NEW BLACK UK TOUR DIARY

New Black are a group from Chicago. They are highly skilled in two areas of expertise -  rock music and bear wrestling. The band consist of four individuals - Rachel, Liam, Patti and Nick (in no particular order). Their quest? To drink from the new wave grail and rock it hard whilst reading books and falling in/out of love. Their weapons of choice? Guitars, keys, drums and agitprop girl/boy vocals.  New Black make me want to believe in things that don't make sense, that's what really sets them apart and begins to explain why they made such a big impression on me. The following document details 10 days of pork, football hooliganism and driving in circles. It also (incidently) details New Black's first tour of the UK. Read ahead and enjoy, Chrxs.

New Black's debut album has just been released through Thick Records.

NEW BLACK UK Tour Diary

I said my first grateful hellos to England after a particularly nausea inducing ferry ride, which was educational in the fact that I learned that several beers does not cure sea sickness, but does in fact add to it. Live and learn, I say. After three weeks on mainland Europe we were all looking forward to being in a country where we could (mostly) understand what people were saying

Sat. April 17th

We arrived in Brighton and began what was to become ritual before every show: Evidently, our gruff German driver's (He's a bit like a bear cub, this guy. All cuddly and bright eyed, but you wouldn't put your hand in his mouth) plan of attack is to find the city we are playing in, and then promptly ignore any maps, directions or suggestions regarding the finding of the club. This really is less cool than it sounds. Eventually, we found the Freebutt, and were introduced to our host for the evening Sarah. We loaded our things into the club and set out for a proper fish and chips dinner. While there, we met up with Everett True, who was much more excitable than I had imagined, and got us yelled at by the restaurant owner for his foul mouth.

Back at the club, La Momo was just beginning to kick out the jams. We caught a couple songs, good stuff, but went upstairs to exercise our media savvy over Mr. True. (This exchange may or may not end up in Plan B Magazine) and take some pictures as Todd began punishing the ears of those inside. They were awesome and brutal and loud, like old AmRep stuff. Super kickass.

But a little bit much kick ass. As we set up to play our set, we were informed that there were actually only 20 minutes before the show had to be over! We set up as fast as we could, and got going into our inaguaral UK set only to have the plug pulled mid-song after 17 minutes. New Black was less than pleased. Everett suggested that we 'just keep going', which didn't make much sense, as no one would be able to hear us, but the sentiment was sweet. We left a little disappointed, we had after all spent more time driving around in circles near the club than we had spent actually playing in the club.

We spent the night at Sarah's studio, couches, floor cushions and a debate about the best way to cook a baby (DELICOUS). In the morning, we went out to have the first of our traditional English breakfasts. I'm assuming that a big problem in the UK is the threat of being showered in the goo of breakfast-eater's exploding hearts as I could feel my arteries hardening while I ate my eggs and beans and fourteen different type of pork.

Sun. April 18th

A short drive to Birmingham, and we found the Jug Of Ale. Football watching was in full swing. We loaded our stuff in and called our host for the evening, Mariam and headed over to her's for some dinner. New Black loves the homemade grub.

Back at the club, we met the good fellas of Punish The Atom, whom we would end up following all over the country. Good lads from Notingham. This was one of those shows that reminds me of why I wanted to do this stupid rock and roll crap in the first place. The first band, The Big Bang, kicked so much ass, and had so much energyÉ.fist pumping and yelling and stomping abounds. Punish The Atom raised the bar even higher, all hooks and tight interplay and perfect showmanship. I love it when all of the bands feel like a gang, and we played an energetic set, made even better by the fact that no one pulled the plug on us.

Afterwards, we returned to Mariam's flat for a little party. Too much drinking. Mariam presented her partner Matt with a new water jug, which was a wonderful gesture, as Matt was pretty convinced that the 90 Day Men had stolen his last one. It was pretty important to him. Not more than three drinks later, Matt's girlfriend sunk her teeth into my arm, which is to be excused, as she happened to be insane, and charting the evolution of the bruise that it left was an entertaining distraction for the rest of the tour. As the party was going on directly on top of the mattress that I was to sleep on, I went upstairs and pushed Nick and Rachel over. If you want to understand what being in a band is all about, all you need to do is share a single twin mattress with two of your closest friends that haven't showered in several days.

We spent the next morning lazing around Mariam's place, doing a little laundry. Comedy was provided by a surprise visit from the landlord, who really got into her role of being disgusted and angry. We loaded up our stuff and New Black and Matt's jug (HA HA) made our way to Nottingham.

Mon. April 19th

Short drive to Nottingham, followed by the requisite frustrating drive in crazy circles that of course did not result in finding the club, and we finally asked the first hip looking couple that we saw if they knew were the Rescue Rooms were. Turned out that she was the singer of Beats Capri, one of the bands that we would be playing with. What are the odds! We found the club and loaded our gear in, navigating around the construction workers that were incredibly not interested in making room for us to get by. Dinner was provided by the club, the highlight of which was the 'pizza' that Nick ordered. What is the polar opposite of delicious?

