HellTrek Diary, Part Four

[mad_andy]

Part four: I feel like a pixie!


Now, in my experience tourbuses like to hide around the side or back of a venue, well out of sight of the fans; they’re a shy species, and prefer to disgorge their precious cargo in privacy. This one, however, a great bright red specimen, had no choice but to sit right out in the open; the venue had one way in and out, and we were all sitting right beside it. Nowhere to run, boys, nowhere to hide. Result, what what?

Of course, as luck would have it we’d missed Markus while off having lunch. Lia was pretty pissed about this, if the arm waving was anything to go by; as an English person Italian can be pretty funny to observe. It’s a forceful language, the words accompanied by flashing eyes and flapping hands, waving fingers and sweeping gestures. Plenty of emphasis on certain syllables, making a conversation sound - on occasion - like one of those nasty spitty catfights right before the fur begins to fly.

Anyway, we hung around and watched the tourbus like lions eyeing a sick gazelle. Somebody had to come out of it eventually and when they did--

Alright, I’m exaggerating. But when one is hanging around with nothing to do with one’s eyeballs except watch the tourbus it must seem like a bunch of hungry lions waiting to pounce on the first poor unfortunate to emerge; I also know that Italian fans have a rather unsavoury reputation for being a bit - well - intense with the boys. Like, chase-’em-down-the-street-howling intense.

We stood there and tried to look harmless. As it was cold (hell’s teeth, was it cold. Cold as a witch’s wotsit, no less) I wrapped my arms around Lia and pulled her close. Now, not only was this very very nice - I’ve never done the cuddling thing with anyone smaller than me before - but it kept us both warm; it also earnt us some very intriguing looks from passers by. Most would glance, presumably making the assumption that the taller and heftier of the two was a bloke.

Then they’d spot it was two girls and bam! Instant doubletake.

To the credit of the citizens of Milan, this was the end of it. Doubletake, mental shrug, move along. I’d asked Lia what the reaction was likely to be and she’d shrugged:

“We’re girls. Nobody minds girls kissing.”

Seemed to be true. In fact, there was a small group of teenage boys who appeared not only not to mind, but to be covertly watching us like hawks in case we did anything more interesting.

“Shall we,” I muttered in Lia’s ear, “start making out and see if we can make them fall over?”

That earnt me a poke in the ribs. Hey, I was bored!

The only other thing to watch was the steady stream of bootleg shirt traders arriving and setting up their stalls. Now, you get bootleg gear traders everywhere, even in the UK; but I was impressed by the sheer number of them here. It was amazing. Here at home you get maybe two, wandering up and down the line with an armful of t-shirts; in Milan there was a whole damn market of the buggers. The Helloween crew were less than amused by this, but it soon appeared that there was not a damn thing they could do about it. I assume it was the tour manager who stomped away from them swearing sulfurously under his breath in German. Another language that sounds good to swear in.

One of the bootleg traders was sitting on his table, swinging his legs and eyeing us quite openly; I rested my chin on top of Lia’s head (now I know why blokes do it to me - it’s so damn comfortable) and stared back at him. Two can play at that game, mate, I thought rather smugly, and was about to ask Lia if we could tease this staring person when two things happened at more or less the same time.

One, he looked away and made like he hadn’t been watching at all. Ha. If you’re going to stare, have the balls to stare. Don’t go all shy when you’re busted. Two, the bus door opened and two guys appeared. One of them being Dani, drummer, owner of gorgeous hair and seriously good legs. Nobody else was saying anything so here goes, Inglese...

“Dani!” I called, strolling past the rapidly growing little market and putting on my best I’m-not-dangerous-honest-Guv smile, “how’s it going?”

He turned, surprised, then smiled. His first reaction was not quite what I imagined, though on later reflection it made sense. It also set the tone for the rest of the day.

“Somebody who speaks English! Thank God...”

Well, that was us in, as they say, like Flynn. He seemed convinced that we weren’t dangerous, and once he’d helped the bus back up a bit - the duty for which he had, presumably, been booted off the bus, in much the same manner as penguins will shove one of their number into the sea to check for predators - he was charm personified. We had a brief discussion about his hair--

“It’s beautiful,” sighed Lia.

“It stinks,” he replied.

“Like we care?”

-- and asked for pictures. He obliged, and let me tell you something; when he gets behind you for a pic? He leans right into your back and puts his arms over your shoulders and good GOD but it’s enough to stop the heart, having a body like that moulded to your back. Flirt. No wonder his girlfriend has (reputedly) had to put him on a leash.











He asked me if I’d flown over for the gig; I told him yes, staying with a friend, we’d be in London, etc etc. The rest of the waiting fans, figuring out who we were talking to and observing that we hadn’t been shouted at, chased off, shot, bitten or anything else unfriendly, all pottered over for pics and signatures. And - gratifyingly - he kept chatting to us between dealing with them. Yes, I know, we were probably the only English speakers he’d bumped into for days but even so - it was nice. Eventually he had to head into the venue, and as he went I mentioned that we’d be at the front; ah, but it’s hard for me to see from the back, he replied.

