I guess there must be times when decidedly un-street and decadent luxuries seem appealing, though?
Tell me about it. Some amusing things happen when you stay with those on the “crusty” side of things who think it’s cool to be as filthy and stinking as possible. We’ve lost count of the number of times we’ve gone to stay at squats after gigs and encountered what look likes a post-nuclear nightmare with black rag-clad figures huddled around fires in various states of intoxication while wild dogs roam around piles of rubble on the wasteland where the squatted building is situated.
One time I was up on the roof of this squat doing an interview when the cops steamed in and started battering folk. We just pulled up the ladder after us and stayed on the roof till the coast was clear again, but by that time I’d lost all my bandmates and was stuck for a place to stay. Luckily this girl I met said I could stay at her squat down the road as one of her mates was away. “Nice one,” I thought, especially as there was the unexpected comfort of a mattress. I got into bed and began to luxuriate, until suddenly I started to feel as if there were hordes of tiny insects crawling all over my body.
“NO,” I thought, “this can’t be happening. I must be imagining it.” But sure enough, a couple of seconds later it dawned on me that it was
fucking happening and after I leapt out of bed screaming I put on the light and the sheets were literally seething with an undulating carpet of fleas and lice. Fucking horrendous.
Then you have your ten-a-penny stories about dogshit littered floors – we went through one guy’s LPs and there was dogshit on the record sleeves! – and pissed up wankers throwing darts at sleeping peoples’ heads.
How about abroad? It always seems like the punk and squat scenes are more together and better organised over there.
That’s what we thought too until we toured there. We played in this Polish squat last year and when we asked this guy where the toilet was he just looked at us as if we were dumb and said “Toilet is… everywhere.” As our eyes acclimatised to the candelight, we made out crusty figures squatting in darkened corners like a scene from Macbeth; rivers of diarrhoea flowing into the already faecal-caked floor.
The worst had to be Cologne, though. When we arrived to play this squat this guy offered to give us a guided tour and started by saying: “There are three kinds of people who stay here: there are the political people and they are okay, there are the punks and they are okay… and then there are the people with body lice.” He then took us into this cavernous basement that was just full of piles of rotting clothes and blankets, interspersed with buckets of something black and foul-smelling. “Don’t go too close,” he cautioned, “this is where the people with body lice sleep.”
Turned out the piles of stuff were the nests where they bedded down and the buckets were full of putrefying shit and piss and were black because they were coated with a layer of floating dead flies – you had to see it to believe it. The after-party with these characters was something else, too – like a Hieronymous Bosch painting! Fearful of what further horrors lay in wait, we spent the night cowering inside our locked tour van in the midst of some subterranean parking lot while “the people with body lice” drank, danced and copulated outside all night long. [...]
Any more disgusting shit you want to get off your chest?
Once we stayed with this couple who were putting us on in Wales. Their relationship was on the rocks, and the morning after the show he demanded that we go to the pub with him and his six-month-old baby he’d been left in charge of. He’d drunk a two-litre bottle of cider for breakfast so was already out of it by the time we got to the boozer. He had a couple more pints, was swaying in his seat and burping and we were getting more and more worried about his ability to look after this tiny baby he had in his arms when suddenly he just went “Fuck – BLEEUUUUURGH” and puked up all over it – the fucking baby was covered in vomit. It was one of the worst things I have seen.
Quelle: 30 YEARS OF FAECES, FLEAS AND PUNK « VICE MUSIC BLOG