What U looking at? I Kiel you...

Another day off, another blistering hangover. It seems we always have a day off in Kiel, and there's never anything to do. So the prospect of a Sunday in said city was not being relished by your humble.. writer-guy. That said, a day off is a day when I don't have to work, and that is something to be cherished.

To avoid the usual moaning, I'd booked a central hotel with an early check-in. It was over 700 km from Stuttgart and I knew the crew would be tired, grumpy and hungover. Only moreso. Despite a few late-risers grumbling that they'd missed breakfast, check-in went fairly smoothly and I decided to ignore any problems until I was back at work the next day.

A few of the crew had mentioned visiting a U-boat on previous visits to Kiel so my mind was already made up- no drinking in the afternoon on this day off, oh no, siree. I met up with my Canadian buddy Marc and his Russian girlfriend and we set off through the deserted Sunday streets of Kiel in search of chow before enduring the 30 minute bus ride to the beach to see said U-boat. An American brunch and 2 glasses of champale later, we were on our way.

Being a harbour town, Kiel was virtually destroyed by the allies in the spiteful bombing campaign of '44-'45. Over 80% of buildings (residential, civic and industrial) were destroyed. The result is depressing to say the least. It's not ugly as such. It's not even ugly-beautiful. It's just... meh. No doubt the grey weather didn't help, and being this close to Denmark, it's still winter here, really, whereas in Maastricht and the surrounding area there's a definite feeling of spring. But Kiel has this air of depression about it, a town whose spirit has been wrung dry. There were wrecking balls on the river banks, tearing into old factories which reminded me of Soviet propaganda posters. The developers are closing in...

Despite imagining how cramped it must be, I was surprised it wasn't bigger. We entered at the back, into the engine room. Sitting idle, it's pretty unremarkable, but picturing the hulking brute running, with smoke and steam everywhere, the sense of desperation started to sink in a bit.

The majority of space, of course, was devoted to destruction. Right under the torpedoes, crew-beds are visible, so that the sub was always battle-ready.
I'm pretty snake-hipped (my 11-year-old nephew has a bigger waist that me), but I could barely get through the portholes that separated the engine room from the sleeping quarters and so forth. Maybe the tourbus isn't so bad after all...

Welcome to the Stud Garden. Don't touch anything...

I was really struggling to come up with a title today (who am I kidding, I was struggling yesterday) until I realised some things just shouldn't be meddled with. Yup, I'm in Stuttgart, viualising the world's greatest gay bar/bistro. The name stems from Stutten Garten, literally stud garden, as the settlement was originally created as a horse-stable for the Cavalry. Ooh, men on horseback.. I'm going to have to stop this now. Someone might just read this, one day.

Stuttgart has been described as the cradle of the automotive industry- Porsche even adapted the city's coat of arms for it's world-famous logo of a rampant stallion. Yes, two paragraphs in, this is already the gayest post I've ever created. Mercedes-Benz and Maybach also have their homes here.

But the '70's saw Stuttgart in the world spotlight for different reasons; being the stronghold of the Baader-Meinhof Gang, or Red Army Faction as they preferred to be known. This terrorist/urban guerilla group was formed in the late 60's off the back of the student protest movement, kicking against the outlawing of the Communist party and the rise of capitalism. Despite the founders (Baader, Ensslin and Moller) spending the bulk of the decade on trial or in custody, the group survived and thrived, carrying out numerous bank robberies to fund attacks on US military bases, West German police stations and the press, who they perceived to be sponsored by the capitalist government. Maaan.

During the most controversial and tense trial in German history, Ulrike Meinhof, a sympathetic journalist later recruited as an active member, was found hanged in her cell, spurring the usual plethora of conspiracy theories. The remaining members were convicted of numerous crimes, but the death toll continued to rise with the violent kidnapping of former SS officer Hans Martin Schleyer, then head of the German Employer's Association.

Already under Police protection, his car was was forced to a halt when a pram was pushed into the road. His 3 guards were immediately dispatched and he disappeared without a trace. A list of demands was soon issued, primarily the release of the RAF's founders.

The situation was made worse with the hijacking of a passenger plane in Palma de Mallorca, with the hijackers issuing identical demands to those of Schleyer's captors. Five days and the 'execution by revolutionary trial' of the pilot later, the plane was stormed in Mogadishu, resulting in the deaths of all four hijackers. The same day, 43 days after Schleyer's ordeal began, it was abruptly ended in the boot of an Audi 100 on a French street.

That night, Baader was found dead in his cell, a gunshot wound to the back of his head. Ensslin was found hanged in her cell, and Moller survived several stab wounds in the chest to be released from prison in 1994. The authorities insisted on a suicide pact, claiming lawyers had smuggled in the weapons used.

I didn't know much about this 'political group' but they seem very similar to the Symbionese Liberation Army of San Fransisco, who kidnapped and 'reprogrammed' Patty Hearst- a bunch of bored, middle-class students frustrated into extreme action. Though true to stereotyping, the RAF were a lot more efficient, and longevitous. The organisation finally ceased hostilities in 1998. Still, the end result was the same- a lot of innocents suffered and they met a bloody end.

So what does all this have to do with me? Not a lot to be honest, but today's show takes place in the Schleyerhalle. And as you know, the more tenuous the link, the better. The hall was built in the early 80's in view of the bridge on which Dr Schleyer was snatched. And, wandering around in some dead-time, I came across this nicely rendered tribute. Peace out. Er... honkies.

Mann,heim gettin' pretty tired of this...

