Journal: May 28, 2003
May 28, 2003
This is my first journal entry about the first show I played on the first tour I played with T&S.; All the events depicted are real.
My First Time (by Ian Browne)
The 737 bumped and lurched as we swooped down over the Spanish foothills and towards the landing strip in Madrid. From the air the outlying suburbs looked like a sea of Vancouver specials stretching towards the horizon. The city loomed magnificently in the tiny airplane window, a huge pileup of concrete and stone. As we landed some bon-vivant opened his complementary snack pretzels and showered us in celebration.
Before long I was outside the terminal with my bags, scanning the crowd for a sign with my name. After a short time a polite young Spanish lad identified me and spoke some broken English to me, which I assumed was to direct me towards the vehicle. Luckily this turned out to be true, as I’ve had Spaniards approach me at the airport before and managed to get myself into some pretty hairy situations before finally unveiling their intentions. Anyhow, he seemed on the level so we loaded the metric tonne of equipment and personal belongings into the small van and careered at breakneck speed towards downtown. I made conversation along the way by reading billboards and signage in mock Spanish and laughing hysterically. Eventually out of disgust he stopped talking to me, and again I was alone with my thoughts.
Upon arrival at the hotel, I thanked my driver and made my way up to the room. I was delighted to find that I had been given a room to myself, and immediately set about my ritual of “personalizing” my temporary living space. I hung my fancy silk draperies about the room and unpacked my favourite tea set. I arranged all my dolls on the back of the sofa and chatted to them about how much fun it was to be in such a fancy country. Then as usual I stripped buck nekked and began my primal chanting therapy. After 45 minutes of wildly screaming and gesticulating, I found myself getting a bit peckish. As I turned the light on to get ready to go out, I suddenly realized that I was not alone after all. Chris Carlson, illustrious bass player for T&S;, formerly of legendary rockers Big Gulp, was staring at me, wide-eyed, cowering in fear and shock from behind the life-size Peter Pan statue I had placed in the far corner of the room. “Nice to meet you Chris”, I said, extending a sweaty palm, “my name’s Ian and I’m a drummer”.
Later that day, we met in the lobby to be taken to the Spanish TV station, where we were to be taped for a very popular music show. I was introduced to Katina, the UK label rep who charmed and delighted us with her London (Ontario?) accent. Tegan and Chris Hibbins soon appeared and we exchanged high-fives. It was at this moment that I became overwhelmed with nervousness... I realized that I had met everyone except Sara. The moment of truth had arrived. Just then, an unearthly glow emanated from the elevator doors... The light becoming brighter and more intense as the elevator made it’s way to the lobby. When the doors finally opened I had to shield my eyes for fear of being blinded. Out of the elevator stepped the most heavenly creature I have ever seen.
She seemed to hover above the ground as she came closer, her eyes fixed on the ground in front of me. I stood frozen like a statue, unable to move. Finally, after an unbearably long silence, she spoke:
-“I’m Sara, who the hell are you?”
-”Nobody. I’m nobody”, I said.
-”He’s the drummer”, a voice from behind me said.
-”Whatever. Get in the van”.
I was spellbound...
Soon we were driving past beautiful old parks, ancient monuments and fountains... They all whizzed by as we drove at top speed through town, through the burbs, finally to be greeted by armed guards outside the TV studios. Eventually after Hibbins convinced them we didn’t pose much of of a threat they let us through to the inner courtyard. We made our way inside the building, where throngs or producers, handlers, grips, make-up artists... All with cigarettes burning in both hands... guided us through the labyrinth of hallways to our dressing room. There we found an amazing spread of local delicacies that defy description. Nobody had a chance to get a shwarma before leaving the hotel and we were all famished. However the plate of delicacies offered some unusual items... After hypothesizing on whether or not it was sushi or just egg and seaweed... Or is that seaweed? Hmmmm. Carlson picked up egg with tobiko roll and popped it in his mouth. I’m telling you now folks, the look on his face as he bit down on that weird thing will amuse me for the rest of my days. He had a look as though to say “I have made a grave error in judgement”. Or perhaps “why me?”. Eventually his look of fright would be justified later in the tour when he decided to drink curdled milk in Berlin and effectively poisoned himself for three days. For now though, we were just happy to be getting lavished with attention. They called us into the make-up chairs where a gaggle of housewives with cigarettes dangling out of their mouths tried desperately to make us not look like the translucent white Canadians. In the end, Carlson looked like Antonio Banderas, Sara looked like Jeniifer Lopez, and Tegan and I looked exactly the same, our features rendered indistinguishable by the layers of foundation. But now the preparations were over. The moment had arrived for me to prove my mettle in the only arena where it ever really counts: the stage.