I’m guessing there are those of you out there who have followed this... this... Thing from relatively early on and were wondering when I’d run out of steam, as it were. Wondering when the constant updates would let up; that I couldn’t possibly keep up the standard I’d set in the early days, that not only would my endurance lag, but so would my desire to hit the keyboard and put together update after update. Well, you’d be right to wonder. Cuz all that happened and then some. Of course, it wasn’t all brought upon by myself alone; there were extenuating circumstances preventing me from getting online or even having the time to get online. And you know what? I deserve a break. Subs ain’t the only ones ‘working’; in fact, I’d say, if it were a competition -- and it is not -- well... Nevermind. Enough whining.

 

After a day at chez Karen and Thomas in Oslo (during which, while enjoying a pleasant meal downtown sans band, I was, to give you the short story, kissed by a pretty famous Norwegian actor) we headed out to Arendal (the club sat below a Subway, and thus, our cover image for this installment, offering: “very good hot subs”) for the start of the busy portion of the Norwegian leg of the Adventure.

I wouldn’t call myself a big fan of either punk or metal, but even I was, yes, touched by the cross-genre love that was flowin in Arendal; first, a metal band played, and invited several punks (who were all up front for the first set) onstage to scream along to the music. The punks played to an enthusiastic metal-and-punk crowd and love, sure, was in the air. Prior to the show, though, we enjoyed a home-cooked meal high above the city in a cute little gazebo-y shack in local contact Chris’s backyard. We contemplated the bay and city below, the sky was blue and the sun was shining. Driving back into town I couldn’t help but notice a large noise every so often coming from Xiao Bai’s depths; a deafening SMACK-BOOM type of sound would happen every once in a while. But there was a show and we parked the car and I forgot about it.

Kang Mao gettin crazy with the duct tape, perhaps commenting, somehow, on the fact that half the room leaves halfway thru the show to smoke and hang outside. These are the same people who were having a great time during the first half -- and were still around afterwards talking about what a great time they had. A problem, our host Ivil (“evil”) tells us, that plagues all shows.

 

(Here I’ll add that I don’t want to sound like I’m bragging about how we drove 300 km with barely a fourth tire on the van. That would be as stupid as actually driving 300 km with barely fourth tire on the van)

The band went on to Bergen, the next stop on the tour, by ferry, leaving me and Xiao Bai in the company of local fix-it folks who, I was assured, would get me on the road in no time.

Shitzoo, a tight skate-punk outfit, opened the evening with a great set; Subs was good, but I could only think of tire troubles and thus, was slightly distracted. And also, we ran into old friends: The Mayflies, a Stavanger-based rock act that kicked ass at this past year’s Midi Festival, showed up to relive their China experience.

What they’re saying here, during one of those moments where the doctor calls in the interns to see some rare disease, is “Holy crap. Did they drive on this thing?”

The junkyard outside of the garage and not unlike the many other garage-neighborhoods I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time in on this trip: This is the result of the pouring rain I had to walk through for a half hour to return to the garage. So I was wet. But you know, despite the tire problems, the pouring rain, the me-soaking-to-the-bone, I can’t complain about the full day of me time. Especially since -- cliche as it is (but I guess cliches are cliches for a reason) -- the 35 days of being on the road were, to put it lightly, taking their toll on us all. And the drive to Bergen was glorious.

 

When I arrived, the band had already been met by a two-person film crew, and, thus, it was showtime for the next few days, as they’d be continuing the shooting started upon Subs’ first invitation to Norway, back in May of last year. Thus the band started to get used to -- not for the first time -- the constant presence of cameras. And an extended use of their English skills. I’m told that in my absence their English improved lots; add to that the crew’s request that I speak English to the band on camera, I realize that they can speak far more English than they let on, and so, I am lightening my responsibilities from this point forward.

The road takes its toll, but on we drove, into Western Norway. I realize now that it’s not just laziness, intermittent internet access and busy-ness preventing me from writing; it’s the inability to talk too much about so many shows, especially this being a several-days-after retrospective. And that’s just not good reading. Though it would behoove me to add that though each city blurs into the previous and/or next (again: I have learned that all the on-tour cliches are true), I can’t say enough about each of our local contacts, who have helped in more ways than could possibly be laid out here. In addition to showing me the ins and outs of each city’s industrial/car-repair neighborhoods (in which I can now claim some expertise), they have treated us well, making sure that we’re touristed, fed, drank, and more.

