Maximum RNR's Pee-Filled Tour Diary

11/28/08 5:35pm

by Keith Carman (CHARTattack)

Some things never change... namely Maximum RNR.

It's funny. Fellow guitarist Keith Mauronik and I were discussing how the Maximum RNR image is stale. No, not our hirsute aesthetic and dingy clothing. We don't care about that. We were bummed about the common impression that we do nothing but micturate like dogs and leave a trail of senseless destruction everywhere we go.

One would think that in a day and age when two-fifths of our band could effectively be grandparents (young ones at that, mind you), things like overt drunkenness, urine and loud, overbearing rock 'n' roll would be a thing of the past. While we're not about to don Hives-esque matching suits and turn down the amplifiers to comfortable levels, common sense should dictate that as we approach 10 years of assault, we might try to actually be "mature."

As our recent Beastage In The Eastage stint with Moncton's Iron Giant and fellow Toronto-based punkers Brutal Knights so obviously proved, apparently not.

As usual, we're saving the goriest of details and instead providing a Coles Notes account of what happened over those seven days. Here are the least offensive tidbits. God... we're still THAT immature. Thankfully it's not all our fault.

Fredericton, N.B.
The 22 of you who read (and nine who actually "loved," according to the fancy new ChartAttack website) our precursor to the tour might recall my mentioning of how often Iron Giant bassist P.J. Dunphy fancies the shedding of clothing.

He didn't disappoint. Fredericton was privy to yet another display of his girthy glory during the group's last song. Disrobing down to his sweaty birthday suit, P.J. began dancing around like a possessed stripper in dire need of liposuction and a body waxing while the band plugged on. Wrapped up in the moment, our beloved crooner Louie Durand couldn't resist getting in on the game, unsheathed his manhood and let go one of the biggest slashes in the history of bladder relief all over P.J.

Not to be outdone, P.J. immediately dropped to his knees and cupped his hands to accept Louie's golden gift, and poured it over his head in some sort of twisted rock 'n' roll baptism. Incited by the sticky yellow mess, P.J. then blasted through the crowd (Louie turned his stream on to PJ's clothes), jumped on the bar and began wriggling about as a testament to what every pole dancer shouldn't do.

Just before the bartender could hose him down with water, P.J. jumped down, barrelled back through the audience like a greased pig and finished the song. This was the same show that left one Fredericton punk in hospital after landing on his head during a stage dive. The grossest part, though, was watching P.J. climb back into his sweat and urine-soaked clothes. I can't be sure, but I think he wore them for a full extra day...

Saint John, N.B. Precursor:
After the Fredericton show, Iron Giant HAD to stop at one specific gas station to buy loads of shit that no human should ever consume: canned Vienna sausages, Fresca and those Styrofoam-ish corn twists. When asked why, they replied as to having weird rituals that must be adhered to. The ingestion of putrid petrol station crap was only a warm-up to seeing the Saint John tradition.

Saint John, N.B.
Once again, after pulling out of the quaint town after a show that included setting equipment on fire and bar staff losing their shit, we were urged to pull into another specific station where the Giant crew bought about a dozen pre-packaged pickled eggs. For the uninitiated, when opened, pre-packaged eggs stink so much they make feces smell of potpourri. We were aghast at thinking of how lovely the Giant van would smell in about an hour.

Sure enough, an hour down the dark highway, Iron Giant were signalling us frantically from their van. We pull alongside to see what the issue is, expecting one of them needing to puke, poop, or both. They roll down the window, ask us if everything was alright and then begin to slaughter us with the fucking eggs.

Thankfully, my prank sense was tingling and I rolled up the window before an egg aimed at Mauronik hit its target. They sped ahead so P.J. (getting an idea of who the instigator is here?) could stand out of the sunroof and throw said eggs all over our windshield. There are still fragments of pasty goo we can't get off. It was worth it to see them pull the same stunt on Brutal Knights, who weren't so savvy. One of them took two eggs to the noggin. Ah, the Saint John ritual.

Charlottetown, P.E.I.
There's nothing quite like seeing Iron Giant singer Chris Lewis (more on him later) strangling his own bassist unconscious while the rest of them play on. Yes, Lewis choked him to the point where P.J. collapsed into a heap on the stage and then slapped him back to our world in time with the music.

It was funny but freaky seeing P.J. with his eyes rolled back into his head and drooling like a baby. But to his credit, mere seconds later, the old guy was back upright, playing along and shaking off the murkiness. This lovely finale came as a result of the bar owner offering us more money if no one "set anything on fire or got naked." Word travels fast in the Maritimes.

Moncton, B.C.
Back in Moncton, most of the action happened before and after the gig... aside from the brawl that erupted during our set. We later found out the inimitable Lewis was a part of the fracas after being threatened by an inebriated patron. The dude must have been loaded because any sober individual would look at the towering, built-like-a-brick-shithouse Lewis and not-so-calmly head the other way. Luckily, drunkie's friends bailed him out before another Beastage-related hospital visit was in order. Oh, and more fire.

The real story, however: as a pre-gig treat, the three bands broke bread at our favourite restaurant in town. The single boys of the collective developed a fancy for our server and invited her to the show. She came out, enjoyed partaking in the post-show party and took a shine for one specific, er, "member" of the entourage, spending some quality alone time with him/it.

Showing up at noon the next day — during a snowstorm at that — the bleary-eyed individual declared a desperate need for sleep and regaled us with becoming BFF with his Francophone cabbie. Naturally, his meaningful overnight relationship's profession opened the sluice gates for "tip" jokes, i.e.: "double-tipping," "keeping the tip" and which tip was probably bigger. Hey, maybe groupies are the norm for most pretty boy bands, but with this unruly lot, we were proud of the guy.

Halifax, N.S.
Is it a problem when inebriation, urination, burning musical gear and fights are kind of run-of-the-mill? They all happened here, too, but we were pretty much unfazed at this point.

So much for growing old gracefully.