I realized then that he had shorted 220 volts of power from the microphone through his mouth, out of his hands, through his guitar to his amp and into the earth, for it was exactly this that was lacking in the electrical power system.
I realized then that he had shorted 220 volts of power from the microphone through his mouth, out of his hands, through his guitar to his amp and into the earth, for it was exactly this that was lacking in the electrical power system.
Hostess with the mostest – Iva in Bratislava
29-06, 12.30. Tabanovce, Macedonia.
We were welcomed by our hosts, Jasper, Lia and Monia, in Vranje at 20.00 and had dinner at a brilliant Kafana called Dva Drugara, were we met up with another friend of Koen’s, Dragan. Glistening platters of meat were presented to us in all their glory, accompanied by glasses of Rakia. Best grill in Serbia. Ike on the other hand was again eating the same Shopska salad – this time accompanied by cheeses-soufflés -that he’d been eating exclusively after passing the Danube. The Balkans is no place for vegetarians. We continued the party at our apartment where Stefan was drinking Rakia like it was lemonade. We had a two-hour delay leaving for Mitrovica the next day because Stefan had relived the Rakia experience all over again in the middle of the night. And the next morning. And a couple of times in the afternoon. There were no problems at the Serbian – Kosovo border. On the Serbian side, there is no official border, cause that would imply an independent status for Kosovo, a state with a vast Albanian majority. As we drove to the north of the youngest state of Europe, we passed quite a few Serbian settlements, including one of the oldest Serbian Orthodox monasteries in the city of Gračanica. These enclaves, some of which guarded by heavily armed soldiers to prevent possible attacks, served as a taste of what we might aspect in Kosovska Mitrovica.
Get the WOLVON on
The city, close to the north Serbian border, was split in to two sides during the war for Kosovo independence, with the river Ibar acting as a physical barrier. In the north the Serbians that refused to leave their home city during the conflict have gathered, now living in a country with an Albanian majority. All the Albanian inhabitants of the city have moved to the south to be part of the new state. Because of the history and the tight-knit social construct of both sides most people do not cross the main bridge of the city because of possible accusations of collaboration. We circled the city for a bit to cross the northern most bridge, passing Portuguese military vehicles that are part of the KFOR mission to keep things stable. Normally we would’ve taken the main bridge, but it was barricaded at the Serbian side. Later I learned only a small but influential percentage of the Serbian population of Mitrovica was behind the dumping of a big pile of rubble at the northern entrance of the bridge. Although large the barricade is mostly symbolic and put there to impress; you are still able to pass the bridge by foot.
In Mitrovica we are playing at the Mitrovica Rock School, which has two branches, one in the north and one in the south. The staffs of both branches do not meet regularly, only some of the managers get together every now and then, but most communication is done by e-mail. The kids that go to both schools only get one chance a year to play together, when they stay for one week in Skopje, Macedonia, on a summer school organised by the rock school. We had a great time doing the workshops, although some kids seemed more interested at showing off their heavy metal guitar tapping skills than messing around with our weird effects pedals. SLAYER!
We nailed the Mitrovica gig. The three new songs that we’re trying out during this tour for our upcoming recording dates worked a lot better they did at Belgrade, and the audience was not completely alienated by our music, which must have been somewhat estranging for them, judging by the blues rock that we’ve been hearing for 2 days straight. After the show a guy that had visited the Netherlands before said our music embodied the Dutch Depression. Yes. Score. Neon Rainbows played their most energetic show since I first saw them at Lepel Concerts, Groningen last year. Later that night we met one of the managers of the southern branch of the school. It was quite an emotional experience for her because it was the first time in 12 years she crossed the bridge to the north, where she’d had come so often as a child. This broken city needs mending, and the Mitrovica Rock School does a great job at it.
In the hospitality ward
The next day we left for Prishtina, the capital of Kosovo, to play at the Hardrock Café. Kosovars are unbelievably hospitable; it was like being laid down to rest on a bed of rose petals, Rakia and ćevapčići. Our host and promoter Guri, guitarist of the band Gillespie, made sure that we would not forget about this city any time soon. Prishtina is a student city, with lots of cool bars and cafés to hang out in, which also meant lots of bars to watch the match between Portugal and Spain that evening. The fact that neither team had scored while the 90th minute approached rapidly meant that it would take even longer before we could start the gig. At the end we had to wait until 23.30 with less audience than normally would’ve been the case. Despite this setback the gig was a lot of fun, reminiscent of playing in small, sweaty cafes in the Netherlands. While I was flailing around during the second song I saw Ike sliding from one end of the bar to the other, slipping, falling and recovering into his trademark somersault, making it back to the microphone just in time to sing the second verse. Soccer has got nothing on rock ‘n’ roll.