During soundcheck, my bass just quit. Just gave on up. Luckily for me, the bass player from Beats Capri (or maybe it was the bass player from the other band, Carry The Mouth, I can't remember) was kind enough to lend me her neon pink bass with a leopard print strap. It sounded great, but it looked like I was playing Huggy Bear's axe. The show was swell, and afterwards, our new friends from Punish The Atom put us up (Nottingham is there hometown)

A trip to a guitar shop for a quick repair on my bass proved luckless. The pickup was crapped out. I was to finish the tour bassless.

Tue. April 20th

We left for London and made great time, but sat in traffic for a little more than a year and a half before finally finding the club. Needless to say, we got there quite early and had some time to wander about Picadilly Circus and SoHo and look at all of the stores full of things that we could not afford. At this point, we had been away from home for a month, and it was so very nice to be back in a city. London reminded me of Chicago like crazy; the weather is similar, people drive like shit, and the accents are funny.

The highlight of the show for me was finally meeting all of the people with whom we had only spoken with via email or over the telephone. The Southern Records Welcoming Committee were all present, as was Jody, whom had helped book our UK tour. We played a set that earns a 6 maybe on a scale of 1-10, and I do believe that we were all pretty grateful that we got another chance the next night. Big ups to Help She Can't Swim for a rocking set. Chris Southern introduced us to Sophie, whom would be our host for the next two nights. During the introduction, he had said 'This is Sophie, she'll take care of you'. As he was leaving, and we watched Sophie's exubherant dance party awesomeness he parted with 'Take care of Sophie'. Back at her place, she made an impulse buy of a ticket to Sweden. Fucking Awesome.

Wed. April 21st

I woke up with the plans to get a little culture, as my entire trip to Europe had consisted of a van that smelled like ass and rock clubs that smelled like ass and cigarettes. Made a visit to the Tate Modern, walked across the London bridge, and started walking towards the Globe Theatre before deciding that I'd rather just have a cocktail. I made it back to Sophie's place at the designated meeting time only to wait for our driver Sparky for two hours. Already running late, we piled into the van. We were gonna have a curry with the Southern folks, and I was stoked to not eat another meal that consisted of three courses of grease. 'Don't worry', said Sophie. '93ft East is only 10 minutes away'. We followed the computer directions, cross referenced with the London A-Z map, and proceeded to drive for an hour and fifteen minutes. Turned onto the street where the club was supposed to be, and nailed a dead end. A phone call to Paul our booking agent revealed that there were in fact two streets in London with the same name, and due to computer error, we had driven to the wrong one. A lot of punching and cursing followed, and we turned around and drove back to precisely where we had started. No curry for this guy.

Got to the club just as the show was starting. I found Team Southern in the bar and had several beers, quickly, and then went into the back room and 'borrowed' some of Punish The Atom's scotch. They rocked the house once again. Nothing gets me more excited to play a show than watching someone else kick the audience's ass. This was a good one, more than making up for our weak sauce performance the night before.

We woke up the next day and took our sweet time getting out of town. Sophie's place was just too cozy. Finally, we made our way to Exeter.

Thurs. April 22nd

Got to Exeter and proceeded to continue the ritual of ignoring any map, written directions, or general use of common sense. The first yelling match of the tour. Got to the club, and set up our stuff. A band from San Francisco, The Angry Amputees also showed up. Their booking agent had really dropped the ball, accidentally scheduling all of their shows in May while giving them the dates in April. The club was kind enough to put them on the bill. This show gets the award for worst New Black performance of the UK, and the less said about it the better. We did sell one CD though, to this awesome old lady in leather pants. Thanks Rock Grandma!

Fri. April 23rd

Woke up bright and early to make the 9 hour journey from Exeter to Sunderland. It's a good thing that the drive is so beautiful, because otherwise it would've been pretty tortuous. At this point in the tour, there is absolutely no talking going on in the van, it's possible that none of us looked at each other for the entire drive. I spent the drive thinking up exciting adventures of the Sharkacopter, a half shark, half helicopter that flies through the air and eats people, preferring to lunch on small children. This kept me entertained, almost the entire trip.

At Bar 7, we were told that there were no support bands, as everyone that knows how to play an instrument in Sunderland has the same stomach virus. The show was also the day before the Sunderland Music Awards show, which is evidently a huge deal to the music lovers in town, so much so that they MUST all stay home and rest up for the awesomeness (we found out later that our pals Punish The Atom won an award for best international band or something crazy like that. Way to go team!). Needless to say, it wasn't looking good for us. We sat in the window and watched the action at the most happening place in all of Sunderland, The Panda All You Can Eat Oriental Buffet. The people in Sunderland like to eat, let me tell ya. The people of Sunderland also lead their children around on leashes. The good guys of Bar Seven loaded Nick and I up on Absynthe, I suppose on the pretense that it would make our show more entertaining. I, at least, was entertained. Patti and Rachel however, were not.

