Walter

"I think he's broken" said the guitar player as we all looked hopelessly at Walter's large engine. On a quiet back-street in Berlin's Moabit district our luck had finally run out. "We haven't got breakdown cover have we?" There was no reply. "I thought not." We tried again. And again. And again. Nothing, just the faint click of his starter motor. "Let's leave it for a bit" said the drummer. So we stopped staring at the tangle of pipes and bits of metal, of wires wrapped in frayed gaffer tape and shoddy bits of welding. We sat on the curb and wondered what to do. "I guess we could walk to the venue with all our gear?" offered the bass player but nobody seemed overly enthused by this idea. We sighed. And sucked our teeth. And paced up and down. Finally the guitar player cracked, opened the bonnet and began tracing wires again. "Give him another go" he ordered and we tried again. Nothing. The drummer pulled out the starter motor and began fiddling with the wires but it was hopeless. None of us knew anything about merchanics. We were about to give up and load ourselves up like mules, when suddenly there was a crackle and a rumble and a splutter and some noises I can't even begin to translate and Walter burped and roared back to life. "Right, let's just keep him running now for the remainder of the trip" I yelled as we piled in and jolted off down the street towards the venue.

We had known all about Walter's problems from the start. The romantic idea of setting off in an old motor home had completely clouded our vision. He was very old, very slow and very thirsty. Built in the late 80's as a family recreational vehicle, he was used for short leisurely journey's with perhaps a Mum, a Dad, two kids and a picnic blanket. Not a band of 5 males with as many guitars, a drum kit, heavy amps, an enormous keyboard and a weeks worth of clothes, driving 9 hours a day at full speed! As well as needing a new starter motor he needed anti-freeze every morning in order to function. The left indicator didn't work, the speedometer didn't work, the windscreen wipers didn't work and the windows would open but not close. Perhaps his biggest quirk was the need to keep the engine running while filling up! Failure to do this resulted in waiting a hour at the petrol station for him to start again. Starting was always a problem. When I first met him he hadn't started for 3 weeks and we were due to leave the next morning!

"It's hit and miss" said the AA man, "until you fix the motor he'll have this problem. Where are you going anyway?"

"Berlin" I said meekly

"You're bonkers, you won't get past Bristol!"

F R I D A Y 

I left Penzance, 7am Friday morning, panicking about the London emissions zone and how we'd sidestep a £200 daily charge! Our only option was for the drummer to follow us to the zone's boundary, down in Sevenoaks, somewhere on the M25, and then ferry us and the gear into Battersea. This emissions dodge would certainly add a good few hours onto the journey. I called the guitar player, "Realistically we're not going to make the bloody gig, you'll have to leave work earlier!" I barked. "Realistically, I went to work at twenty past five this morning, so I'm doing the best I can!" he snapped back. Tensions were frayed. Walter struggled over a snowy Bodmin Moor; 39 mph up the hills. We screeched into Bristol, I gathered the instruments, picked up the band-mates and sped off again, forgetting the guitar and sending the drummer back to collect it. Sound familiar!? We floored it, maxed out at 55 mph on the flat, no stops, no pee breaks, pee in a bottle! We pulled up outside a pub in Sevenoaks, unloaded our gear into the drummers jeep, tucked Walter in for the night and carried on to London arriving on time for our soundcheck, what are the chances! We took to the stage at The Magic Garden to a lively audience and performed as well as we could, but we were rusty, we'd not played together for 5 months. Still, it was a nice opening night; busy and bustling and we sank G&T's and talked animatedly about the road ahead. If today was anything to go by, it was going to be a bumpy ride. If, indeed, Walter started! I refused to entertain that thought, preferring to believe the ever optimistic words of his owner, "He'll be fine, he's a good engine! Honestly!"

S A T U R D A Y

Saturday was a free day, we were all scattered across the city, taking advantage of the time off. We gathered back at The Magic Garden in the afternoon and then, because we were bored, drove to the next venue 5 hours early for our gig. The earliest I've ever been for anything in my life! We unpacked. Sat around. Had a pie. Wrote a set-list. Had an ale. The piano player had a sleep in the drummer's jeep. And we still had 3 hours till kick off! The old place filled up, lights dimmed and familiar faces gathered. We finally took to the stage and performed a much tighter set. We always play well at The Gladstone and it's always so well attended and well run. The atmosphere was electric and we wrapped to lengthy applause. This was more like it. It felt like the tour had begun. We socialised with our London fans, all of them as excited about the road ahead as we were.