Hardrockin’ in Hardrockers
Next stop Skopje. We took a little detour, leaving Kosovo trough Serbia, then southwards to the capital of Macedonia, which lies not too far from the Serbian border. Chances were that if we would’ve entered Macedonia straight from Kosovo, we could get in trouble trying to enter Serbia again on the way back, seen as we left the country illegally, not passing any official Serbian border. The heat was blazing on the car park where we met Dean, co-owner of the only alternative music bar in town, together with his girlfriend Stella. He told us we lucked out with the weather. The first rain since two weeks had fallen just a day ago, and temperatures were around 30/35 degrees, rather than the 40/45 of before. This is the most southern destination of our tour and the heat, in combination with short nights and long days in the car, is slowly starting to take its toll.
La Kana
The venue is really cool, with lots of vinyl and old photos of indie legends on the wall from both former Yugoslavia and the “western” world. Playing this show evokes mixed feelings for the bands as well as the audience and staff; because this might be the bar last show ever. Due to some change in legislation a week ago and a check that followed the next day, La Kaña, as the bar is called, got a huge fine for having loud music after one ‘o clock. They were not informed about the new rule, and together with an unpaid fine from the year before (they did not have the funds to cover the fine), this seemed like the final push by the city’s government to close one of the most important places of Skopje’s underground scene. The owner is court ordered the next morning, and does his best to stay positive.
Rock School cannibalism
Right now we are going back the same way we came, to the north, avoiding the mountains, where we’ll be staying the night at a squat in Belgrade where Boris of Repetitor is building a bar with friends. Tomorrow we’ll head to Tešanj, Bosnia and Herzegovina, and the day after we’ll play at a bbq show in Sarajevo. Right now we’re waiting in line for the Macedonian – Serbian border, nodding our heads to Shocking Blue’s Send Me A Postcard from Koen’s super eclectic road music compilation extravaganza.
WOLVON bridging the gap in Skopje. Or gaping on the bridge (take your pick)
03-07, 02.30 München, Germany
The last part of the tour was slightly disastrous. Trouble started when we went back from Macedonia to Serbia. With the ‘official’ Serbian document in hand, we were up for a smooth transition, and good times when rejoined with Boris in Belgrade. We did our normal border routine, driving behind the van, no loud rock music, no sunglasses, and preferably no Ike behind the wheel cause he looks like a hippie. The van passed the booth and the check-up, we drove up to the customs officer, smiled our smiles and did our utmost to put the word ‘transit’ as many times grammatically possible in one sentence. We got pulled over. Our customs officer was a clean-shaven young man, wearing a grey uniform, a matching hat, a matching gun and had matching, piercing, grey eyes. He did not smile. It seemed he had once learned perfect English, then had gotten rid of all the words he deemed unnecessary, below his stature, and than had mastered an intonation to accompany the few remaining words that could make grown men cry. He was not a big man. He did not need to be. He ordered us out of the car, stood behind us, pointed at a white building with offices and said “Walk.” We walked, not exactly knowing which entrance to go to, feeling much like the sheep that we were, though the wolf was the one that did the herding.
Border guard bribes, proudly displayed
We had to wait in a small hallway. He looked at me, said “You come.” and directed me to a small, locked off cubicle containing one table and lots of lockers. He ordered me to empty my pockets. It was only then that I remembered I was still carrying the blue lighter with the Kosovo flag around that was given to me by one of the many street vendors in Prishtina. I tried to put my belongings on the table as nonchalant and possible, hoping that the lighter would end up facing downwards. It did not, I feared for the worst but the officer did not flinch. I was ordered to take off my pants and shoes, which he frisked and there I stood in my shorts and t-shirt feeling quite vulnerable. “Take off.” I waited a bit too long, looked up at him, he declaimed: “This is border patrol. Strip.” and hastily I did. Nothing to declare. I put my clothes back on as fast as I could, went back trough the hallway, past the remaining three musketeers that by this time were looking rather glum, and was ordered to wait outside.
