Saturday, May 23, 2009


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.

1 comment:

  1. the suffix -ery gives "fucktard" so much pizzaz, come to the states!