04.10.14 — 12:33 — Thursday afternoon — 013 venue, Tilburg

Downstairs someone is soundchecking. Can hear the noise coming up through the floor of the office here, where since this morning Lee Edwards of The Sleeping Shaman and I have been working to finalize the first issue of Roadburn 2014’s daily fanzine, which we’re calling the Weirdo Canyon Dispatch. It’s the first time the fest has done something like this, and for me, it’s a completely different side of the Roadburn experience, seeing the team at work behind the scenes and, in a small way, becoming a part of it.

Over the last couple weeks, I’ve been working with a team of writers, including Lee and others for whose work I carry a tremendous respect, on putting together issues for each day of the festival. There’s a print run of 1,000 for each day, and up until about five minutes ago, Lee and I sat across from each other at a table here in this swanky office and folded them. We’re not the only ones working on doing so either, but it looks like they’re finished well in time to be distributed when doors open. I’m incredibly lucky to be here and to be involved. It’s been a hard secret to keep in the run-up to Roadburn.

If you’d like to check out the first issue, the PDF is here.

I’m hugely appreciative of the opportunity this has been, of getting to collaborate directly with Lee and Walter and everyone else involved, and of getting to come here and do this thing. I’ll be posting the issues over the next couple days as well, so please if you’re interested, keep an eye out for them. We’ve all tried to put together something unique and in the spirit of Roadburn. Print media will always have a special place in my heart, and this is a special project. Well worth getting up early to finish.

Roadburn kicks off in about three hours’ time, and there’s still plenty to do between now and then. There’s an anxiousness in the air and I know I’m not the only one who can’t wait for the festivities to start. More to come.

04.09.14 — 23:25 — Wednesday night — Hotel Mercure, Tilburg

The Cul de Sac filled up nicely for the annual Roadburn pre-party, the Hard Rock Hideout — a sort of easing of the consciousness into the ooze it will become over the next few days. It was held at the same spot in Weirdo Canyon last year, the alley of bars and restaurants adjacent to the 013 has long held “Roadburn specials” and 2014 is no exception, though if I’m not mistaken, the Cul de Sac is the first joint there actually to host bands as part of the fest. Doubt it will be the last. In any case, it was two acts tonight: Amsterdam proto-metallers Death Alley and Belgian ’80s thrashers Evil Invaders. They made for a quick evening both in overall time spent at the venue and in their own pacing.

It was my first Hard Rock Hideout. In years past I’ve either gotten to Tilburg too late, stayed in Eindhoven or collapsed in a heap at the hotel on the pre-Roadburn Wednesday. Did that today too. I set the alarm so I could sleep for about two hours and then got up, showered the layer of travel stink off — this room, somewhat tragically, already smells like “dude” — and headed back out. I was early for the start of the show, but it could’ve been worse. I really didn’t want to miss Death Alley, and once they got going, they made it worth my while.

Here’s how it went:

Death Alley

Able to leap from thrash to boogie in a single bound, I know Death Alley are a relatively new outfit — their debut Over Under b/w Dead Man’s Bones 7″ (review here) is a recent advent — but they were among the bands I was most looking forward to at Roadburn. Even putting aside the stylistic potential they showed in that single, both songs from which were aired, “Dead Man’s Bones” providing an anchor later into the set following the long build of “Supernatural Predator” and unmitigated shuffle of “Hypermotion,” I thought they’d be fun to watch on stage. They were, and the varied of their sound, including the elements of psychedelia that only just began to show up in the single, came through live, making for a subtly diverse but fluid, energetic run marked by exemplary guitar leads, inventive basslines, snotty punker vocals that had more to offer than just that and chaotic drumming that held it all together. I’m not sure what Death Alley are doing to follow-up the 7″, but whatever it is, I’ll be keeping an eye out.

Evil Invaders

Oh, rethrash. Your silly hair, your hightops (also chained boots), your bulletbelts, headbanging Hammett/Hetfield hair speeding along at who knows how many kilometers an hour. Were they evil? Yes they were. How rotten were they? They were rotten to the core. I’d ask what bonded them — hint: it was blood, in which they also reigned — but I think you get the idea. The Belgian four-piece Evil Invaders were built for speed and their execution left nothing wanting. I’ll make no bones about the fact that it wasn’t really my thing, but they had the right balance of technical prowess and raw drive that makes the best thrash so vital. To call it unoriginal would be missing the point. Evil Invaders came out in full attack mode, ripping through cuts like “Alcoholic Maniac” and the instrumental “Speed Invasion” from last year’s self-titled debut EP, and the crowd — packed in by then — got way into it. Nobody threw beer by the time I left the front of the stage, which was fortunate, but it was easy to imagine that maybe in a different context Evil Invaders would have the circle pit going.