In the morning, we were all treated to the comic stylings of Bump, the Bunker's (which is the rock and roll headquarters of Sunderland) resident acid casualty. He attempted to sell me a tshirt with a lowrider bike on it not once but twice, pontificated on why a fortnight was called a fortnight (it's two weeks, not four, he said), and recited some of his Beat Poetry. Keep your eye out for his TV show this fall, it's gonna star him and a sock puppet. The sock puppet will be the straight man.

Sat. April 24th

The drive to Glasgow was beautiful. About halfway there, that Braveheart guy ran out and hit the van with a club, but Sparky the driver knocked him down and bit off his leg, so we made it to the show on time. Drinking was in full affect at three in the afternoon, and the Nice and Sleazy was packed. Those Scottish accents man, that's some good stuff. During our soundcheck, the soundguy asked us a question, which we pretended we couldn't hear, when really we just couldn't understand. Our ruse was called when he walked directly up to us and we pretended like we still couldn't hear him. The soundcheck was completed, and we were the assholes.

The highlight of this show was Graham, the lead singer of The Flying Matchstick Men, who did an eerily accurate imitation of a San Francisco homosexual. He also claimed that he couldn't carry any of the heavy equipment because of his 'poofy little arms'. The show was good, the kids did some dancing. We celebrated an awesome night by Patti and I rocking some wacky gastro-intestinal problem. Thank you for the great show Glasgow, I'm gonna shit my pants.

Next morning, drive from Glasgow back to London. Fucking awesome. Suprisingly, Sparky somehow managed to do it in less than 8 hours, which must mean that he was driving about 250 miles an hour. There's magic powers in that beard.

Sun. April 25th

Our third and final show in London was at The Buffalo Bar, and was put together by the good people at Art Rocker at the last minute after our show in Manchester fell apart. As we had left at 6:30 or so in the morning expecting a ten hour drive, we had plenty of time to kill before the show. It was a beautiful day in London, and we found ourselves a beer garden and relaxed in the sun. I got busted trying to pocket a bottle of Tabasco sauce. Apparently, my shoplifting skills aren't quite refined enough for London, and they took their condiments seriously, these guys.

The show was fine, but it was mostly good to say goodbye to our London friends, Sophie and Aimee and Paul and The Southern Records Asskicking squad (they had spent the day drinking with the soccer thugs. I think it's important to mention that there had been some sort of important football match that afternoon, and we were treated to an impressive display of testosterone out on the streets, which was a nice change from the English politeness we had become accustomed to). The opening band was vaguely retarded, and even less impressive as they had to borrow nearly all of our equipment and the drummer did his best to knock his oversized-cartoon drumsticks all the way through Nick's snare drum. . Sophie and Chris borrowed a little gaffers tape from us and fixed the Artrocker banner, which has now been rechristened Fartrocker. In the end, we went back to Paul's place to pass out, but for some reason we tried to watch some Julie Andrews movie. That chick doesn't make any sense while you're drunk.

Mon April 26th

Paul took us out for our last English breakfast, and I'll tell you what: You can lock me in a prison camp, I'm not eating beans or broiled tomatoes for breakfast ever again. I'd rather eat my shoe. We bid our farewells to London and made our way to Bristol for our final show.

The venue, Thekla, in Bristol is actually a boat in the harbor. We were playing with Electrelane, which we were all pretty excited about. The second band, Linus, needed to use our equipment, which is fine, but the bass player didn't want to lend me her bass. 'What if you break a string? What will I do?' Well, what if you break my amp sweetheart, fuck you. The promoter ended up finding me a bass, a passable P-Bass copy emblazoned with the moniker MISS THANG. That's me everybody, I'm Miss Thang.

We rocked it. It was our farewell to the United Kingdom. The last show of a tour is always the strangest. You're relieved and excited and sad and reflective all at the same time. And sometimes you're on a boat. The people seemed to really enjoy it. By the time Electrelane took the stage, The boat was packed. I thought about the band that had been playing on the Titanic for a minute, and what a cool way to die that would've been. Electrelane were great, super engaging, and hopefully we'll be playing with them next time they are in Chicago. Some guy bought me several drinks and had a one sided conversation with me that I understood not a word of. Some cute goodbyes in the parking lot, and we went back to the promoters to sleep.

Bright and early in the morning, and we drove to Heathrow. Gave some big hugs to Sparky, which really is like hugging a bear, and wished him a safe trip back to Berlin. Did a little arguing with the desk agents about our equipment and finally got on our plane to come back home. Ta Ta England, you've been the swellest. 8 hours later, we knew we were home, as the first of several unpleasant fat people was rude. Sweet home Chicago.

Liam (NEW BLACK)

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