R ight now Berlin is a joyful maelstrom. The whole city is beating like a heart—and we’re headed into the thick of it for two shows. Maybe it’s similar to playingE in San Francisco in June of 1967. r , On the Road with Napalm Beach 11/16/89—Written in a moving vehicle somewhere in West Germany by Jan Celt ©1989 Jan Celt This is an exciting time for an American band to be touring Europe. Quite aside from the tumultuous activity centered on Berlin, there are a number of U.S. bands touring the clubs and pubs, giving the public a wide range of choices. The Napalm tour has been blessed with an excellent support structure on the part of our German promoter and we’ve done well on every date so far. In some ways it ’s a lot like touring on the road in the States: the actual gigs are a brief highlight in a long chain of hotel rooms, sound checks, and above all, driving. We spend many hours in the blue bus. “ Driver, where are you taking us” is the refrain, right out of “ The End” by the Doors. Chris Newman breaks the monotony of the drowning motor with his hayseed humor—“ You have to be a ding-dong astronaut” to spend days on end in a little tin can with several other adults, watching the world go by. The view out the windows is often breathtaking— criss-crossing the snow-peaked Alps being a scenic highlight. We keep from going stir-crazy by engaging in fascinating conversations about the way everyone snores, farts and so on. One night, after getting lost in the fog in Maribor, Yougoslavia, we all got the most ridiculous giggling f it ever behind talking pig Latin. Laughing like 8-year-olds. There have been surprises. The club we were supposed to play in Vienna was shut down by the cops the night before. The crossing of borders has turned out to be much more of a pain than we had anicipated. By far the biggest and most pleasant surprise was the gig we did in the remote Bavarian dorf of Schwi- ndkirchen. It had been described as a suburb of Munich but that was inaccurate. This village is so small i t ’s not on most maps of Bavaria. It’s not even on all the road signs that lead to it. Add to this a thick evening fog and a heavy Bavarian accent that our German hosts from the north could barely understand, and i t ’s a wonder we found the Rockhaus. It’s kind of like a secret hideaway, known only to initiates. Most of the addresses on Main Street in this village are barns and that's a fact. But the barn at the side of the. Aller Wirt turns out to be the Rockhaus, where bands from all over the world come to play. They had a first-class sound system, five monitor mixes, everything. All of our other gigs are in actual cities with established underground rock scenes—this one was distinctly rural. Very friendly vibe. And those people came to rock! The band picked up on it from the moment they started to walk on the stage. Chris was completely focussed on his lyrics and blazing guitar. Sam had 38 Clinton St. Dec. ’89-Jan. ’90
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