Day 2 Dbs Utrecht Holland
I wake up
last. I never wake up last. Breakfast is downstairs, typical good quality
rolls, cold cuts and cheese. This can
often be a shock to Americans to find breakfast is always a trip to the deli
counter. Leo´s new friend Humphrey is at
the table, and we talk about his friends in Ft Wayne that do a Harley import
business into Europe. Humphrey is in a motorcycle club and tells us
there are 11 in the relative village
alone. These range from a Christian club
we later see by the harbour to Hells Angels and Banditos, who are currently
engaged in a brutal war. I don´´t know if
Humphrey is in a “let´s go for a Sunday ride” club or “let´s kill the Thai
whores who stole our meth” club. I would
guess more to the former than the latter as he is a nice guy. Still, it seems like he can handle himself.
experiencing what she believes are her “darkest hours”. She is freezing cold sitting in a bottom
bunk. Her computer will not connect to
the internet. Her phone card will not
work. She cannot open her very poorly
planned shampoo containers from home.
Her credit card will not work.
Her ATM card won´t give her any money.
She can´t come up with a system for the bleak shower. She is one day in and just now coming to
terms with her new reality. I leave her
to her personal hell.
We load out
and then Humphrey guides us to the North Sea. How do you not look at the North
Sea when you are in the neighbourhood? We drive by a series of warships from the 50s
and 60s docked at a maritime museum. The
road ends at a small park by the sea. It
is windy and really fucking cold. I walk
down to the water and place my hand in the sea.
It is as cold as you imagine it would be. Leo and Humphrey light up what Humphrey
refers to as “herbal entertainment”. Of
course Leo has found his kind of people.
It is cold. We leave.
We stop at
a Shell station in Holland. I have to launch “Operation Mad Ape”, which
is code for what is sure to be a very brutal bowel movement. I have obvious trepidation about launching
such a mission in a gas station. I pay
my .50 € and enter what might have been the finest public restroom facility on
the continent. A private completely
enclosed room with absolutely spotless tile and contemporary fixtures. Hell, even “Ebony and Ivory” is wafting down
from high quality speakers. This is
nicer than your bathroom at home. It is
nicer than your friend´s bathrooms. The
Ritz would even say, “That´s a nice bathroom”.
It is a great success.
It is time
to go on record and say that one of the greatest crisis in America is the
deplorable conditions of our public toilets.
I have no idea of what people are doing in there. How many times have you walked into a public
toilet and found a House of Horrors that looked like a crime scene? Most of the time, right? What is it that has gone wrong with the
people that came before you? Is it a
question of technique? Lack of training? Passive aggressive marking tendencies? Are most Americans little better than
barnyard animals? I have no idea what
the answer is, but we need to embrace this European model immediately. I will pay 50 cents all day long to have a
decent toilet experience.
most gas station stops, Leo searches out and finds the least appealing foods to
me possible. In Holland
they love to deep fry about as much as an Alabama share cropper family. This gas station has an automat with five (5)
different types of deep friend rectangles.
There is no telling what is inside.
Buyer beware. Leo buys a spicy
deep fried shish-ka-bob and washes it down with coffee with caramel chunks
floating in it. A gastrointestinal
crisis is imminent for this man…
at the venue. Dbs is quite a
complex. A large building owned by the
railway company, it has been converted into multiple band practice spaces, a
recording studio, a café, and a venue.
The venue itself is a big box with steel floors. We soundcheck and are as loud as Black
Sabbath and the Melvins playing at the same time. Gary´s father-in-law appears without warning,
and those two head off for dinner. The
rest of us attempt to find our accommodations, a B&B buried in the pitch
black Dutch countryside.
When we get
back to the club we eat a traditional Dutch meal of Chinese takeout. The people that work in the venue are all
very thoughtful and friendly. I like the
Dutch people. They are super relaxed and
have fashioned a permissive society that supports the arts. Each band flier up in the café is well done
with an eye for detail and composition.
They are printed on good quality paper and hung in an organized
fashion. These folks have their act
when I have been in Holland
I get stuck drinking Amstel. Dbs is
stocked with good local beers. They have
two on tap. Maximus, which is a hop
heavy IPA and La Chouffe, a blonde ale are the options. The La Chouffe has a cute little gnome on
it. In my experience anytime you see an
alcohol with a cute little character on it you can guarantee it will crush your
skull. Remember this rule. The cuter the mascot, the more of a
motherfucker the drink inside. If you
drink three beers with a friendly gnome on it, you can be assured of waking up
with a Turkish wife and a fresh tattoo of flames on your penis. Can you even imagine what direction your life
would go if you drank a beer with a baby fawn or a smiling bunny on it?
with the Maximus for one, and then switch to the Hertog Jan, a reasonably good
lager. It should be noted that the club
supplied a never ending case of Dommelsch pilsner, which is awful. I opened one and left it behind. Every single guy I talked to from the
excellent opening bands Buckshot and Slapback Johnny warned me that the
Dommelsch would provide you with a horrible headache. Interesting enough, the beer has been
produced since 1744, creating headaches for almost 300 years. Ah, rich European tradition!
reasonably well, though it is annoying that everything we did on our lengthy
soundcheck was thrown out the window the second we started. My vocals shift in the monitor from being
awash in delay to completely dry. They
are loud and then totally gone. The
people are packed in like sardines. The
ones up front even move around. It´s a
we go to the main bar where a DJ has been playing a killer mix of 50s R&B,
rockabilly, and garage rock. Pretty
little girls in ponytails and vintage skirts dance peppily while the boys look
on. A bartender with a fire tattoo on
his forehead gets me a beer. Sugar
kisses an album leaving a lipstick signature.
I am goaded to do the same. I
don´t have much experience with lipstick application so I smear it
everywhere. Afterwards I forget I have
it on and it has created a sick clown mouth.
I wondered why every woman has been giving me the “creep” look glare
from across the room. When I discover it
on my face in the men´s room, even I am shocked by my horrifying
We pack up
to leave. It has snowed since we came
into the club. We head back to the
farmhouse to sleep. It is 3 a.m. and we
have to be on the road by 10 a.m. for the first of two shows tomorrow.