aaaaaachen
Pronounced ‘Ahen’.
Getting from Feurth to Aachen Germany was remarkably dull. After seeing K.C McKanzie perform the night before, I was fairly well rested and organized. She is very sweet and lovely. Doesn’t drive one to drink. My head is full of romantic ideas. Good strong farm girl. Hmmm
I hit the pavement with my 40 kilos of bluesman equipment. A man was walking towards me. He bent down and appeared to pick up something. I came closer and saw he was examining a chunky gold ring.
“Das ich gold” he said. And he spoke more but I didn’t understand.
“You are very lucky” I said. He smiled. His huge hands fumbled with the ring which was clearly too small for him. He appeard quite down on his luck despite the find. He handed the ring to me.
“Hey buddy, I don’t need that. You keep it”. But he insisted, saying it was too small for him. Perhaps he had nobody to give it too. He started to appear sad. I held the ring. It feels like a simple but weighty gold band. “Dude you take it.” I handed it back. He fiddled with it. Then he shook his head and gave it to me again. He opened his shirt button.
A huge terrible scar ran down his chest. His eyed looked at me sadly. “Guilder bitte” he said and held out his hand. I instantly handed him my loose change. He looked at it for a second.
“Papier” he said and rubbed his fingers together and looked at me pathetically.
The penny dropped, and I laughed mercilessly. I said “good trick” and turned and walked away, holding a worthless bit of costume jewellry. Or, IS IT?
So far I’ve shown the ring to four people. They all say it feels like gold. Magnets do not attract it. It is heavy. It has no taste. It is stamped. I will soon find out if I have been a complete bastard to a poor devil who needed money and sympathy, or whether I spent three euros on a bad trick and escaped without spending more. (Post script, the pawnbroker just laughed. ‘Romanian gold’ he called it. Tired of seeing them.)
The trains were all late and missing each other. Football fans drinking cheap Heineken everywhere, shouting and singing. Trains moved to different tracks and cancelled. Useless directions and stiff rude german behaivior. The journey was shit.
Aachen was ready for me however. The Dumont bar was tiny, the P.A. Was bought and brought in from an auction I can only guess. But the owner of the club was a hardened party machine and assured me it would be a good night. He was right.
They jammed people inside. The festival boss was there as well. 14 other shows going on, but mine was the hot tip. We ripped it up. No time for talking, just banging out tunes and trying to out-scream the mob. Afterward, the beer and rum appeared endlessly until daylight.
The owner and I plotted and schemed. He’s an old (43, my age) wheeler dealer. Wants me back on a sly one. Today as I fight with trains and an hangover I wonder if I really want to come back to Germany at all. They stare at me everywhere. They point and laugh. Half of ‘em are bullish and thick, narrow-minded and rude. I guess its the same everywhere. But we dont’t forgive the Germans for it. The smug ones need to be much more humble after many generations of idiocy and murder. But the good people here are as good as they come. I’ll play Germany as often as they’ll have me. They have a good sense of humour, despite what you think.
S.O.D.
I hear the train a comin´
it´s rolling round the bend
and I ain´t seen the sunshine since I don´t know when,
I´m stuck in Folsom prison, and time keeps draggin´ on
but that train keeps a rollin´ on down to San Anton..
When I was just a baby my mama told me. Son,
always be a good boy, don´t ever play with guns.
But I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die
When I hear that whistle blowing, I hang my head and cry..
I bet there´s rich folks eating in a fancy dining car
they´re probably drinkin´ coffee and smoking big cigars.
Well I know I had it coming, I know I can´t be free
but those people keep a movin´
and that´s what tortures me…
Well if they´d free me from this prison,
if that railroad train was mine
I bet I´d moved it all a little further down the line
far from Folsom prison, that’s where I want to stay
and I´d let that lonesome whistle blow my blues away…..
I bet I´d move just a little further down the line
far from Folsom prison, that’s where I want to stay
and I´d let that lonesome whistle blow my blues away…..
Regards
Currywurst. Mmmmm!
~m
Hello Dave!!!!
Good to meet you at the Newcastle Cluny gig the other night. Best do in a long time, up there with the Clash mate. Afraid I can’t come up with anything witty or cool but thanks for the memory.
Keep on walking the line.