Marooned in Munich

4 songs into their set in Munich Monday night, Harry from White Lies announced that that's it folks, show's over, tour's cancelled, very sorry, see you next year. Then they pulled us into their dressing room and said the same thing, except they gave us all their booze too. Seems Harry (aka Ol' Goldenpipes, for good reason) came down with something or other and was on the verge of blowing out his voice. And when that happens, you stop singing, and that's what they had to do. It was great while it lasted and we wish we coulda seen it thru to the end. But it meant for us no Vienna, no Rome, no Milan, no Zurich, no clue what to do, no fun.

The next 36 hours were dark ones. Checked out of Munich hotel no. 1 and, homeless and directionless, went straight to the only thing resembling home: the Hard Rock Cafe. Just as Rob was recounting his night-before dream of watching Dan play "Fortunate Son," (our dreams don't stray very far from reality at this point) we walked in to the sound of, yeah, "Fortunate Son," and knew it was meant to be. Except that the grill was broken and we'd have to wait, which we did, until they fixed it, which they never did, so we ate the one thing on the menu they didn't need the grill for, which sucked, and sucked up all our money. Then after 3 hours of sitting at the Hard Rock watching music videos under Tom Petty's glass-encased flannel, we decided to stay in Munich until we had a plan.

So we went to hotel no. 2, sat in the lobby, emailed, pondered going home, ordered pizza, pondered going back to Berlin, played gin rummy, pondered our existence, ate pizza, sulked, figured out it would cost us a fortune to change our flights and leave, realized we were stuck in Europe for another week, emailed some more, waited anxiously for answers, played gin rummy, bitched, sulked, drank beer, continued playing gin rummy until 3 am.


Hotel No. 2


waiting

Woke up, no answers, then more checking out, eating German food, sulking some more, yelling at each other, immediately apologizing, sitting in the lobby of the hotel we just checked out of, waiting, playing gin rummy, emailing, waiting, horribly depressed, and then all of a sudden we had a show lined up in Berlin for Friday. Things started looking up. Decided to stay in Munich again since it was too late to drive to Berlin. Continued playing gin rummy. Booked another hotel and went to it.

And then we walked into the hotel of the tiny 2-star Hotel Max and saw this:



Jimi Hendrix stayed here. May 1967. Room 43. Double room with no bathoom. And that's when we knew it was gonna be alright. Then right before bed, we had a Zurich show lined up for the next night at Bosch Bar. Which was last night, and was totally packed. It was nice to play for people that were there to see us. Then we drove straight to Berlin, because the hotel we booked atop a foggy Black Forest mountain was closed when we got there at 4 am. Tired. Show tonight.

So the details:
Tonight. Berlin. White Trash. 10 pm.
Monday. London. Borderline.
Tuesday. London. KoKo (w/ The Fall).
Wednesday. We go home.