Laptop Punk

You know, when Michael Jackson got busted for lip-synching on stage, he was in huge trouble and almost had to cancel half of his European tour. When Ashlee Simpson lip-synched on Saturday Night Live, she was endlessly attacked in the media and in the general public for being a no-talent hack.

I can therefore not understand how it is that groups of young men are allowed to form bands that do essentially the same thing. Our opening acts last night were unbelievable: not only was the style of music a kind of Sum-41 ripoff emo-core whatever, each of their songs began when a dude pressed a button on his laptop and the pre-recorded drums, vocals and bass kicked in. We caught both acts missing notes/vocals, and somehow the vocals and notes came through the speakers anyway. At one point, a drummer stood up and began to clap his hands along to a song, and the sound of a full drum kit came crashing out of the speakers.

This is, apparently, a very big thing with the kids today. It's "progressive" to not actually play your instruments and to sing about relationships. Nothing I could possibly say could convey my hatred for this idea.

Also, we want to send a huge big-up to Les Cowboys Fringants, a quebecois folkpunk band who actually sing in French. That's how it should be. If I were a Quebecker proud of my heritage, I'd be very alarmed to see a bunch of kids get on stage, introduce their songs in French ("Cette chanson et...") and then break immediately into whiny american-style vocals ("You said you loooooveeed meeeee....") because they want to get on English radio. Tabernac.


However, May 29th was not totally a bust, because earlier in the day we played a... get this... a high school. Seriously. Seamus's "not within 400 meters of a high school" probation period had just run out, so we managed to do 45 minutes of folk-punk for a cafeteria full of 1000 gaping 12-18 year-olds. Our lives are spectacularly weird.

More to come! Much to say about Chicoutimi, the greatest city in the entire world and Fred Simard, the greatest promoter in the entire world....

Our Last Few Days

Variously, these are pics of Cider Bear, us at the bar two nights ago, and Squid smoking a cigarette through Druzil's nose. Enjoy.

Saskatchewan

This is what driving through Saskatchewan is like.

"Days Off"

It is very stupid to spend most of your days off drinking. Yet, yesterday's 11-hour drive from Sault Ste Marie to Ottawa was a boozy one. As the poor Stupid Swede drove, the rest of us played a game called "LCBO". This game involves stopping at every LCBO (Ontario Liquor Store) you see to buy another drink. Before long, we were all red-faced, screaming and shouting, and demanding that the Stupid Swede turn up the polka music.

When we arrived at the place we were staying, he compensated by joining the Century Club and spending the rest of the night trying to get some girl to take her shirt off on Skype. We were so drunk that at one point we thought it would be a good idea to put on a certain film that was lying around. A film called (not making this up) "My Granny's a Tranny".

Heavy drinking. It is, as one of my students once wrote, "not good way".

Offical Dreadnought Drinks

Bols Deep in Cider: 20 oz Strongbow, 1 oz. "Bols" vodka.

The Shane MacGowan: 20 oz Guinness, 1 oz. Gin.

Cider Bomb: 20 oz Strongbow, 1 oz. Rye dropped vigorously into glass. Result: explosion.

Pils'n'Er: 1 oz sambuca, 1 oz. tequila, 1 multivitamin (powdered), 1 capsule of fish oil (forms layer on top).

The Dirty Cider: 20 oz. Cider, 4 oz. dirt.


Stay tuned for our new video series, "Will They Drink It?", where Seamus will attempt to drink the first Pils n' Er ever made!

Epic Punt

Sakagina

I was against eugenics and forced sterilization until yesterday.

I won't tell you the name of our promoter for our Regina show. We pulled into the Distrikt Club and quickly discovered that he was, is, and will forever remain an absolute monkey-fucking retard. The show was scheduled to start at 10 PM. We arrived at 8:07, where we learned from Druzil's family that he had cancelled the show. Why? Because he, quote, “hadn't heard from us”.

For those of you not familiar with the music business, here is how a standard gig is booked: Agent calls promoter. Agent asks for show. Promoter books show and negotiates payment/accommodation details with Agent. When terms are agreed upon, contracts are mutually signed and faxed. Contracts contain all requirements for both parties. Band shows up in time to sound-check. Band plays show. Band gets paid by promoter. Band leaves. Band drinks twenty-eight cider bombs and spends the rest of the night doing unspeakable things to their teddy bear with a fork.

At no point in any of this chain of events is it within the promoter's rights to cancel the show because the band hasn't called him to see how he's doing, to see if he needs anything, or to exchange fucking brownie recipes or whatever the fuck it was we were supposed to do on the phone with this colossal ball of fuck.

I repeat: I was against eugenics and forced sterilization until yesterday. It's easy to hold such abstract moral positions until you discover people who literally should not exist.

We stood outside the venue frantically calling everyone we could. Tensions mounted as people began to arrive for the show to find only a very large bass player screaming and throwing rocks at a very closed venue, screaming insults in what appeared to be some dialect of Ogrish.

I've learned over the years of touring that these moments of extreme fucktardery are usually followed by generous, compassionate help from total strangers. Dan (an ex-bouncer in Regina and a huge celtpunk fan) began to call around and investigate the possibility of us jumping on another show. The crowd outside the venue promised to follow us wherever we went.