S U N D A Y

It was an early start on Sunday, myself and guitar player crammed into the drummer's jeep and drove cross-city to Sevenoaks. Walter was unharmed. Sat shinning in the morning sun. He started first time too. Easy. We loaded up and pulled away. We were early and the sky's were smiling. This was perfect. Walter offered us space and a stove to cook tea. I was glad we'd taken him. I never doubted you, Walter. Who need's a windscreen wiper when it's sunny! The mood soured somewhat when the piano player and bass player missed their train and our careful time management was put to the test. We sped onto Folkestone, convinced we'd encounter no end of problems at customs, due in part to our resemblance of the mobile meth lab from Breaking Bad! But we were spared the stop and search and boarded the train. The mood soured further when the guitar player realised he'd lost his wallet containing all the tour finances. We really were at the mercy of the gods. We had to make enough money tonight in Antwerp in order to continue.. There was no contingency cash. Quite literally we were playing for our petrol. We crossed into Belgium and it started to rain. This could be interesting without a windscreen wiper. We pulled over for lunch; an overpriced burger, boycotted paying for the toilets and peed in a bush. We bought anti-freeze and a hi-viz vest and started Walter up. At least he was behaving. We chugged away and then as if by magic the wipers started working. We arrived in Antwerp, were greeted by Henneke as we had been a year earlier, offered Edame beers and began setting up in ernest. With the piano player on a real piano our ears were primed for a good sound. We checked well. Added Haul Away into the repertoire and then bizarrely decided to play The Wolf for the first time in 3 years just cause we knew a fan was coming and it was her favourite song. Cafe Den Hopsack filled up and we played well enough, were well received and sat around indulging our fans. We sold 28 CD's, a record, and garnered a healthy collection pot. Many fans stayed around as the conveyor belt of Belgium beers began, many of which, like the Westmalle Tripple, were 10% in strength. We got drunk. It didn't take long and was inevitable. Our host, Jan, was infectious and his sons were equally as thirsty. We sat around signing albums. We knew we were pissed when we started signing beer mats, just cause they were passed our way. Rock stars. Back at Jan's house and his wife Lieve had made us French fries and Joppi sauce and we sat feasting and talking animatedly about waking early and exploring the city.

  

M O N D A Y
We woke late. Spent hours sitting around the kitchen table grazing through the feast that Lieve had made for us, drinking numerous cups of ginger tea to shake the hangover and sooth the vocal chords. We left the house at 1pm, rode the tram into the centre and ate waffles in a Belgium cafe. We all felt a little ropey. The piano player had lost his voice. We snapped some pictures of the cathedral, frowned at the grey skies and wondered whether the windscreen wipers would work today. We fed Walter his morning pint of anti-feeeze and he started easy enough. We collected our gear from Den Hopsack, promised to return next year and then pulled out of the city in the driving rain. The guitar player took the reins, guiding Walter across the boarder into Holland. All of us slept in the back. Every now and then we'd hear him chuckle to himself at the many quirks; the wipers stopping mid-wipe. The window stuck half open. The engine roaring like a tractor on steroids as we hurtled along the smart Dutch roads. We were late arriving at The Phoenix in Apeldoorn and a hive of activity greeted us. It was a large dance studio not used to housing live bands; it had no PA system or stage and the choice of a room too big or a room too small. "How many are you expecting?" I asked the proprietor, exploring the idea of using the smaller room and creating a nice acoustic sound. "Anything between 30 and 70" she replied. Not the answer we wanted. We bickered amongst ourselves before plumbing for the larger of the two rooms and hoping the larger number came. Mid soundcheck a dance class entered the space and began warming up, and then dancing around the room. It was one the most surreal experiences I've ever encountered. The bass player, who often stands in the middle of the room to check the sound was suddenly engulfed by dancers skipping round and round him like he was the maypole! So, this would be a dancey affair we thought. Wrong. Upon announcement that we were about to begin, the dance class all grabbed a chair and sat in neat little rows like diligent school children. More and more people arrived, a healthy chorus of our Dutch fans and we began. It was a hard gig. Not bad at all. Just hard. The piano player lost his voice mid show and the sound wasn't great, but the crowd were appreciative and very focused. Many of them bought CD's and the collection pot was generous. We were very grateful. Grateful for all the right reasons; that people found enjoyment in our music, that they felt compelled to help us out, NOT that we'd promised ourselves Apledoorn's collection pot would be spent entirely on booze in Berlin!

