The Decline Tour Diary: Part Three

I'm in a stranger's apartment located upstairs at a Mitsubishi car dealership in Herenthout, Belgium, surrounded by ten days worth of dirty underwear, socks, pants and shirts. What's worse… the dirty underwear and socks on this hospitable person's kitchen table belong to us. It's well past midnight and after playing 10 shows in nine days, we're exhausted. But we're going to be awake until the sun is up doing washing, so I've got plenty of time to run you through the past few days.

We woke up this morning at a club in Wermelskirchen, Germany called AJZ Bahndamm, which hosted the likes of Green Day, The Offspring, Millencolin and more on their rise to fame. It was cool to play the same stage they once did and sleep in the same beds.

Upon arrival to the venue last night, we were greeted with a vegetarian feast and fridge full of beers. Harry repaid the kind venue staff by blocking the toilet the next day and leaving it for them to clear whilst we ate breakfast. Nothing says rise and shine more than the distant echo of two Germans gagging and strategising. To be fair, Harry did offer to deal with it.

We also woke up to a Facebook message from Renaud Smets, a Belgium fan, advising us that he went out and got our name tattooed on his leg after seeing us in Antwerp last week. What a legend!

Renaud Smets, you bloody legend!

After a freezing cold shower this morning – my hands and legs went numb and I got brain freeze on the outside of my head – I filtered through my dirty shirts to find the best of a bad bunch while half of our touring crew resorted to wearing our own band merch, odd socks and dirty underwear.

It's been a huge couple of days since my last update from the drug-fueled lair we stayed in in Frankfurt. If you read my pervious tour diary, you'll know I was typing it surrounded by a random Berlin rock band whilst they sniffed and smoked themselves stupid. Well, if I had accepted their offers, or indulged in Amsterdam, I would have had some problems the next day.

The plan on Thursday was to get up at 8am and leave Frankfurt for Innsbruck, Austria by 9am. It was a five-hour drive, which usually takes us at least seven. But when Harry stumbled in at 5am barely able to stand up, we knew that was unlikely to happen.

Eyes on the road guys!

Usually Harry's the one hustling us and making sure we're all on time. Surely one of us could have taken control, but we waited until he got up at 11 before we even considered packing the car. With Harry out of action and no one to hustle us, we didn't quite know what to do.

So by the time we got everything packed up and in the car our GPS said our arrival time would be 8pm – three hours later than we were supposed to be there. And without a phone or anyway of contacting the venue, things weren't looking good.

We planned a quick fuel and food break and scheduled to do it all in a 15-minute stop. Harry insisted on driving – despite probably still being drunk – and 10 minutes into the drive he was leaning out the window hurling his guts out. Luckily I was behind the wheel.

We pulled into a truck stop and a cop approached the van. Already running five hours late, he demanded to search the car and each person. He took his sweet arse time and then he went back to his car and we thought it was over.

Better go give my urine sample then...

He came back and said the driver, I, needed to take a drug test. So what, I just need to give some saliva? Nope, he wanted a urine sample. The rest of the guys went in to the food joint and I was escorted to the scrappy public restroom at the petrol station. If you want to bypass the entry fee at European truck stop toilets, just look like a guy who's got something to hide.

The cop saw our tour laminate and noticed we'd been in Netherlands a few days prior. So he had the singer of a touring punk rock band who's just been to Amsterdam taking a drug test. He was probably thinking he'd hit the jackpot.

Jokes on him, I'm actually a pretty boring dude. A pretty boring dude who would like that hour of my life back. He said that he didn't pull us over because we looked like a band, rather the French license plates.

Our new mate...

We got to the venue at 9.30pm, and the support band had been sent home because they hadn't bought their own backline and were arseholes to the promoter. When we hit the stage the room was pretty packed, but no one really knew who we were. People in Europe tend to go watch random bands for no other reason than they love live music and partying.

The next day we drove back to Germany. If you get a map and draw out our tour path, it'd look like a toddler had scribbled all over it. We keep driving back and forth. We arrived at the iconic AJZ Bahndamm late (9pm), and like I said, were welcomed by a vegetarian feast.

The next day (which brings us to this morning), after the toilet had been fixed, we headed back to Belgium via Netherlands for two shows. We were the opening act at a festival in Herenthout called Clammotterock.

Although we were only one act amongst a slew of others – most well known bands in Europe - we were wined and dinned. We even had our own backstage tent. We nagged the festival manager for some extra food and he gave us some, saying, “If I come to Australia, I'm staying at your houses.”

Within an hour we had set up, played, polished off a bottle of Jameson's, loaded the gear back in the car and were heading for our next show in Mol, which was 30 minutes up the road. In the made rush to get our gear offstage at the festival I managed to get a splinter under my fingernail. Fun!

We got to the second venue, loaded in and were onstage within 30 minutes. Then it was back in the car and to the festival where dinner was waiting – like I said, if you could see a map of our tour path, it'd be a mess. Even though we were openers at Clammotterock Festival, they made us feel like the most important band on the bill.

Being treated like Kings backstage.

What more could you ask for than food, drinks, a decent retainer and a place to sleep? The festival staff were too nice. In fact, one literally gave me the shirt off his back. The staff member showing us around was wearing a festival shirt and I asked if there was any more I could buy. Despite our greatest effort, he took his shirt off and gave it to me.

So now, after consuming what can only be described as a deadly amount of Red Bull, I'm sitting in this kitchen, surrounded by the stench of 10 days worth of dirty washing. 10 shows in 9 days - that's the longest run we've ever done, and it feels rewarding. I'm going to have my first hot shower in days, get into some clean clothes and pass out until our next run of shows in a few days.

Written by Daniel Cribb.