!Viva Polska!

On being reminded what the song "Problem" is about

First off, let me get one thing absolutely clear. We have been welcomed with wonderful hospitality at every location on this European tour. Poland in particular will always be a place of huge affection for us. We write songs about the place because we really admire and respect the people and the culture there. We have great friends there and will always come back whenever we can.  

But.

The song “Problem” exists for a reason. We haven’t been back in ages and had kinda forgotten what that reason was. We now remember.  

To begin, one of the strengths of so many Polish people is their ability to just not give a fuck. This is a real life skill. That is what the song is about. But when the thing they don't give a fuck about happens to be you or something you really need… well. Last night started off just kind of amusing, and it ended up kind of insane.

We arrived at the provided location in Wroclaw and stood around for 20 minutes wondering why there was a closed gate preventing us from driving in. Eventually, after a promoter finally came out and found us, he called some lady who opened the gate. We got the van into a random parking lot and each picked up a load of extremely heavy merch and gear. We walked quite some distance before getting to the front of the club, where there was… of course… a parking spot. “Can we take this one?” “Oh. Sure, if you want…” Kurwa mać.

We got up to the venue in some clunky old elevator and found the backstage. They had provided some nice beer and food, and this was much appreciated, though the beer was all warm. We asked if there was a fridge we could put it into. “Ah, our fridge… it was stolen”.

Later on, Seamus mused: “Do you think it was taken by the Soviets when they pulled out in 1991?” Kurwa mać.

I was shown to a back staircase where we could exit the building if things got too crowded. Later on, after the set, when sweat was pouring down my body like the Amazon river, and when things were indeed too crowded to go anywhere, the same person who’d shown me the exit spotted me using that exit and angrily shouted “HEY! WHERE ARE YOU GOING??” She then informed me that no, no, this exit was not to be used. No. no exit. Kurwa mać count: 3.

Concert time came, and it was truly wonderful to see so many smiling faces in the crowd. Then, those faces began to melt, and each of us started a slow biological collapse in what turned into monstrous heat. Probably 110F/40C in there, not kidding. There were 9-10 rotating fans lined up above the room on the wall, they didn’t seem to be on. I asked them to turn them on. The reply? “Oh, they…. not work for many months now.” Must have been those damn Soviets again. Everyone was absolutely dying in there and a couple of us actually had to lie down:

Kurwa mać count: 4. Próbłęmy.

I have been trying to wear ear protection as my hearing needs to heal from a few really loud gigs, and on stage I was wearing a badass double-protection scheme, so I thought I’d be fine. But once we started, I felt like some kind of earthquake was travelling up through my body, bass frequencies that were probably giving Humpback Whales boners in the South China Sea. Turns out I was standing on top of a huge subwoofer under center stage that had not been switched on for soundcheck but which the sound guy definitely decided to blast as soon as we actually started. After making three requests on stage, I finally said “The subwoofer stops, or we stop.” It stopped. In 800 shows I’ve never heard anything like it. Kurwa mać 5. Próbłęmy 2. O Kurwa.

The venue drum carpet was too old and the kick drum kept moving around, making it impossible to play. I shouted from the stage: “We need something heavy in front of it!” The guy just looked at me and shrugged. Próbłęmy 4.

I tried to load out our gear after the show. “The elevator doesn’t work”, they said. “Yes it does,” we replied, “we used it to bring the gear up.” They sighed and let us get to the elevator. I stuffed some amps and merch into that Soviet-era machine, and as the door was closing, a very nice bartender suddenly jumped into the elevator with us. “I have to show you how it work,” she explained. “You cannot go to 0 floor until you go to -1 floor.” She brought us to -1, a dark basement with water dripping down the walls. We looked at her. She looked at us. Was this the moment we would finally be kidnapped and imprisoned in a sex dungeon? No, sadly, just another broken thing that no-one wants to fix. Kurwa mać 5.

But all of this was nothing, really, for now, the real hilarity begins. After meeting and greeting with some wonderful fans, I zipped back to the hotel to get check-in started. The person behind the hotel desk—who I can only assume was recovering from a recent rather serious blow to the head— told me that the 8 touring members had 8 single rooms. I double-checked, and she confirmed. You math geniuses following along at home will have already deduced that this is one room per person. This was great news as the hot gig had destroyed us and a couple of us were even feeling nauseous from dehydration. We needed to lie down now. So I grabbed my room. Eventually two others grabbed theirs and passed out as well. You math geniuses following along at home will now deduce that there were 5 of us left.

And of course the front desk staff suddenly realized that we in fact had only four total rooms. They panicked and gave five keys to five guys…. for one room with one single bed. Problem.

Downstairs some of us went, asking them to please sort this out, and we were told that they didn’t know which rooms everyone else was in. I was a hotel desk clerk for 4 years. I know how easy this should have been. Yet, it took an hour to sort out, endless calls, trips back downstairs, and a frantic text from the bass player saying: “Guys! They sent me to room 529! Room 529 doesn’t exist!”

Kurwa mać 6,7, 8b, 418. Próbłęmy 12. UWAGAAAAAAAA.

And so, you know, you learn to adapt. At breakfast, some of us sat in a breakfast area and started eating, only to have some guy come over and say: “Ah… you cannot into this breakfast. This hotel two hotels. Another breakfast for you. You go.” Eventually we figured out that the same hotel building had two separate companies running a hotel in it—great idea, wonderful idea, nothing wrong with that idea—and that we were somehow in the wrong area, even though we’d checked in at the same area.

Where I come from, what you do in that situation is apologize, get up, find your proper area and sit down. But this was Poland. Nie mój cyrk, nie moje małpy. (Not my circus, not my monkeys.)

So I just stared at him until he went away. Problem… solved.