T U E S D A Y

After a wonderful night's sleep at Gerbrandt and Imke's house - where we each had a separate room and woke to a table full of breakfasts - we started Walter up and pulled out of the quiet Dutch suburb of Arnhem. Next stop Berlin. 6 hours in a normal car. Walter would take at least 8. The drummer took the reins and we roared along the pencil straight roads sounding like an angry mosquito. In the back the rest of us played the card game Rummy, with the guitar player cleaning up despite having never played before. I took over driving duties somewhere in the late afternoon. It was more hilly now, Walter could gather more speed on the slopes, at one point we got him to 70 miles an hour! But it came with a price; chugging back up the other side and we were down to 39! We arrived in Berlin in the early evening; sliding up beside the 2nd of our Berlin venues, The Hole, where we'd arranged to store our gear, but it was closed. We parked up and went into the bar opposite to thaw out, and get beer, in that order. We sat on the radiators and drunk mugs of Pilsner while trying to establish contact with Elena, our host at the second venue. 2 pints down and we finally got a reply, so started Walter up and followed her through large crowds queuing for a techno night. We squeezed through a narrow tunnel, through a barrier and arrived in the backstage car park. "You can store the instruments in our warehouse upstairs on the 5th floor" said Elena, and then after seeing the fatigue in our eyes, "there is a lift!" She was striking and small, shaven headed with dark eye makeup. She studied Walter for a while and then, "Wow, it really is a shitty vehicle!" We pursued her upstairs to a very large workshop/warehouse called The Mindpirates Collective, all brilliant white and echoey. We stored our gear behind the bar area and followed Elena and her identical girlfriend back into the lift. "This is strange" I said to the guitar player under my breath. "What's strange?" asked the girlfriend who's ears were sharper than I'd thought. "Oh... nothing, it's been a strange day, we umm... err..." I countered and trailed off leaving the guitar player to charm them back. We thanked them and followed them out of the tunnel and into the bustling streets, perhaps a tad over-smiley and over-wavy. We parked Walter up by the river, grabbed our night bags and walked an hour to our hostel, passing endless cosy bars and dodging cyclists that sped along the pavement/cycle paths. A quick shower at the hostel and we bounded out into the city lights, umming and arring over which cosy establishment to dine in. We settled on a nice place with a name i've since forgotten, and were served by a large camp waiter who took a shine on the piano player. While the rest of us drank beers he was umming and arring over what beverage would best serve his broken voice, "What you need is a tea, dear!" said the waiter in a thick German accent, "come with me, I show you everything!" and he propelled him up and marched him off to the tea counter. We ate well, all except the piano player who had food envy and man flu. He had another tea and then cycled home like a rockstar. The four of us settled up, thanked the waiter and went to the bar next door for a couple more. After that, we found a rum bar and sat giggling and swapping tales. It was like sitting in an ashtray. Everybody was smoking indoors. We endured it for so long because it was a novelty. That, and the rum. And the pretty barmaid!

W E D N E S D A Y

"I'm not drinking today!" I groaned from my bottom bunk. The room smelt like a bonfire and none of us had even smoked. The bass player opened the window to blow away the 5-man fug. It was glorious sunshine outside. "Let's hire bikes!" he said. "Best way to see the city". And it was. We steered into the centre. Past the Fernsehturm tower and the Berlina Dom. We paused and rested while the piano player and bass player nipped into a market and then we got bored of waiting and drove off separately. It was inevitable we'd split. 5 men making decisions is my kind of hell. We had no knowledge of this city and no clue of where to head so we devised a game; at each junction whoever was in front would choose the direction. We approached a roundabout, I went straight. We hit a cross-roads, the drummer turned right. We hit a fork, the guitar player veered left. This random navigation managed to steer us to all of the main attractions. We arrived at the Brandenburg Gate, The Reichstag, Charlottenburg Palace, the Gypsy memorial garden, where we parked up and stood in silence for some time in reflection. It was a very powerful city, very emotive. More than once we were overcome by the magnitude of it's history. While cycling through one central neighbourhood where buildings still harboured dozens of bullet holes, the guitar player remarked; "Shit got real here!". Crossing the river and back into the old eastern block we encountered a large section of the Berlin Wall, now an art gallery. We followed it for a while trying to imagine it, trying to picture our lives with walls through the middle of them. "Shit went down here too!" he remarked again. We arrived back at the hostel and all fell asleep for an hour or two, exhausted by the physical activity after days spent in Walter's charge. The piano player and bass player arrived back eagerly swapping tales of the same sights in a slightly different order. They'd booked us a table at a floating restaurant on the river. We showered and slipped back out. "I'm not drinking tonight!" I reminded myself as I ordered a large bottle of red wine and looked out across the water. We ate well. Another bottle of wine meant we drank well too. We cycled around trying to find the rum bar so we could passive smoke again but a 100 identical streets meant we gave up the ghost. We drank Fernet-Branca instead but it tasted like cough medicine so we turned in for an early night at 5 past 1!

