Lochlan Watt's Tour Diary: Part One

As of right now, I am shirtless, shoeless, and sweating profusely in the living room of the tiny house we stayed at in Depok, Java last night. We're in an area that appears to be some very tightly packed suburbs with streets so narrow that our van struggles to make it through the corners. I just paid way too much for a bottle of Pocari Sweat (essentially a Japanese version of Gatorade) off a local vendor selling out the front of his house, who gave me a quick look up and down before deciding what price I was to pay. I don't have the energy or cunning ability to barter, and have barely paid a cent for any food, beer, or cigarettes over the last few days, so I accepted my fate as a walking wallet Westerner and paid twice what a local would have.

Let's rewind and take it from the start.

On Sunday 11 November 2012, our band Nuclear Summer opened for Refused from Sweden at The Eaton's Hill Hotel, Albany Creek, and played to close to well over 1000 people in what was undeniably the most well-equipped, heavily staffed and fancy venue I've ever experienced. It was crazy. We played possibly the tightest and definitely the most lengthy set in our history of being a band so far, and Refused were certainly some next level shit that made me realise that no matter how far we have come, we still have a long way to go. Rather elated, we soon after returned home, showered, packed our bags, left all my clean socks and underpants in a plastic bag on the floor of our living room, and made our way to the Gold Coast airport for a three part flight to Melbourne, then to Singapore, where we got to experience the inside of the airport for three hours and Jackson the vegan ate some egg, and then finally to Jakarta.

Once through the extremely easy immigration process and outside the terminal, enveloped in the most intense humidity any of us had ever experienced, we were greeted by Anca, our tour promoter/manager and singer of the band we are touring with, The Shantoso. He was accompanied by an extensive entourage that appeared to be a bit of the 'who's who' of the Jakarta hardcore scene. He had driven 22 hours from his city of Sidoarjo, all the way over on the other side of Java, to meet us, because it was cheaper for us to rent our van from Sidoarjo, where we will be finishing the Indonesian leg of our tour. We were tonight however to have everything split between two cars, and had to ignore everything our post-WWII generation parents had told us about not trusting anyone over here, let go of our anxiety and trust in the locals that all our gear and bags would make it to the same spot that we were headed.

We soon learned that Indonesians don't really worry about indicating very often, scooter riders and motorcyclists take a lot of risks, and that driving over here is a dangerous activity.  First stop was food - when Anca said we were going to 7/11 for dinner I suspected he may be joking - we were passing massive stretches of street food that seemed far too enticing to go for a convenience store instead - but it turned out he was dead serious and it was to be an experience in itself. It was a popular spot for the local youth to hang out at, with an area out the front with many tables for drinking and smoking. We got stuck into the $2.50 AUD Bintang tallies, microwaved chicken teriyaki and rice bowls (another warning from elders ignored - don't eat the meat), and began making friends.

Priok, a suburb of North Jakarta, was our destination. It was only after experiencing more of Indonesia that I realised how truly rough the place was - I guess I assumed that it would all be like what we were seeing, with hectic traffic, graffiti on every wall, junk-filled truck yards stretching for miles, and motorcycle gangs hanging on every corner. Smog and pollution covered everything, and it was literally quite impossible to get a breath of fresh air. We were to stay for the next two nights at a literal mansion plonked right in the middle of this dirty mayhem - seemingly the only one in an area where shopfronts were constructed above blackened, rubbish-clogged cutters, by broken, mismatched sheets of all sorts of second-hand materials. Around 20-30 locals had converged on the house for our arrival, and soon the flow of beer and cigarettes continued.

The rest of my band decided to hit the hay - after all, they hadn't properly rested in nearly two full days. I on the other hand decided it was time to party. I quite clearly had become the center of attention/matey boy, and despite the very present language barrier between myself and almost everyone, I must admit I really enjoyed it. A guy who I soon began referring to as 'Big Boss' asked if I liked marijuana, to which my response in the affirmative received an uproarious acclaim, and we headed literally straight across the road to the venue, which was also owned by the same guy whose house we were in. With a banner across the stage reading 'STREET OF STRUGGLE', there wasn't much to it. It was a large, mostly gutted room that used to be a TV production studio, with a couple of concrete-carved windows, and some very slippery stairs. 'Big Boss' (I seriously struggle to remember anyone's names over here, and he is quite the big boss), opened up a hidden compartment under the stage and produced the ganja. A highly efficient production line began - cigarettes were emptied and refilled with god's herb - and large plastic bags of highly alcoholic, and black wine were poured into beer bottles. Everyone got spastic drunk and I soon featured in at least 50 crew photos. After a few tokes, Anca passed out on the floor. This was considered a normal occurrence. It was then that I decided we were kindred spirits.