And so, somehow, by the grace of Odin's frosty balls, we found ourselves headlining an all-ages emo-rock bill across town. We played the show, sold a bunch of CDs, and headed to O'Hanlan's, a cookie-cutter faux-Irish pub in downtown Regina. Each of us drank an incredibly unreasonable amount of alcohol, and a huge crowd gathered around us when Seamus and Druzil, um, whipped out their instruments and started a sea-shanty celtic session. We sang, played and shouted obscenities well into the night, handing out business cards all the while and promising to come back.

We are now en route to Amigo's bar in Saskatoon, which by all accounts is not run by walking condom commercials.

Luckily, Druzil's most excellent aunt and uncle let us crash at their lovely house in west Regina. They made us breakfast the next morning, bought us lunch, and sent us away with some food and water. This display of compassion re-affirmed our faith in basically everything. Grant and Diane: we love you. Seriously.

Nonetheless, there remains the problem of The Promoter, and of what we are going to do to him when we get our hands on him. Several suggestions have been floated, but the general consensus is that he will be locked in a room with two things in it: (1), Squid Vicious, and (2) a pair of scissors. 20 minutes should be sufficient, assuming he is of average constitution and strength (i.e.10-13). However, should his attributes be higher or should he possess any unexpected Special Skills (invisibility, fire magic, Cone of Silence) or hidden magical items (+2 Vorpal Sword, Skin Flute of Transportation, Giant Dildo) then thirty minutes may be required. Also Seamus is going to fuck his dog.

Fail

An excellent, excellent show in Calgary, but SO MANY FAILS. How to recount them all?

First, we somehow forgot that we had to drive after the gig last night and The Stupid Swede had to sleep in the van. Just before he went out to the van, and I swear to god I am not making this up, two hot danish SISTERS invited him back to their place for “some beers”.

His response? “No, sorry, I'm going to go and sleep in the van.”

They declined his offer of a threesome in the van. Fucking Danes... such prudes. I mean, what red-blooded Canadian woman would say no to a threesome with her own sister and a man with a yeast infection on his chest in a van full of empty beer cans and rancid cheese? Fucking Danes.

Danish Threesome Fail.

Druzil was chatting up some lady for some time... she was responsive... bought him drinks, let him put his arm around her, etc. Then, at the end of the night, he asked if he could accompany her home, and she responded (again, I couldn't make this up if I tried): “No, I have to get up at seven in the morning because I'm moving to a new farm and we have to set the farm up.”

Farm Setup Fail.

We're in the prairies, so I suppose we'd better get used to farm-girl rejection. You just can't compete with women who are used to, um, horses. Well, maybe Squid can. Um.

Personally, I experienced a Sleeping On The Bathroom Floor Fail. I hope Squid dies.

There were also other epic fails which are actually too personal and painful to recount. Let's just say that 90 pound non-recovering alcoholics shouldn't drink eleven bottles of pilsner.

We are now driving through Saskatchewan and I haven't seen anything this flat since I nailed Celine Dion. I am now going to drink a bottle of Bell's whiskey and pass out in the back of this filthy, disease-ridden vehicle. I hope Squid dies. I hope we all die. Auuuuuugh.

wAUUUUUUUUUUUUUU SEAMUS

Drunk

Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaak.

Is for thirty in th morning sn im completely wasted. We got beer at the bar an it iwas a reaally gooo d bar with lots of um. edmontonians in it and one guy had a shirt that said \edmonton oilers on it but it fuyckin didnt say oilers it said misery on it and we kicked cider bear around the fuckinn parking lot and it isnt morally wrong becase he isn't sen snee sentient.

And now a word frm squidney:

"Nuke Edmonton."

aaaaaaaaandf we're back. So anyway we decided that the swiss didnt have concentration camps because they couldn't concentrate. waaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUGHHHHHH no seriously there was a lot of people out tonight bu theey were kind of standing around and also we drinked trad ale after the show AN ALSO THERE WAS THIS GUY FOMR ATHE OPENING BAND na dhis name was finn a nd he jumped around like crazy and i was jealous and ATHE SEECRUTY GARD SAAID WE WERE THE BEST BAND HED SEEN THERE IN 2 YAERS AND SO FUCK WE WINAN wwwwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH.

WAIT. WAI wait. i will go and find a video . wait. this is the mnorning after:



And now a word from Seamus:

"8 days of antibiotics couldn't compete with one night of heavy drinking, badger-chasing, and drunk-dialing ex-girlfriends. I'm cured. It... is... a... ...miracle. Also, I disagree with squid, I love edmonton and its cider-dealing denizens what are hot. Now we go to transylvania to meet the vampiric lady-wenches."

truer words were not spoken., vagina,.

Cider Bear

We sped away from the Mighty Town of Kamloops yesterday morning, and Seamus drearily gazed of his side window, looking wistfully into the distance, asking himself why he could never seem to find true happiness. Just as he was about to ask us to put Sarah McLaughlan's "Fumbling Towards Ecstacy" on the stereo, something caught his eye: an old woman minding a garage sale outside of her house. This no doubt piqued his interest, but what made him scream at us to pull over and stop the van was the fleeting glimpse he'd caught of a brown-furred little bear sitting beside the old woman.