T H U R S D A Y

We broke our fasts in the cafe opposite the hostel as we had done the previous morning, and like the previous morning we ordered eggs benedict and a ginger tea, or coffee, if you were the guitar player. We sat in silence with our thoughts. Our two day holiday was over, it was back to work tonight. We took the bikes back, faffed around at the hostel and then fed Walter an extra large helping of anti-freeze and drove cross-town to Moabit. We were early. The venue was closed so we drove around the empty neighbourhood worrying that nobody would attend our gig that night. We parked up by a playground and played football. Headers and volleys. We were joined by Fat Maradonna and his friends who never passed the ball and shot on sight at every chance. In the end we refused to pass to them until they got the message. They sloped off and we sat on a bench and caught our breath. The drummer and bass player played on for a while, reliving the games of their youth; Grimsby vs Botallack in the World Cup Final! The piano player, the guitar player and I (the original band) decided to stroll to the venue to see if the doors were open but walked 20 minutes in the wrong direction. Hot and bothered we met back at Walter and it was here that he wouldn't start. It was on this quiet back-street in Berlin's Moabit district our luck had finally run out. Well, as you know by now we repaired him somehow, thanked our lucky stars and drove along the empty streets to the club. We met Kini our host and unloaded into the old venue; a Guardian top 10 for live music in Berlin. We soundchecked and then went in search of an eatery of sorts. We walked 20 minutes down another of the district's empty streets and ate in a falafel's bar, by now convinced we'd count the night's audience members on two hands. We didn't know a soul in Berlin, and nobody knew us, perhaps we'd even count them on one! But back at the Kallasch& Moabiter Barprojekt we were pleasantly surprised, very pleasantly surprised. Why you couldn't count them on 16 hands, it was maybe even 20 hands deep, some 80-odd cool, young, hip Berliners crammed into the music room and further into the back bar. We started up with Franz Kafka and soared through our set, swapping jokes with the audience, and wrapping to healthy applause. It was an incredible feeling. Having so many people turning out to see us, in a city we'd never been, nor had any roots, nor ties. And of course the venue was well-run and well-loved, and that counts for a lot; people trust the venue and so trust the band. The guitar player's cousin tapped me on the shoulder, "Great gig mate!". He just so happened to be in town on a work's do and had bought 8 of his clients with him. We drank at the free bar; entertaining a stream of new fans and groupies. We chatted long into the night, drinking yet more peculiar shots and when the venue closed we followed the groupies to a nearby jazz bar and ended up playing a impromptu gig on the stage with the venue's equipment. Well it's the first time I'd played electric guitar since I was a teenager. We thrashed about a bit, played some of our numbers and then settled on a rap song for half an hour with a drunken South African taking the mic. We left at dawn, walked 40 minutes in the wrong direction and then took a taxi home. There were many drunken moments, what goes on in Berlin stays in Berlin and all that. This is a respectable medium, a censored platform for you to read about us. You don't want the gory details do you? Oh you do? Well the piano player went in for a kiss, she dodged it, he tried again, she sidestepped, and he pecked at her again and again like a goldfish on a waltz. 