The morning after brought with it a plague of mosquito bites, and after a few hours of broken sleep on the floor I could no longer take the heat and it was time to start again. A handful of the dudes escorted us down the road to the markets, where we got some snacks, fresh underwear and a massive eight-shot roman candle for the equivalent of $8.50 AUD. Once back at the house, the locals refused let us go anything less than completely stuffed, and produced satchel after satchel of local street takeaway. Endless rice, chilli, greens and tofu, and a tiny bit of chicken that Scott and I fearlessly devoured. We also received our first official clothing endorsement as a band through DMONS CLOTH - the owner got us all to chuck on his hardcore-inspired designs and we had some photos taken.

I needed some beer to sooth my tongue, not because I regularly dance with alcoholism, so I thought it would be a good idea to not tell anyone where I was going, and wander down the street and see what I could find. Local kids in hardcore merch were pointing at me, yelling out "Nuclear Summer! Nuclear Summer!", schoolgirls were giggling all over the place, and every passing motorist turtlenecked to the full extent to look me up and down. It became clear that Priok was not Bali and that tourists did not come here. Keeping careful count of my left and right turns, I eventually settled upon a convenience store over the sketchy local vendors and grabbed a couple of tallies. A few minutes into my return journey a couple of the dudes from the house pulled up on a scooter, their looks of panic replaced by relief and chastisement. "Never go lonely! Never go lonely!" was repeated over and over, and slightly confused by it all, I jumped on the back of the scooter and was escorted straight to the house. I would later learn from someone with passable English that the area is super dangerous and perhaps the most criminally rampant area of Indonesia. It turns out we were surrounded by drug dealers, prostitutes, pimps, contract killers, extortionists, and massive rings of organised crime, most of whom apparently have the police in their pockets.

I found Scott at an internet cafe next to the venue, where only two of the computers worked and you sat on the floor. It was to be the last solid internet any of us would experience for days. The owner provided me with rice crackers and chilli sauce, and I had my half an hour online.

The first show was insane. I would guess that there was somewhere between 200-300 kids in attendance, and as soon as the first power chord struck the mosh exploded. I immediately felt almost resentful of the Australian scene, where everyone is far too spoiled to get into most local bands, due to just how much fun everyone was having for every single song of every single performance. I tell myself that it's all relevant to our own experiences - it's no-one's fault that Australia has it so easy and so many options when it comes to live music. Kids would score kicks to each others heads, get back up again and high five each other. Within 10 minutes this little dude smacked the ground hard and his limp body was dragged out of the venue. Old school hardcore was the clear theme of the scene here, and the friendly violence and concussions continued throughout the next ten or so bands. I even had a mosh, much to the amazement of the locals. To my delight single death metal band played shortly before us, and I got my hair out and chucked a windmill over a pile of convulsing kids throwing up the horns. Everyone in Nuclear Summer spent the majority of the night being mobbed for photos with the locals, and even kids who didn't end up sticking it out until our set at the end of the show needed evidence that they had met us. Playing this show was a surreal and humbling experience, and for the first time ever, we opened up the pit and had ninjas going crazy for our songs. I was even lifted into the air and carried around multiple times. I spied at least half a dozen dudes that knew some of the words, and our host requested that we play his favorite song of ours, 'The Warrior Poet', a song we had ditched from the set over six months ago, and we still managed to pull it off despite being drenched in more sweat than I thought would ever be possible.

