Pull up to huge graffitied warehouse and load in. Story goes - a while back the a slaughterhouse closed down and was squatted. Shows were thrown in two different rooms - one small and one completely massive (you could still see the chains hanging from the ceiling of the killing floor - metal). This large room was soon forced to shut down by the city due to potential roof collapse (glass, steal, and chain falling from ceiling during show? So metal). Instead of shutting the place down and leaving the kids without music, arts, culture, etc - the city put up something like fifteen million euros to build a new venue next door and referbish a nearby old ass beautiful water tower to have shows. If this sounds funny to anyone who has ever participated in DIY shows in the US - it's because it's absolutely fucking insane. Way to go Europe. Hats off and go fuck yourself.
To get more into the details of this impossible teenage punk rock fantasy, the back was the bidding of some sort of preemptive genie. Everything you could desire from being a smelly broke tired band was neatly arranged throughout several rooms. Here is everything you could ever want in no particular order - Hearty rolls with cheese and fake meat, bunks with clean sheets, hot showers with soap and towels, toilets with doors, locks, and toilet seats (if this sounds weird, frequent European dive bars), cooler full of juice, beers, soda, and club mate, fucking laundry!!, coffee machine with coffee already made, curry dinner, working WiFi, a large bottle of vodka, and plenty of comfy places to sit. After a few hours of blissful self indulgence and a running piggy back pavement dive with the hilarious and crude German Melanie we played.
The show was good. But the aftermath was better. Someone said some of my two favorite words "Taylor Swift" and shitty pop sing alongs radiated from my phone. Someone found the eighth inch jack and the awful pop snowballed into Kanye, Beyonce, and Jay-z orchestrating our best white kid dance steps. The doors were locked and we were left with the bands, bartenders, and friends as the pop turned to hip-hop and the arm roof raising turned into attempted break dancing. Apparently a few of us knew some half assed moves and we turned the show into one of those sick 90's movies where the break dance team starts from the bottom training at some run down graffitied warehouse with sparatic trash fires and barbed wire. Minus the fires and wire.
Fast forward. I wake up bruised and unable to walk. Apparently one of my seemingly brilliant dance moves left with with a busted ankle. I limp back to find our once imaculate room to be covered in empty bottles, spilt booze, hearty bread rolls, and broken glass. We spend a few minutes piecing the night together, pack up, load, give our apologies, and get out.
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