F R I D A Y 
We woke in the bonfire, in a 5-man fug. No words. A bit of moaning. "I'm not drinking today!" mumbled under the breath. We showered. This did nothing to alleviate the pain. We ate in the breakfast place. Eggs benedict again. Ginger tea/strong coffee. We took the skyrail down to Neukölln because we'd heard it was good. It wasn't. Or perhaps we were in the wrong part. It was like being in Enfield on a weekday. We looked for a cafe in which to eat in but couldn't decide which one. We walked into one, looked at the menu and then walked out again, returning 20 minutes later and asking to eat again but being refused entry this time! We ducked into a Japanese restaurant and ordered food. The waiter was friendly but didn't speak a word of English. We did a lot of pointing. The food took ages to arrive. The guitar player had ordered a bowl of egg-fried rice. 45 minutes later he received a tiny bowl of cold boiled rice. He was too tired to argue, so sloshed on some soy sauce and ate it in one mouthful. We took a cab to Moabit and collected the gear. Walter started thankfully. Cross-town and we unloaded at The Hole, Elena and her identical girlfriend were nowhere to be seen, and we were instead looked after by Johnny Depp and Chewbacca! We set up and sound-checked and then slunk out to find an eatery. We settled on a Mexican restaurant, had a pokey mojito and a chicken burrito and were cleared off the table by the eager waitress before we'd even finished and almost manhandled to the door! Needless to say we didn't tip them. Back at The Hole we were again surprised to see a large audience. Almost too many to fit into the venue. Familiar faces from the night before too. We played our best gig I'd say. Not just in Europe, but ever! We had the audience in the palm of our hands. It was a great atmosphere that contained pin-drop moments and loud raucous whooping, both at their appropriate junctures. We tried to prop up the bar again, myself and the guitar player trying an array of different cocktails. I smoked a cigarette indoors just cause it was novel. We networked a little; entertaining far-flung fantasies of all moving to Berlin. The piano player and the bass player went out to a techno club. The drummer went home. Myself and the guitar player followed, a little worser for ware.

S A T U R D A Y
We didn't eat at the breakfast place. It was closed. Maybe because we were early rising. We split up, the drummer and I walking ahead to The Hole and dining in a vegan cafe. I then realised I'd forgot my passport and had to walk all the way back to the hostel. Standard. The Hole was closed and there was no answer on Elena's phone, or Johnny Depp's, or indeed Chewbacca's. We were stuck waiting. And waiting. I eventually went round to the car park behind and chanced a lift up in the elevator. Floor 5. The Mindpriates Collective. The brilliant white workshop/warehouse was awash with mindpirates, males and female, all decorated in dark eye makeup. There was some photo shoot going on and people were busy. "Too busy to answer the phone!" said Chewbacca as he flicked his long hair out of his eyes. Eventually someone escorted us downstairs and unlocked The Hole and we were able to retrieve our gear and pack Walter for the journey ahead. We bid farewell to Berlin at midday and drove straight to Antwerp, scared to stop in case Walter may play up again. We fizzed along the black roads straining the engine, trying to beat the 70 mph downhill, "I just got 71! called the drummer from his perch in the front, wrapped in a blanket, Walter's heating having broken. At least the windscreen wipers were semi-functioning as the rain splashed down. We landed back at Jan and Lieve's house at 9pm. We ate Chips and Joppi sauce and all went to bed; well all except the piano player who went out with their sons and didn't return till 8.30am in the morning, about the time we left for Calais.

--

We returned to England in one piece. More or less. Our heads were reeling and our fingers aching, we'd played our socks off. Burned the candle at both ends. Lived the life of rich rockstars without the money or fame. We conquered Berlin, and in doing so left a piece of our hearts there. For a band like us to travel out into the great unknown on a whim and come home within budget, heck £45 a person richer, is a real achievement and one I'm proud of. And I hope it gives other small bands the confidence to follow their dreams. You don't need an agent or big bossy manager picking and choosing your gigs. Just find a venue that suits your style and fix it up yourself. Find a bus. Plan your route and go out and play for your supper, you'll come home a richer man, in more ways than one. Europe is friendly. It's treated us well. And we're blessed to have a decent following in Holland and Belgium, but Germany is a complete unknown and we played to double the crowds. It was an awfully big adventure, the biggest we've done and one hard to better. And dear old Walter, we couldn't have done it without him, and it wouldn't have been quite so much fun in a regular smart van. He wouldn't start again at the customs check point in Calais, 10 frantic minutes spent trying as the clock ran down and the horns blared behind us. He was searched as well across the channel in Folkestone; English customs believing him to be smuggling refugees, that or harboring a meth-lab! And perhaps the funniest of his ailments came just 30 miles from home when the driver's door broke and wouldn't clasp shut and so I had to hold it closed while driving along the A30. I parked him up and tied the door shut from the inside and left him for his owner to collect. I heard later that he wouldn't start for 3 days.

Dear old Walter.

The boys and Walter in Berlin..