Now, after all this time off, we’re really slow at getting moving, and at this rate we’re going to be late for our first French show. I can’t believe it. I won’t have it. So of course, the fuzz caught me in a French speed trap. Our unheroic duo of do-gooders busted me going 140km/hr in a 110. I thought the speed limit was 130, and they explained that the fast zone started in another two kilometers. BOOO.
Eventually, we crawl into the town of Besancon. The roads are windy and spidery, creeping through the city down every crevice between buildings. I can’t even imagine what it would be like to be driving a van right now. The roads veer wildly, and not only left and right, but up and down steep hills. It’s like I’m stuck in a nightmare version of San Francisco.
The club is a quaint bar where the shows are held in the basement cellar. The cellar door has been replaced by the front half of a corvette, and you have navigate your way through its hood to make it to the show. It’s pretty cool, even though there’s that Tour Dad part of me that’s scared I’m going to hit my head and end up with tetanus.
After the sprawling madness of big city Munich, this small town is so nice, if a little surreal. There are men drinking a bright, mint green beverage at the bar. The walls are decorated with unholy amalgamations, like pheasant dog pirates. There are two kids, no older than 10, pouring beers- they have to get up on a stool to serve them. Then we slink down through rough, stone walls to play in a 18x45foot crypt. The part of me that’s not Tour Dad feels like I should be pounding absinthe.
Our host for the night turns out to be the proud mom of the two kids that were serving beers at the bar. The flat is appropriately decked out in the interests of kids who don’t have money to waste on “official” fan club gear. Hand scrawled GREEN DAY banners hang from the ceiling. And I keep hoping the painting on the wall is a take on Broken Social Scene’s artwork.
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