in a Black Sabbath T-shirt, Serge, decorated the room and our senses with spray paint. Lots of people popped in and out, mostly on skateboards and dressed in black. The owner of the studio took some individual glamour shots of Mike, Alan and myself.
Serge’s girlfriend, Anka, made us dinner in their home. She is an artist and a funny one at that. We asked her if she enjoyed skateboarding.
“I tried it but I failed. I am a skateboard loser.”
Back at the Freihaus, Liquid Kitty got things off to a nutty fun start. Part Jan and Dean Ramone, part German drinking music. These two clean guys danced with each other all night, like a blond version of the sinister Mongoose twins from Rad. They would win Hellband but not before Mike and I hopped around competitively throughout the entire set. High knees and kicks with a big beer spilling dosie-d'oh. It was decided that the night would be wacky.
Anka put applied tooth rot to her smile, which was met with inquisitive horror. A guy smeared in Bitter Tears make-up came dressed as a Sandwich(!). It was packed like a Vice Magazine trust fund crud party. The Do’s and Don’ts danced against the zine covered walls. During “Murdered At The Bar, “ a flashlight poked through the door. It was a cop. He was dressed all in brown, the lederhosen tickling his ribs. He shone the light on Mike and they made eye contact. Esther delicately played Chopin. Curiosity and fear shone on the whiskers of his moustache.
We played some of our silent hits while the cop stood outside googling Reno 911. The Germans didn’t want any of that silent crap. They wanted it loud and they wanted it now. A man backstage (the office of the photography studio) yelled “Red” at me too many times, indicating that he wanted me to put my beer bottle in the red recycling bin. Then he pointed at the stage and shouted “Play!” just as many times. I hid.
Brushes were used for the first time on a drum kit during “Lightning.” While “Oiling” played very cautiously, Mike interviewed the chatty audience with a mute microphone. A guy yelled “Fuck the ‘60’s!” We said good night to a trashed studio full of sloppy loudmouths.
The Germans wanted to hang out. They wanted to talk about music. We mentioned David Hasselhoff. Mike got on the ground to perform his YouTube impersonation of the drunk hamburger-eating star of Baywatch. A pirate in Cure eyeliner began beatboxing and disco-calling the German singing sensation’s surname. Mike started breakdancing. Brokedance.
We were offered to play a party for no pay at 2 or 3 or whatever time it was. Mike offered them his pants.
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