Abject terror, paranoia, visions of “the husk”, dead years stretching endlessly. . . it was all there for me on the plane out to the ‘Dam. . . and no – that’s not what I call Amsterdam if you must know. I call the ‘Dam, Amsterdam and once we landed and freaked out a little at the hotel, Bobby, Blue and I went to get something to eat.
I was finally united with the rumoured Dutch raw herring. . . this is not a euphemism for drugs or prostitution. Its Dutch street food and I wanted some.
Raw herring is served with some raw onions, a pickle and a toothpick. I got it on a bun – which was my first mistake – though not one that really fucked me up. It was still good, pliable and strange – like I felt at the time. I was starving: my brain, my body, my mind was flipping out. Holland is full of colonial residual foreign foods – combo places with Chinese and Surinaam cuisine under one roof. We decided to check out Surinamese food – in the harsh afternoon light and the surreal realm of jetlag my lunch tasted unremarkable – a little too sweet perhaps – a chicken and noodle dish that wasn’t blowing my mind like the coffee shop next door did a few minutes later.
There was a mural with Jimi, Janice, Bob M, and maybe Che – I can’t remember. What I do remember were the creepy lurkers and stranglers – one in particular who spent at least 20 minutes perparing a joint in true psychotic single-mindedness. My single mind fell right asleep after I smoked some of the “tourist weed” – yeah that’s right. That’s what we were told Amsterdam weed was in Rotterdam. . . where they’re serious about weed I guess.
After an hour or so of sleep and a quick glance at a publication that featured many, many naked women posing with buds we headed back to the hotel in prep of a photo shoot. One of the few of the trip. . . By the way the magazine was called Soft Secrets – it was about growing pot and I guess getting your girlfriend to pose topless with a mask in front of your product!
Speaking of photos I hate a photo shoot – just hate it. Mainly because we’re no good at it – and maybe that’s defeatist of me but shit – you gotta draw the line somewhere. Sometimes I think the three of us standing together is just so stupid. . . so damn revealing as well. We’re just three awkward people – or who the fuck knows. Maybe that’s just me – the other dudes in Oneida are perfectly well adjusted.
Anyway – I was sitting by the canal in front of The Paradiso – the converted church giant venue in Amsterdam that unlike the rest of the country’s venues (aside from Vera) has some charm, stained glass, etc. . . and there were a couple boats rolling by just filled with women. . . they looked like they were just this side of Sex In the City – milder – more approachable – if it weren’t for the water separating us I might have considered joining them. But maybe it was a girls’ night out.
Either Holland doesn’t like rock or doesn’t like Oneida – but we do alright in Amsterdam. . .
We had an amazing dinner backstage of Indian food we stumbled across after Lisa (our tour manager for the trip) was lead astray trying to find some Donner (euro way of saying turkish) food. She did say she was terrible at directions – and love her to death but we didn’t find the joint. So after about 45 minutes of a walk along a canal we picked this Indian joint that actually had excellent food – way better than the food on 6th Street – for the record.
I was soon backstage and the interviewer there insisted on talking to the “leader” of the band. . . well being Oneida there ain’t no leader.
“Then the lead singer.”
“We all sing.”
“Who’s in charge?”
“No one is in charge.”
We weren’t being difficult – its just a fucking fact – it was really hard for her to grasp. At the same time I was nodding out – I felt like maybe people thought I was a junkie. It was weird – in my dream state I thought it made me more mysterious. . . nodding out backstage sitting upright in a chair. Whatever.
So I woke up to be bored by Jagga Jazzist playing in the main room. . . we were supposed to start when the JJ finished their set in the main room – we were upstairs in this smaller room – the cloister area, or the vestry or the area where the priests used to fondle choir boys. . .
We did our sound check and this young woman with a pierced tongue and very American stoned accent was like, “Hey that was cool, your sound check sounded good. Really punky. When are you going to play?”
She was “backstage” or whatever you want to call it – in reality it was a hallway and a closet – literally.
I told her and she started making small talk and got me thinking.
“So, have you ever been to the ‘Dam?”
I had to laugh at this – she seemed like she was about 18 years old – she wasn’t giving off an insecure vibe really – but the ‘Dam?
“Yeah – I’ve been here before.”
“I never have, I’m here with my Dad. He’s pretty cool.” They were there earlier to see Robin Trower do a blues set. It didn’t sound terrible. She was from the US Virgin Islands . . . which seemed like a strange place to be from.
I kept it cool because she was making me feel like a creep. I’m pretty sure she didn’t stick around for the set.
The set in the ‘Dam was alright – we saw our Dutch distribution person – and he was very cool to us and stuck around to see us play.
When I asked the bartender if they had any Amstel beer he just said “No”. . . I had heard that Amstel (not the light beer we get here) wasn’t terrible. But in general it seems like the Dutch could care less about local this and that.
Later in the trip someone told me that the rest of Europe calls Holland the America of Europe. . . I can see what they mean. It was the least disorienting place of the trip and because of that it was the most alienating.
Local indifference is part and parcel of the Oneida Europe experience.
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