Hmm, pretty tenuous, that one. So today we're in Mannheim- home of, er, Xavier Naidoo, a German of South African descent who's guested on some Rza albums, and probably some ambient junk that you get on pub music systems. Think Youssou N'Dour but with sillier hats.

I hit snooze today because there is, frankly, no point getting up as early as we do. It's a constant source of griping. For me at least.

Crewmembers who usually work other tours are surprised at how early we start- a lot of the building has to be done in stages, from rigging to stage to sound to video. Basically we could have at least one more hour in bed each morning and not cause the slightest inconvenience to ourselves or anyone else. But such are the joys of a self-contained unit.

That aside, today I have a rare treat- an office with a window.

OK, so that's not my view. It's more reminiscent of a motorway in Middlesbrough, but its a much needed peek at the world outside.

People are fragile things, you should know by now

So, at the start of an 8-day stretch, I'm back in Munich at the Olympiahalle. If I were more technically able I'd put a link here to the piece I posted on Munich last year, it's probably one of my best. But I'm not, so I can't, so you'll just have to live with it.

This venue had an impact on me, not just because of the history of the place, but it also made me realise how lucky I am to be doing this job. Maximo Park played here last year at the MTV Europe Awards, the Cure play here in 4 days, and there's some sort of 4-night porno exhibition at the end of the month. Sadly work is underway on a new, smaller arena right next door, so the air is thick with what I now remember to be cement dust. One lady just told me "This is a very old building, 36 years!" So, that's old, is it? Fair enough. I suppose following allied bombing, that may be understandable. But I digress. Again.

Many of the better views are blocked by hoardings and the grass is chewed up to a brown pulp. Being February, the boating lake is frozen and it's generally nipster. If I had the luxury of a free afternoon like the rest of the crew, I would pay 4 euros to tour the buildings, maybe even the no-doubt extorionate fee for the BMW museum across the highway. As it is I'll just have to wander around inhaling dust and waiting for a toothless forklift driver (the driver, not the forklift) to pick up the case of merchandise I spent an hour sorting in below zero temperatures this morning.

I picked up some sort of virus or possibly food poisoning after the last run and spent Sunday night and most of monday feeling like crap on a crutch. Regardless of the true cause, I will no longer be eating leftover chicken in the dark under any circumstances. I don't have much weight to shed so a day and a half with the trots (spelling diahorroea is such a pain) has left me looking positively emaciated. My jeans are hanging somewhere around my ballbags.

Tune in tomorrow for my most difficult title yet...

It Means Nothing to Me...

So today I'm in... Vienna. Home of the beautiful blue Danube, Empress Sisi of Sir Andrew Lloyd-Webber fame and the world's oldest zoo, which was originally used as a hunting ground for the Emperor and his toffee-nosed pals. Nothing like bagging a freezing, half-starved tiger to drape across the black and white marble tiles of one's second bathroom, duckie.

This is the third time I've been here now, the second time in the same hall. It's strange how the memory works- I remember the arguments we had last year with the locals about where we could park our buses, and that the German-language stage-version of Grease was playing across the street. Yet, stumbling off the tourbus this morning, I couldn't recall how to get into the venue and walked almost all the way around the building with freezing fingers and bleary eyes. That said, I did exactly the same thing last year.

We did an outdoor show for TV here last summer, and I took a free day after the break-down to look around, utilising a streetbike 'borrowed' from the local promoters. History stalks you at every turn. Men in powdered wigs attempt to coax you into constantly-looping mini orchestra recitals. Uncle Adolf made his famous Anschluss speech from a balcony just around the corner from our stage, and during the war years Vienna lost it's capital status to Berlin. After the war it was split into four zones for a spell, and became a hotbed for espionage between the Western and Eastern blocs. The opulence of the old empire is overwhelming, the architecture so decadent and pristine that the buildings begin to look fake, and you could fool yourself you'd stumbled onto HBO's backlot. Yes, that's Julie Delpy, sleeping on a mock-up of the Heldenplatz. Don't look at her.

This time around I won't see any of the architecture the city is famous for, save for Schonbrunn Palace, which we'll pass on the 14-hour drive home tonight. We have our own aluminium version of it now, which we will soon be erecting in a European city near you. Which is it's own nightmare (see my December thread for confirmation).

Going back to the tricks the mind plays, it seems I'm in trouble with my girlfriend. I don't remember our first date, at least not in the right order. I do recall, however, that I came back to England for little reason other than to go on it. I've mistaken the location of our first kiss (I move fast, people). I thought I even remembered which table it was on in a particular bar, and now it seems I was miles away. At least around the corner, anyway. As I try desperately to claw my way back into favour without blowing my cool, I've rationalized that I do remember our first date - the excitement, the possiblities, the stolen moments in crowded bars, or singing along together at a free gig - I just don't remember the facts. And who needs facts when you've got nice pictures?

Keep Off The Graz

I'm trying to make my blog posts more regular, instead of just checking in for a monthly whinge. So, the first of my informative posts on my current location.

Today I'm in Graz, second largest city in Austria. It has some old buildings, some new buildings and is the hometown of everyone's favourite meatbag, The Governator. Technically he was raised in a little village on the outskirts named Thal, but no doubt this is where he came on a Saturday night to goose reporters, ride around on his BigTrak and order executions. It's a good 1100 km drive from Maastricht, and the first night back on the tourbus is always hell, so I didn't sleep too well and I seem to have the sneezies. But my mood is brightened by thoughts of my wonderful Gorgo, who sent me a blue Japanese monkey and a Mr Grumpy handwarmer for Valentine's. I hope yáll had a heartwarming day.