It doesn't seem really real, going to Moscow. I know I was there, I have photos to prove it as well as a CCCP Zippo, but the whole trip feels like it happened to somebody else with their memories filtered through me. It may have been the furious week of work that preceeded it, or the immediate return to reality that followed it, or even the fact that we were there for only two nights...
Moscow was great. The city fulfilled pretty much every expectation I had, and kinda upheld most of my preconceptions too. It had a bleak appeal, charming but outdated and stunning yet depressing. There was an amount of old dusted over everything that reminded you, paradoxically, that the country had not yet reached a quarter of a century. Many Eastern European cliches were abound - the Ladas, the industrial weather, the stern expressions - but the city had true character, and a sense of achievement and satisfaction about it.
Max, our permanently wasted, emotionally broody, sexually satisfied promoter was a great host, and the gig was terrific - despite the fact that I hadn't played with 65days for 4 months, and it showed. I did have the great pleasure of telling two Jack Daniels girls - all leggy and in cowboy hats - to fuck off as they were in my way, which was extremely satisfying.
After the gig, though, was one of the more surreal moments of my life. We hopped into three street taxis - unwarrantied Ladas driven by men with moustaches - and were spirited away to an industrial estate somewhere near the set for Hostel. About 2am we were standing in a deserted street watching the packs of wild dogs and waiting for the third taxi containing Max to arrive. Moments later we were led through a steel gate, up some concrete stairs and down a Twin Peaks Black Lodge corridor into a wasteland room with a bar, neon lights and more passed out Russians than conscious ones. A few industrial strength vodkas and bubblegum pop tunes later and we left... as we stumbled through the hallway a group of Russians yelled "bollocks" and Spider wrote "Release the Kracken" on the wall... outside John rode a small tricycle and Joe found a 1970's Cuban hat... the doors on the taxi would only open one side and the gin in the hotel bar tasted like Tequila... we fell asleep at dawn and when we woke it was snowing.
There's a legitimacy to being nonchalant when you're in a country for a purpose other than a holiday. Seeing the sites, staying up all night and being social are not the point of the trip - so you can afford to be dismissive and not feel obliged to do whatever you're meant to do. Paul remarked to me that he found it hilarious that we could all be in Red Square, could stand outside St Basils cathederal and then casually decide to go for a coffee... travelling with a band have made us all a little blase about visiting countries, the enormity of the locations you find yourself has diminished and even the thought of "how the hell did I end up here" begins to fade.
In saying that, Moscow is the first country I've visted with them this year. So far they have managed Ireland, the US, Japan, Germany, Holland and Belgium. Quite how they're coping I have no idea.
They asked if I wanted to come along next week and sell t-shirts for a week in Europe. Very few things seem more appealing than touring Europe for a week with a rock band right now, but there's visuals to be made, work to be attended and money to be earned.
And how are you?
More photos from Moscow at Day of the Dave.
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