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A riotous start for Roadburn 2014. Tomorrow picks up bright and early and it’s only going to get crazier from there. More to come, of course, and more pics after the jump.

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04.08.14 — 16:11 — Wednesday — Hotel Mercure, Tilburg, the Netherlands

If and when human beings ever decide it’s time to colonize the moon, we should probably send the Icelanders first, since judging by what I saw of the landscape flying into Reykjavik this morning, they can hang with the inhospitable. All of Icelandair’s planes are named after volcanoes. I wasn’t on Eyjafjallajökull — that villainous volcano that erupted in 2010 causing such chaos at Roadburn and elsewhere — but I saw it at the terminal when I switched flights. I was on Eldborg, which I immediately decided was the name of my new black metal band that doesn’t actually exist. Switched flights but not planes between Boston-to-Reykjavik and Reykjavik-to-Amsterdam. When I got back to seat 17C, it still had my rather considerable ass impression on it.

The flight delays were because of a workers’ strike. Whatever they want, I’m for it. Give it to them. Quickly. Please by Monday.

It felt so, so, so good to get off the plane in Amsterdam. The flight from Iceland was only about two and a half hours, but it was a painful lot of half-dozing, being bumped into by flight attendants — hazards of the aisle — and dealing with the dude next to me who went fascist on the armrests. The first flight, once I got on the plane, was much easier. Still, no real sleep on either and thus no real sleep at all. At the airport, I followed the handy map I was given to get to where a car was coming to pick me up — I carpooled with Arik Roper, whom it was cool to finally meet after admiring his work for so long — we were both very tired — and when we got dropped off, it was at the 013 backstage entrance. A couple quick hellos, my face soon to be edited out of a documentary being filmed about Walter, and then I got to the point where I felt like I was going to fall asleep standing up, so I said I was going to check in at the hotel.

That whole no sleep thing puts me in a bit of a pickle heading into the official pre-Roadburn show tonight, the Hard Rock Hideout at the Cul de Sac. I’ll try to crash out now — shouldn’t be a problem — and set my alarm in time to get up and shower and head over to the venue, which is right in Weirdo Canyon. Don’t want to miss Death Alley after digging their single. No real time to eat, but screw it. Roadburn comes but once a year. I’m so glad to be back.

04.08.14 – 8:42PM Eastern – Tuesday – Logan Airport, Boston, MA 

I knew when the guy behind the Icelandair check-in counter called me “dude” that everything was going to be okay. Actually, the first words out of his mouth when he saw my passport were, “You know about the delay, right?” Yup. Just an hour, though that in combination with the lack of traffic compared to what I thought I’d hit made me absurdly early. Security was a breeze, even carrying a bevvy of electronics. Still no idea how long it takes to get anywhere in Boston.

First to Reykjavik and then to Amsterdam, then to Tilburg. Have been sitting here two hours now and have two more to go until the new takeoff time. I don’t mind. The batteries on everything are charged, including the book I brought, and but for being warm and smelling the mass-produced whathaveyou being served at the restaurant to my left – some name I don’t know – it’s fine. A breeze from somewhere. Is Logan Terminal E big enough for wind?

Remembering travel stuff. Don’t look at anyone too long or they’ll look back. Put the computer in the back with the bottom facing out so that it and the camera can be upright in when the bag is laid down. Lessons already learnt, remembered situationally to no doubt be filed away again soon.

I enjoy people-watching as much as the next pseudo-creative, but it gets disheartening after a while, feeling very apart. In my head I hear cop voices in stern teenager-bound derision: “You think you’re special, son?” It’s the opposite. These people have made it. Front to back, they’re here, they’re in it, they’re human. They’re special. I’d be fooling myself if I thought I could ever do or be that thing. It just wouldn’t work. Some will tell you everybody feels that way, like they’re the muck. Maybe that’s true, but they don’t live it. Existence as an awkward-fitting pantsuit.

But the place I’m going is where it works at least well enough to pretend. To put me back into position of righteousness from which to designate the squares. Not the only congregation anymore, but maybe the most revered. It’ll be a quick few days at Temple Roadburn, but fucking hell I’m ready. Please, please get me there. Get me to no sleep and vicious tone. To the wind pushing on through Weirdo Canyon, the mad stench of the 013 on Saturday night. Get me there. In red block letters at my 12: “REYKJAVIK: Delayed.”

And with this we begin.