Jan
Posted on 30th January 2011
Today I write to you from a Travelodge (the UK equivalent of a Super 8 or somewhere equally classy, minus the urine scent usually) somewhere near Leeds. Last night, we played a show in York or Old York as it seems like it is sometimes called so as not to be confused with New York, a town in the next continent over where I keep most of my stuff. York is a delightful town full of cobblestone streets and general storybook adorableness while also seeming like the kind of place you might become the victim of an old-timey style murder while walking down an alleyway drunk and singing an old sailor song. As we pulled into town, one of the guys in the band remarked how awesome this place must be at Christmas and I couldn’t help but think “You know what? He’s right- it does seem like it would be pretty awesome.” I’m still not entirely sure what wassailing is but York seems like a totally good place to do it.
Our show last night was fun though lacking in the overall rock mayhem present the two previous nights. I tend to blame my outfit. In a fit of laziness, I opted to just wear my suit jacket with the jeans I already had on instead of breaking out the suit pants and giving the people of York a look worthy of a Saturday night. Don’t get me wrong- I still looked incredible, but it was more of a ground rule double than a home run generally speaking. Apologies to the people of York.
After the show, Fibbers, the club we played at, transformed into a disco, as seems to happen after every show we’ve played in the UK so far. This one had a fog machine though, so it was more of a next level experience. When in doubt, add fog, I always say. It pretty much works every time. Even so, the disco proved to be pretty much a sausage party as discos go, so we decided to head out early. On the way out of the club, we noticed a girl who had puked all over herself and her high heels sitting at a bus stop. Everything was supposed to be perfect, but now everything is ruined and she is never drinking again or talking to Danny anymore either for that matter so everyone just shut up and leave her alone.
Backing things up a bit, on Friday night, we played at Cabaret Voltaire in Edinburgh. I was excited to go back there after spending the entire month of August in Edinburgh for the Fringe Fest. It’s my town, sort of. Due to a super long yet lovely drive from Cardiff that day, we showed up at the club about an hour or so before showtime. Even so, we managed to pull together some pretty incredible outfits and play one of the funnest shows of the tour so far despite having to cut the set short so they could have a disco at that place too. Have a disco- why not? People really seem to love it.
After the show, we headed next door with some friends and drank stuff until they turned the lights up really bright (to give everyone a better sense of who or what they’ve been talking to all night) and made everyone leave. Then I got a giant styrofoam container of fish and chips because it seemed like a really good idea at the time since I was in Scotland and everything and it seemed weird not to. I am a champion.
As mentioned previously, on Thursday, we rocked Cardiff, Wales at a place called Clwb Ifor Bach, a Welsh-named rock club where we had to carry our rock equipment up three flights of stairs in order to commence rocking. Most of the signs in the club, and Cardiff in general it seems, tend to have both English and Welsh translations on them, which was exciting for me, a guy from Cleveland who had never seen that sort of thing before. As best I can tell, the Welsh hate vowels, as evidenced by the photo above. Aside from their disdain for vowels, however, the people of Cardiff were delightful and the show was super fun. A couple Twitter friends even brought me delicious snacks since I totally wrote on Twitter how I wanted people to bring me delicious snacks. Ask and you shall receive- it’s right there in the bible (I think).
After rocking Cardiff, we carried our equipment back down the forty flights of stairs, threw it in the van, and then headed off into the night. Arthur and I went to a pub, because that’s the kind of guys we are, and the other fellas headed to a disco in an attempt to blend in with the locals. One thing we all realized that night is that the young people of Cardiff, the women especially, seem to really hate clothes. It was freezing out and nobody wore jackets. Some were barely even wearing pants. We admired their joie de vivre, especially the ladies’ even though we felt like those drooling wolves from cartoons as we stared at them for slightly too long. I’m realizing just now that that last sentence sounds a bit creepy. The fact that I’m not wearing pants as I type this only makes things worse.
Today we head to Exeter to rock those people. They’ve got it coming.
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