the russian cure.

The math went like this:

sound check = 4pm
+ we hit the stage = 2am
+ free beer
+ piping-hot vodka and lemon shots blowtorched by a feisty Russian lass = 3.50 euro
+ roughly 6,000 random joints being passed around
+ general Rube Goldberg carnival atmosphere (an example: the second-to-last picture below is actually a combination motorcycle/espresso machine)

I have never been that fucked up onstage before. The upside: the concentration that our altered states required from us resulted in a tremendously focused hour of music. The downside: today.


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