Once more the rest of the band hit the sack shortly after and I remained steadfast in my will to party and experience. This also meant that they missed out on the roman candle, which we set up in junkyard down the road and launched into the skies. Much like the night before, the alcohol and weed flowed freely, Twitter and Facebook accounts were exchanged, and after feasting upon some chilli tofu and noodles that were handed to me wrapped up in a palm frond, I fell asleep hard. This also feels like a good point in the story to add in the fact that some of the locals had decided that my name was Skrillex, thanks to our similar haircuts, and that Brendan was Tom Delonge.

We spent most of the next day hanging out in the mansion again, and slowly the house filled with familiar faces returning to continue our hangs and stuff us with food and drink. One girl, who was quite the cutie, and plays bass in a local death metal band, had even gotten some of the photos from the night prior developed and copied so we could all take some with us. Our host also told us it was his "dream come true" to bring an Australian band to play his venue and stay at his house - Nuclear Summer is definitely the first Western band to have ever played the venue, and according to our hosts, the first Western band to ever play in Priok, North Jakarta. We all signed the wall of his living room in permanent marker and a bunch of shirts, before getting a crew shot and leaving.

We said our farewells and jumped into the van, which we were sharing with The Shantoso, a few of their friends, and a couple of drivers who definitely aren't hardcore dudes and we still can't work out their connection to everything - Anca is the only one who can speak limited English. They spent a lot of time throughout the day laughing at us white guys, and we decided that they were to be called Cheech and Chong, or Uda and Julian. After fruitlessly exploring central Jakarta in search of a place that could fix Scott's broken bass peg, we began the long, slow journey to Bogor. The van has no seatbelts for anyone but the driver, but it does have a TV, and we were treated to the Agnostic Front live DVD and a rather awkward VCD of traditional Indonesian song and dance for the duration of our traffic mayhem.

Upon pulling up at the show I spotted dozens of dudes sporting Nasum, Napalm Death, Crossed Out, Drop Dead and Cannibal Corpse merchandise. I was immediately psyched and Anca told me that tonight was to be a mostly grindcore/crust show. Good news! It was a smaller town, where the show was to take place in a tiny practice room right next to a noodle bar, and the locals made sure we had all the coffee, food, water, wine, beer and cigarettes we needed. We met some guys called Yoga, Chi, and Eric, who had all hung out and played with IDYLLS on their visit back in July. They all had decent English and we bonded very quickly.

It was tonight that we ran into our first spots (yes, multiple) of trouble with the law. I emerged from having taken my first dump in a hole in the ground out the back of the noodle bar to find an army Senior Sargeant (I know how to read military rank - I guess my Dad forcing me to join the cadet band as a youngster occasionally has some benefits) saying his farewells. As it turns out he had spotted Jackson amongst the sea of locals and wanted to know what the go was. He was asking him for his permits and all these other things that he didn't have and was very suspicious of us. The locals took over and told him that we were all University students here for a holiday and to jam some music together, not to play shows or make any money. Despite the fact that the show tonight was free, the Sargeant was looking for a payoff, but our new friends handled it with precision, sent him on his way, and then informed us of the backstories we were to tell if it ever happened again.

Being the stupid white tourist that I am, I soon went for a wander up the road. Tonight was the Muslim New Year, and the streets were filled with Burqas, marching bands and fireworks. It was too enticing to not want to check out. Bintang tallie in hand, I marched forward into the unknown. I soon came across a police officer who spotted me and lost his shit. Despite the fact that it is not illegal to drink on the street here, he was very upset with the fact, confiscated my 3/4 full beer and escorted me to a table at a convenience store where he demanded that I open my bag. I was absolutely, positively quivering with fear. Just two nights ago Big Boss had given me a small satchel of grass, and all of a sudden I could not remember where I had stashed it. Thoughts of Schapelle Corby and prison rape filled me with terror.

He investigated everything I had - which in my daypack was mostly just toiletries. "You have heroin?" he asked me. "No drugs" I responded, which obviously wasn't even true, as he sniffed at my panadol, demanded an explanation for a slightly embarrassing (but not heinous) prescription medicine, and sampled my vitamin C tablets. Though it was not my intention to be a creepy sex tourist, I had purchased some condoms at the airport in Melbourne as a precautionary measure. He produced my unopened eight pack of 'Zero LRGR uber-thin condoms' and asked "Cigarettes?" The word condom seemed to confuse him and I said "for protection - maybe I get lucky", motioning towards my groin. While his friend dressed in traditional Muslim gear had a chuckle, the officer didn't think this was funny at all - in fact he seemed offended - and the slight smirk was soon gone from my face.