 

Look! A fishing trip (again!):

Turns out that fly fishing is, actually, rock and roll. Wu Hao mixed things up by adding a little tension, below:

1. The backswing.

2. Realizing something is wrong.

3. The search for the fly.

The fly fishing trip took place on a little Viking farm just outside of Bygstad, the site of Aug 18’s gig. You can tell it’s a Viking farm by looking at the woman who served us a farm-alicious breakfast (with milk only hours out of the cow):

Thanks to Arle, of Good Time Charlie, who organized three gigs for us, we were set up in the farmhouse for a much needed day of rest. Good Time Charlie, a rockin-and-rollin blues band, played along with Subs the night before and, for what was likely the first time in Subs history, had people (swing) dancing -- not pogo-ing, not moshing -- in preparation:

With a farmhouse (in which we slept) to match.

And (for, especially, those China-based folks checking in) a field (just look at all that green):

The best part of breakfast? Berry-picking our dessert. Sure, the woman said that she desperately wanted to get rid of the berries; after a full spring/summer of using them in every imaginable way possible (plain, jam, with sauce, umm... in pie...), she talked about them like they were weeds. But not before singing their praises so that we’d eat a lot of them:

Also appearing that night was also Arle’s daughter Thea who played a really cool set of solo material; with a guitar and also a mando. A Cat Power/Joni Mitchell kinda vibe

But the real news Friday night (which appeared on the local wires on Saturday), was the cops. Yup, the po-lease. They were called in when the noise was too much for the neighbors. But you can see why the neighbors might have felt interfered with; the tent set up outside the bar was right on the fjord, and so was the rest of the town. Alas, the show was cut off early, much to the shock of the band and crowd; perhaps moreso the former, since they’ve been shut down back home, but didn’t expect it on this side of the planet, especially not in a town with fewer people than their xiaoqu. One thing’s international, though: It ain’t rock if the cops don’t come.

Heck, they even got Subs dancing. First, Kang Mao and Ture (I’m definitely spelling his name wrong), one half of the film crew, and then, Kang Mao and Wu Hao

Next stop, Forde, where the gig was at the Only Club in Town (that’s not the club’s name, just in case you weren’t sure). Which also happened to be the Only Disco in Town. Thus, if people were to go out on this Saturday night, they would certainly come to the Only Club in Town. And they did, but mainly late (as in, after the band finished) and, with virtually no exception, hammered.

 

First, again, Thea took to the stage, this time with a band behind her playing more rocked-up versions of her solo act, and then some. I confess to having been up in my hotel room while she played most of her set; the call to inform me that she was to start did not, contrary to earlier promises by the bar staff, come.

 

But. As Subs band played, I ventured deep into the club’s inner sanctums (sancti?) to discover that there were people -- as Kang Mao’s voice screamed, Wu Hao’s guitar howled, A Dongs drums were pummeled, as Zhu Lei’s bass banged -- dancing...

 

to...

 

The techno remix of ‘Country Roads’.

 

I take that line about the cops and rock music. Thrashing away on garage punk while clubbers dance, not several dozen metres away, to the techno remix of ‘Country Roads’: That’s rock.

 

Another thing that’s rock -- particularly rock on a long tour -- is a poorly-attended show. You can’t sell out Gongti every night, and, on this night, the last night before both university and high school starts (and, for those who might actually give a crap, the day that marks my sixth anniversary ‘in’ China: August 20), well, let’s just say that Subs didn’t sell out Gongti. Or Dos Kolegas. Or, to put it more directly: There were approximately 17 people in the room, including myself and the band and the staff (and I was typing this throughout the show, so not only should I not count, but audience members should be subtracted for my transgression). But: Let he who has never played a gig to a nearly-empty room throw the first stone.

That’s what I thought.

 

Ah, but getting here was an adventure, the adventure to which I alluded before, as our tire was flattened and, upon deciding to change it, I discovered that the jack in our car didn’t work. So, more slow driving until a gas station with a jack could be found -- a jack that could go high enough to cover the large clearance of our Xiao Bai: We went 0-for-2 until we found a station that fit our specs. And: I changed a tire. My first. Did I feel like a man? A little. But only until it came time to lower the car and the fancy hydraulic system wouldn’t oblige. And until it came time to tighten (not to mention loosen!) the screws in the tire. We took turns on both ends of the screwing. But we were, as of this moment (insert knock on wood here), laughing.

 

And about to rest up for tomorrow’s minimum 8-hour drive. And the next day’s 10-hour drive. And it goes on. But the rock can’t stop. Not for another 19 days, anyway (but who’s counting?).

 

Wah: Did you make it to the bottom?! How good of you: This was a long one!