Maximum RNR European Tour Diary
Monday May 14, 2007 @ 05:00 PM
By: ChartAttack.com Staff

Maximum RNR

ChartAttack friends and known perverts Maximum RNR went to Europe on tour with The Spades. Here's what guitarist Keith Carman had to report:

Ah, Europe. The place where history comes from and people can go see live sex shows, drink in the streets and inhale just about anything flammable without fear of legal repercussion. It seems like the perfect environ for a budding blossom like my band, Maximum RNR.

So why were these people so freaked out by us? I mean, we're talking about a city like Amsterdam where portable toilets are little more than a wide-open, four-man phone booth with a collection trough. You walk by people openly pissing on the street. Still, we dirt-rockers got more stares, glares and frightened children than a symposium on untreated genital diseases.

Maybe we should face the other way.

Even The Spades, men who've ingested more drugs than vitamins over the years and pride themselves on participating in some of the most abhorrent events this side of Motley Crue's The Dirt, were repulsed by our disregard for hygiene, endless penis tricks and stench, stench, stench.

Anyhow, after a few months of organization, preparation and finger-crossing, Maximum RNR were able to accept the offer of a European tour with said Dutch counterparts in support of our recent split seven-inch out on Relapse Records. Packing little more than a toothbrush and guitar strings, we hit the airport (running into/flying with friends The Creepshow and Alexisonfire en route) to jet off for 10 days of shows, alcohol and disturbing encounters with locals in The Netherlands, Germany, Austria, Switzerland, Slovakia, the Czech Republic and Hungary. Neither us, nor those countries, will ever be the same.

In fact, I'm sure that after seeing us, they'd like to close the Iron Curtain again for good. Now they know what capitalism truly breeds. As per usual, though, we've boiled the experience down to the finer moments. We're saving the juvenile Maximum Golden Shower stories for people who'll buy us beer.

Eindhoven, Netherlands:

Luck stuffed a size 13 horseshoe up MRNR's ass on this day. Not only was the weather perfect for our outdoor show, but apparently Eindhoven's soccer team had a one-in-a-million chance of winning the championship — which they did. Our gig on a flatbed in the town centre was a mess of beer, pot and loogans screaming away at us. Naturally, the evening deteriorated into piss fights at a recently erected statue of some political heavyweight, random smashing of shit and our lovely bassist Mike Sydney being so drunk that he tried to table-surf at a patio bar. Imagine our amazement as he was grabbed by bouncers and tossed into the joint instead of onto the curb so as to protect him.

Maybe the shenanigans and overindulgence were too much for Spades singer Denvis Wank-A-Lot, though. He was short on patience with the lighting guy in Venlo the next night. After continually asking light dude to leave the fucking light rig alone while they played, Wank-A-Lot lost it, stormed off the stage and effectually punched the guy's lights out. He then jumped back on stage and into the song without missing a beat.

Zurich, Switzerland:

Nothing like stepping into the middle of a Nazi/anarchist riot to get the blood pumping before a gig. After this, and a painfully long day of 10 guys packed into a beastly van, the thought of letting out some aggression on another human body sounded like great fun. That was until the aromatic fragrance of tear gas lovingly caressed our orbital cavities into a state of liquidity. We also narrowly missed the skinhead who'd just been beaten bloody and was getting chased by a mob carting an entire stainless steel fence. Perfecting the scenario was the peace festival being held in a squat the size of a small city right next door. Then we found out that the overly fancy club we were playing in was owned by a member of Celtic Frost, provoking a divide in the camp between calling them sellouts and loving that the beer fridge was constantly restocked. I guess Satan does pay the bills.

Budapest, Hungary:

Screw Stephen Hawking. You know who the smartest people in the world are? Hungarian strippers. Hawking may be able to scientifically prove everything from the nanosecond after the big bang, but it's a half-naked woman shaking her ass in front of him that would make him toss dollar bills like they were going out of style. No, no one in our touring party has the IQ of Hawking, but we're smart. Still, three of us got so fucking roped into a bawdy house that the threat of physical injury was literally looming over us. He was about 6'5" and built like a brick shithouse… which incidentally was what our bassist left in his tighty whiteys after finding out that he'd been suckered out of $200 Canadian for a glass of wine, a shitty lap dance and blue balls. You think I'm joking. This says nothing about the Hungarian Gestapo fucking cops who kept harassing our Keith Maurik for his passport because he was so unkempt that he looked like he should be carrying a bomb.

Slovakia:

Note to touring bands: Slovakian cops rule. They're so fucking corrupt you have to love them. Pulling up to the border, we were greeted with lighthearted jokes about how Canada beat Slovakia in some hockey game the night before and were merrily sent on our way. Little did we realize that the two-faced guard had called ahead to his colleagues who then pulled us over, noting that we had too many people in the van and a driver without a license. Some roadside wheeling and dealing pulled the "we could forget this incident happened" bribe request down to 200 Euros from 500. Getting fisted by this pig felt shitty, but not as bad as the smile he beamed at us right after.

German border:

At least the Slovakian guy could be bought off to avoid the whole incident being "officially recorded," unlike when we pulled up to the German border. The same ordeal happened, sans-bribing, leaving two MRNR members and a Spade to hitch-hike the Autobahn with an hour left to get to the show in Berlin. Thankfully, a nice Dutchman gave us a lift. Imagine a Spade, Keith Maurik and I — all sweaty, hairy and reeking of beer — whipping down the Autobahn in a brand new BMW at 200-plus kilometres per hour. We made it on time to set up, play and leave again. Then the van broke down just as we reached home base in Eindhoven. Pulling yet another horseshoe out of our collection, a friend of The Spades just happened to be passing by and helped us back to the squat.

As much as Maximum RNR hate to admit it, Danko Jones is right: Europe fucking rules. Not only were crowds fun and receptive, but we were treated like… humans. Even by the venues were good to us, with endless beer, food, water and payment. Wow! It's just hard to get used to bands starting around 9 p.m., when we're barely even drunk yet. Thank God you can booze it up pretty much anywhere there — even in vehicles. Now we'll see if we're invited back.