Knees shaking, I apologised profusely for drinking, re-packed my bag and turned around to find half a dozen locals from the show panicked and searching for me. "Never go lonely!" Lesson finally learned. I also made a mental note to smoke the weed stuffed in my main bag as soon as possible and never carry any for the rest of my time here ever again.
Yoga and co asked if I wanted to smoke up with them in their car. Of course I needed something to sooth my nerves and replace the beer I'd lost, so why not? If you're reading this Mum, I'm not sorry. For everyone else, I want to let you know that I'm the only person in our band dumb enough to dabble in drugs over here, and that we are in fact not a pack of fiends.

We got into the car, I was handed a joint and the mind blowing conversations continued. It is truly bizarre to come to a place like this and meet people that know so many of your friends from Australia - who would have thought some dudes in Bogor would know what Vengaben means? IDYLLS and Night Hag touring here earlier in the year has had a serious impact - I've spotted a bunch of their shirts and patches around the place already. It was here that I had the first of many conversations on this night about my record label MONOLITH. Obviously Night Hag and IDYLLS laid the ground work for getting our name out here, but to come to a country where I've never once sent a single item of mail order to find many people who know all about our roster of bands is absolutely wild. Chi told me something along the lines of "most record labels stick to one style - Monolith bands do not - but every band is experimental and very good - metal, hardcore, punk, any style. You do this on purpose?" I tell him that it's just a natural extension of my own musical interests and he thinks I am "very cool". I've been feeling completely disillusioned with running a label as of late - to the point of considering even throwing the towel in - but to know you are putting out music that is reaching people in a country like this has reignited a fire in my belly to keep it up. Free downloads forever. It is experiences like this that are infinitely more important than any kind of monetary stability.

The show itself is in a tiny jam room that's smaller than any place we've ever played before. After watching a local crust band tear it up and having a little mosh again, we're all playing through combo amps, and I ditch the keyboards completely. We play only five songs before we're absolutely drenched and exhausted. Once again the level of enthusiasm is unlike anything we have experienced anywhere else.

I'm then forced into a t-shirt and merch trade with a local guy who looks like an Asian version of Dave Gibson (Night Hag, Space Bong). We get lots of photos, trade CDs and shirts, and then I swap him the Nuclear Summer album for a live video of his band via Bluetooth on our phones. We're sitting on a broken chair outside a venue that kept losing power, and technology still prevails.

With the rest of the band jumping back in the van, I was overcome by the urge to keep talking metal and I take the spare seat in Yoga's car and we head off to where we were to stay in Depok. For the hour or so long drive I show them all sorts of Australian heaviness - the latest releases from Thy Art Is Murder, King Parrot, and Ghost Town all get very positive responses. Rice wine flows and weed flows freely, even through the driver's lips while driving, and after passing massive traditional markets, depressing slums, 10 year-olds in scooter gangs and street walking ladyboys, we arrive.

The rest of Nuclear Summer once again make their beds and hit the hay while I stay up and push lucidity to its limits. Yoga says that I am "adventurer of the band", and I am encouraged to eat more food than I comfortably should have. Eric, who we have decided is the Asian equivalent of James Balderston (SexWizard, A Secret Death), and is massively drunk, spent a good half an hour telling me why I am wrong and that the DC Universe is better than the Marvel Universe, before I finally make it to bed at around 6am. We have since spent the whole day chilling at this humble little house, were delivered our new t-shirts, filled with feeds, and fixed Brendan's broken distortion pedal with a soldering iron. We've also been informed that our show in two days time has been cancelled due to the police requesting a payoff of $5000 AUD equivalent in order for it to go ahead, so after tonight's gig we now have two days off. No big loss - more sights to see. Post-hardcore over here is more commonly known as "emo-violence" and I'm told that tonight's show is "many band like Nuclear Summer". Three different style shows in three nights - it seems every town has its significantly more prominent sub-genre of hardcore to the next.

Time to go defecate in a hole, wipe my arse with my bare hand, and manually shower myself in cold water. Until next time!