September 3 - Audio, Brighton UK

My body woke up around 8am.  I had volunteered to be the early riser and pay the parking when the meters started.  Unfortunately I noticed that a key was needed in order to leave the flat, a key that was not existing for me.

I prowled the premises.  At the 3^rd floor staircase a window led to the roof.  From the roof overlooking the back gardens of Hammersmith, I noticed a neighbor’s garage I could climb and scale down to the street.  But when I got halfway up the garage I noticed a woman staring at me from her window.  She was on the phone.  I smiled and waved and hopped off the hedges.  Meanwhile, Alan and Mike got up and a resident who was waiting for a refrigerator delivery eventually let us out of the living quarters.

Alan ate sausage and mash with onions and onions, while Mike and I had fried egg, bacon, baked beans and black pudding.  It was yummy, mate!

John and Greg have done all the driving on the tour.  Now it was someone else’s turn.  So my first driving experience in Europe was through London in a 5.2 meter long manual transmission cargo van.  It really does take some getting used to, especially on those roundabouts.  Looking-glass driving.

A programming error in the GPS took us through golden flowing fields to Rottingdean, a quaint seaside town with narrow roads and pouty Wonka brats.  We followed the coast to Brighton, unsure of our stance on the mods vs. rockers debate.

This resort town squeaks with seagulls and roars with waves.  It was grey and choppy on the Brighton Pier.  Half Coney Island, half Quadrophenia, the pier is a sugar crash of crappy amusements, softcore gambling, and punks on holiday.

Greg, Esther, Mike and I got fish and chips at a take out stand and brought them back to Audio, the venue.  The security geezer told us we could not eat them there because it would stink up the whole club.  We ended up eating on the pebbly rocks of Brighton Beach, and soon were surrounded by flocks of seagulls and a guy with a metal detector.  Esther threw a chip into their direction, which led to an aggressive approach for more.  She threw another one and we ran away.  The metal detector guy didn’t bat a lash.

Audio is outfitted for both DJs and bands, the updated version of mods and rockers. It maintains a sleek but shabby look.  The bathroom has a fish tank in it.  There was a barricade between the house and the stage.  The backstage resembled the inside of a futuristic limo.  It felt like we got a gig at the Death Star playing Darth Vader’s birthday party.

We’ve been opening our set with Alan solo, singing “Grieving” until we assemble one at a time on stage for the verse.  It’s been working well as an introduction to the Bitter Tears.  

I had an off night.  If James Brown were in charge of the band I would have been fined $50 for flubbing a measure of “Spark,” $100 for missing a fill and wrongly anticipating an instrumental break in “Moline,” and $500 plus a beating of my girlfriend for all of “The Companion.”  I stank up that song so much the promoter called it “The Componion.”  Well not really, but he did make Alan fill out some paperwork about what songs we played and who wrote them and how British the songs were.

Thankfully the internet worked at Audio and, covered in cork ashes, I got a chance to Skype my girlfriend before Magnolia took the stage.  I have been missing her.  Afterward a girl dressed completely in denim came up to us and complimented us on our stagewear.

Greg worked a deal at the hotel for a two-person room located in its labyrinthine basement.  To make it work for six we had to Tetris the desks, Jenga the chairs, and un-Lego the bed.  But it was steps away from the beach and an old abandoned pier.  We layered up, put some beer leftovers in our pockets, and hit the seething rocky shores of Brighton.

Mike and I rolled up our pant legs and waded in the ocean, letting the aftershocks of the waves lick our feet.  Greg and John watched from a distance.  A full moon shone, creating shadows in the night and exhilarating laughter.  After a wave knocked my balance off I joined Greg and John in the spectators section.  Mike continued on, creeping closer and closer into the ocean.  Soon his jeans were completely wet.  Followed by his shirt.  Then a huge wave came crashing down and knocked Mike onto the pebbly shore.

“Okay, Mike!  That was fun!  Let’s go then.”

He did this three more times, crouching so the waves could tackle him and spit him out in his own endzone.  When we were out of beer we got more and sat outside our cramped basement room and shared stories.  Like mods.  Or rockers.  Or bubbles.  Or squeaks.  Or bangers.  Or mashes.  Or jacket potatoes.  Or kippers.  Or mushy peas.  Or spotted dicks.  Or twiglets.  Or scrumpies.  Or pork scratchings.  Or hob nobs.  Or jellied eels.  Or faggots.  Or crumpets.  Or bickies.  Or HP sauces.  Or horlicks.  Or...