And so, we'd like to introduce you all to the newest member of The Dreadnoughts' Family: Cider Bear.




Ten minutes later, we were back in the van, gleefully providing Cider Bear with cans of the finest Blackthorn Cider.

"Cida Bear was getting mighty sick a dat ol' granny," he said. "One more story about embroidin' and I'da smacked a bitch."

We joyously poured more cider in/on him. He became rather drunk and started telling us about the time that he'd barfed on the neighbours' dog and watched as it had been blamed on a small child. Then he told us about the time he was in the navy and had been used to "bung up a hole in da septic tank". Then he told us about how a 12 year-old boy had used him to masturbate for the first time¹.

There was a highly uncomfortable pause.

"I don't like Cider Bear," said Squidney. "Let's put him in a merch bin." We all agreed, and have since only let him out of his bin to sell our merchandise at shows. Even this may have to stop, as he spent most of last night at the bar trying to get some chick named Megan to, I quote, "show Cida Bear dem mighty brusums".

Bad Cider Bear! Bad!





Tonight we play Kelowna, and tomorrow our truly epic journey begins. 8 hours to Jasper, Calgary, Edmonton, Saskatoon, Regina, Winnipeg... you know the old saying: sometimes you want to go where absolutely fucking nobody knows your name.

----
¹ Philosophical question: is humping a stuffed bear masturbation? We're stumped. Please leave a comment if you think you know the answer.

Folding T-Shirts: The FInal Frontier

Before leaving Vancouver, we thought we'd fold our t-shirts in order to save some space. This all sounded fine until we realized that there were 850 of them:


That's Squidney under the shirts. JESUS CHRIST.

JESUS CHRIST.

Nine trillion hours later, we left Vancouver and decided to pass the time in the van by playing this game called "who would you rather do?" We started off, obviously, with Star Trek: The Next Generation.

"Tasha Yar", I offered.

"Nope," said Druzil. "I'd rather do the Counselor."

"GO AND FUCK YOURSELF, YOU STUPID DIRTY HIPPY TWAT," I responded. "THE *COUNSELOR*???"

"I'd rather do Captain Picard," said Seamus. There was much agreement on this fact and on the fact that Druzil is a total fucktard.

Then we decided that Queen Latifah is way hotter than Oprah AND Tyra Banks. I don't know who Tyra Banks is, but I think she was a character in Mary Poppins.

Then we decided that R2D2 is hotter than C3PO. There was rare unanimity on this one. The reason? "R2 has those little electric taser-prodders," said Squidney. "That might be kind of fun."

Hot!

Finally, we established that none of us would have sex with the giant turtle from The Neverending Story. It's important to think about these things in advance in case the opportunity arises.

And then we played a show.

We're off now to eat breakfast, sit around a fire and try to come to a decision on whether or not Darth Vader would be a good lay.

- Uncle Touchy

How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Van

Normal punk bands buy giant white touring vans from shady garages in Abbotsford and write funny shit like "Free Candy" on the side. The Dreadnoughts? The Dreadnoughts buy a sleek, silver, soccer-mom Dodge Grand Caravan. Gas mileage! Air bags! Child-proof locks to keep Seamus in! Christ.

We bought it from an angry East Indian fellow who needs the cash quickly so that he can continue to sue his ex-wife.

"Fuck," he said as we test-drove his little beast. "Fucking bitch took good car. I left with fucking Grand Caravan to sell so I can sue her for good car. Fuck."

There was a slightly uncomfortable pause. "It nice van, though," he added, thoughtfully.

I assured him that any woman who would turn up her nose at such a sexy little minivan (which comes with a nifty little fold-down child-seat and an anti-lock braking system for extra safety!) could not possibly be worthy of his excellent company. I mean, honestly, what's the world coming to, anyway? I want to have sex with our van.

Anyway, I don't know how the drummer scraped the money together, but he did. He's Swiss, so the phrase "Nazi Gold" ran through my head a couple of times, but I decided to stay quiet and let the man fork out $8500. Then it was ours... oy, vey. Here is a picture of it:




As we prepared to buy the van, I was reminded yesterday of how much I hate The Dread Pirate Druzil and Squid Vicious. Since we were going to spend, like, thousands of dollars of their money on a vehicle, I figured they might want to know the details. I spent nearly ten minutes telling them about payment plans, interest, mileage, fuel economy, spacing, seating and financing, during which time their eyes slowly glazed over.

"Well", I said. "What do you think?"

Neither of them said anything for quite some time.

"Well," said the Dread Pirate Druzil, "I think you're gay." Touché . I hate him, and I hate his stupid giant friend who keeps following us around:




The CD release/tour kickoff is in two days, and apparently we leave the next day. We have secured a laptop, a videocamera and video editing software, so if I were you, I'd stay tuned to this blog. If we manage to upload even 2% of the insane drunken bullshit that usually goes on in the van, you won't be disappointed. I believe this picture summarizes up my point quite nicely:






Love,

-Uncle Touchy