Crossing the border to Hungary it’s clear we’re in Eastern Europe. The irritation and suspicion people view us with is more overt. Petrol station staff gather round their colleague serving me, chattering in Hungarian. I make out ‘rock star’ and laughter. Very excited to go to Budapest, though, my first time.
Ashley's [High Command tour manager] delightful day sheet lists holidays; apparently it’s National Hug A Musician Day. Not sure if this is sarcasm on Ashley’s part but I do not recommend anyone embrace myself or Razzle [High Command guitarist]. My stage vest has the accumulated reek of 100s of gigs, and Razzle has been berated by Ashley for not showering for a week – "Oh, it’s been longer than that, honey," the scamp grins. I’ve cultivated my vest stench to a tactical reek – personal space on the road can be hard to come by, if you stankin' people steer clear. Crust as fuck existence.
The venue is a massive modern complex right on the Danube, amongst a landscape of industrial decay. Smashed brick and windows, pipes and rust. Factories, plants, giant trucks taking out debris, honking and leaving clinging dust clouds in their wake. Best sound of tour thus far (my pedals slide across the stage with the vibrations) and wonderful promoters. Delicious homemade food, treats.
Summoned to sign autographs, take photos with people. Will never understand that one. I’m an alcoholic manboy who can’t fulfil basic tasks. But hey, if it makes people happy (my ego loves it, the fuck am I talking about).
Another night watching High Command side of stage, feeling good. Shit’s fucking nice sometimes. One of the promoters plays in supports Türböwitch. In cheetah print leggings he ran into the crowd with his guitar and people made a circle-pit round him while he soloed. Sounded like Inepsy. Budapest city weapons. Their song title Fuck Off In Hell gives High Command much joy.
Türböprömöter brings me to their dressing room for their singer’s birthday cake, strange shit-your-pants shots, white wine spritzers, beers. They have a permit to open their friend’s bar, BlastBeat (closed on Mondays), for the birthday and gig, insist we come. We've got an 8am van call for 600km drive to Salzburg, so only a few of us go. Some visit a neon-drenched Mad Max-esque complex in central Budapest, dancing with High Command to techno DJs. Mountain (merch)man Tom busts out his famous Broken Legs Dance, exhibiting the grace of someone a third of his height and attracting various onlookers.
The toilets are simply medieval and easily the worst on this tour, or any other. ‘Lake of shit’ comes to mind. We run into Northern Irish cattle truckers, young lads who transport livestock all over Europe. They’ve been taking a break in Budapest for almost a week. They come over because we don’t look like anyone else in the bar, not least the annoying-as-all-fuck English couple Ben bums a smoke off.
An eight-foot-tall lad of the group asks where I’m from. "Scots-Irish? Ah yer a fookin' coloniser den!" he raises his chin and looms down at me. "I’m no fucking coloniser, pal." The Americans look uneasy during the exchange. Another of them, maybe Hungarian, says, ‘We can all agree that punk started in England.’ ‘No it fucking didn’t.’ It’s like these guys have been sent to enrage me. The giant cuts in again, issuing the same challenge, "Aye, yer a coloniser…" I can’t be doing with this hassle. I look him up and down and send forth my rebuttal: "I’ll colonise that ass, baby." "Oh! Don’t tempt me!" he winks and grins.
Now the macho bullshit is dealt with and a truce established, we can get down to business. "What’s the drug situation like here?" I ask a small, bespectacled, gnome-like lad. "Oh! We was trying for coke a few days ago and yer man only gave us four rocks o’ crack!"