Of course nobody was stupid enough to have drugs on them or any other illegal goods, and 10 min. later we were emptying the car. Apart from a bullet casing that Ruben had taken from the Gun Club, some fisherman’s friends and my organic shampoo, that looked pretty much exactly like hashish, the guy did not find anything that could be to any extend suspicious. His superior walked over, said to him he was wasting his time and we were set free. Lots of laughter when we met up with the Rainbows, and during the remaining trip to Belgrade I pondered over the fact that I had double checked everything to make sure I wouldn’t accidentally take some hash with me, but packed a small lump of the brownish clay like substance that is my girlfriends’ organic shampoo into a small plastic bag without blinking an eye.
Beograd art
We ended up at the Belgrade squat around 20.00 in the evening, where we were lead to a cosy room filled with Yugoslav curiosa, drank the Rakia we bought in Macedonia and talked about Yugo-nostalgia with our hosts. The next day we took an outdoor shower with the garden hose and continued to follow the highway trough a small part of Croatia and than back south to Tešanj. The Croatian side of the Serbian-Croatian border was the worst border we’d encounter during the whole tour. Our car could pass, but the Croatians did not accept that we did not posses an Ata Carnet. This time around a 30-euro cup of coffee would not do the trick, as it was clear that these men meant business. After being sent from the customs officer to the import/export officer and back, the man in charge had lost his patience with us, and had sent the van back the way we came from, into the long line of cars waiting to enter Serbia. There was a small moment of panic, as it was totally unclear what it was that needed to be done.
We stopped trying to talk with the customs officer that we first encountered, because he was not very helpful, to put it mildly. Luckily, René found another official that was, and he helped us to get pass the line, back into the line for the Croatian border, but this time the one for the trucks. We were forced to pay 225 Euros for an escort that would come along with us (for the 1 hour of Croatian highway) and made sure we left the country, not taking any detours and selling any of our equipment. We had no choice and after 3 hours of blazing sun we were finally back at it again.
No problems at the Bosnian border, and when we finally arrived in Tešanj, saw the beautiful castle where we would play the Balkan Street Festival, our spirits lifted. Our gear got hauled the steep path that led to the castle by a multi-kultivator, we discussed playing times and our host Amir showed us to our first hotel of the tour, where we took a quick shower. The festival started two hours later then planned, because of the afternoon heat. On the bill were lot of local bands, some playing covers and others their own songs. Groove Embassy and Dyzack, two Dutch acts that were touring the same region through Platform Spartak, played before us, and around one it was time for Neon Rainbows to hit the stage.
As Youri tried to plug in the cable from the DI-in of the mixer into his bass amp disaster struck, as sparks flew around and the mixer was officially dead. Youri got a small shock as well, and the sound guy did not know how to amplify the vocals. Luckily the dj had a small mixer with a microphone input, which we connected to the PA-sytem. Ruben soundchecked the microphone: “Haimo Tešanj!” (Let’s go Tešanj!) and everything seemed peachy. René strapped on his guitar, played a few chords and started warming up the audience by telling them how great it was to be playing in such a beautiful place. Before he could finish his sentence he got thrown back off his feet, accompanied the loud undefined sound his amp made when his guitar hit the floor.
At first I thought that it was one of his stage antics, trying to please the young Bosnian crowd that had been waiting for the last two bands for quite some time. For a split second the thought crossed my mind that it was just a little static shock that you can sometimes get from a mic when holding a guitar, and that he was just overreacting. When he didn’t get up I saw that he was truly out of it, his eyes boggled towards the sky and a little stream of blood coming from the corner of his mouth. I realized then that he had shorted 220 volts of power from the microphone through his mouth, out of his hands, through his guitar to his amp and into the earth, for it was exactly this that was lacking in the electrical power system.
René got carried of the stage, dazed and confused, bleeding from his tongue where he bit himself upon receiving the shock. We decided it was unsafe to continue, and so the gigs of both bands were cancelled, and the festival ended prematurely. Because of René’s condition, and the fact we might get in more trouble at the Croatian border on the way back, we also cancelled the gig that was planned the next day in Sarajevo, and instead started driving back home this morning.
Although the last part of the tour was fucked, as we had to cancel one third of the gigs, we had a great time at the other shows, encountering nothing but hospitable people, good food and drinks and seeing beautiful places. (And a lot of borders.)The drive back home has been fine up to this point. We’ve gotten as far as München and we’ll sleep in some roadside motel in order to finish our journey home, back towards the Dutch Depression, tomorrow.