“I’ll throw something to get your attention,” I grinned.

“Not bottles though, please?” he said, miming playing the drums with one eye swollen shut from a well-aimed bottle.

“Nah mate,” I said as he turned to leave, “I’ll throw me underwear!”

How he didn’t walk into the damn door as he whipped round and wiggled his eyebrows at me I have no idea. Nice guy. And damn, legs...

Back to waiting, more messing with the heads of passers by and listening to Lia chat with the rest of the proto-queue. It was an oddly lonely experience; surrounded by people and only being able to understand every twentieth word, and that because it was a song title or a band name. Or, of course, a swear word. And nobody was turning a hair at the fact that Lia was waving her arms and chattering from the relative warmth of her spot in my arms, leaning back against me.

It felt pretty damn strange, but... good. Every now and again somebody would feel sorry for me and address a sentence at me in halting English, or say something to Lia and she’d turn and translate for me, but even so. I’ve been all over Europe and this was the first time I’d come up against a language barrier; still, it seemed to be a positive thing as regards the band so hey. Silver linings and all that.

A fact underlined for me when Markus emerged from the venue, clutching a sandwich and blinking at the sunlight. Random Italian Nutjob jumped in front of me, and I hissed between my teeth.

“Jeeeeeeeeeeeesus!”

Markus looked up and smiled, imitating my accent and laughing. “You’re English?”

Ah-HA!

Now, Markus is underestimated by many people. And on that first meeting, I guess I can see why. His eyes are half hooded, sleepy, his hair was tousled and hanging over his eyes, he smiles and laughs and he talks quite slowly. But he’s a sharp one; those sleepy eyes miss nothing and he’s got a wicked sense of humour. I explained about the whole English thing (yes, over for the gig, staying with a friend, both travelling to the London show), we laughed and joked for a couple of minutes and then asked for a picture.

“With my breakfast?” asked Markus, raising his eyebrows.

“Sure,” I said, almost adding that I didn’t care what he was carrying just get in front of the damn camera. That, however, would have been rude; he was teasing, something I guess I’m not used to from - for want of a better word - rockstars.











Then Benedette proffered her wrist, upon which was tattooed a pumpkin, and asked him to sign it - which he did, whilst admiring the ink. Ah, another chance to catch the eye - opportunity knocketh, as they say.

“Pumpkins? Here, look at these.”

Off came the jacket, and up went the arm. Much oohing and aahing over the pumpkins, and then I saw heads beginning to tilt as various of the lads surrounding us tried to get a better look at the rest of my ink - Markus included. What can I say? I haven’t gone through all the pain in order to hide the light under a bushel, so it was turn around, lift the hair and give-’em-an-eyeful time, turning and making sure they all got the impact, including the new chest piece and both arms. I’m such an attention whore when it comes to my skin art!

Markus grinned at me. “More pumpkins?”

“Not yet, mate.”

He chuckled, and dropped a swift wink. “So you like Iron Maiden, huh?”

“Just a bit, Markus, just a bit...”

Off he went. This was not the last time we would be seeing Markus before the gig; to our amusement he then traipsed back and forth two or three times, each time with bags full of clothes.

“Laundry day, Markus?”

“This is the last of my clean clothes...”

Bless him. Each time he had a smile and a comment; if you can think of a quip he can toss it straight back without a moment’s hesitation. Clever, clever guy, although you wouldn’t necessarily think so on first glance. Unfailingly pleasant and polite and damned if he hasn’t got a new fan in me!

The next of the band to emerge blinking into the sunlight was Michael - Weiki. I knew he’d be a tough one, for a couple of reasons.

First, he’d probably just woken up. Markus had told us on one of his passes that the others were still asleep on the bus (I’d asked if Sascha was coming out to play and once he stopped laughing he said yes, probably - when he wakes up), and there was a pretty good chance that he wasn’t a morning person. Second, he has a reputation for being a bit daunting; now, considering the rough ride certain ‘fans’ have given him over the last few years I can’t entirely say I blame him. If you thought you were going to be accused of being a cold, arrogant arsehole you wouldn’t exactly be delighted to be faced by what could be the very people levelling said accusations, would you?

Exactly.

Plus, the last time they’d been in Italy they’d been chased to and from the buses - or so said the rumours - and he was going to be extra wary because of this.

Add to that the fact that I was going to have to keep a close eye on Lia and it was going to be a bit of a challenge. She, you see, is a huge Weiki fan. And remembering how thunderstruck I was when I met Phil Collen for the first time, well... I’d be impressed if she managed to speak. Actually, if I managed to get the pair of them into the same frame on the camera I’d be impressed if she didn’t just stop breathing and die of happiness. A challenge? Damn right.

I let the others pounce on him first. Hey, if he was in a really bad mood why not let the others take the brunt of it, right? Didn’t seem too bad, so two paces forward and--

“Michael! Any chance of a picture, mate?”

Mumble, OK. You’re English? Yeah, over for the show blah blah blah. I had to give Lia a push to get her going.

Poor Weiki. You can see from the pictures just how unimpressed at being pounced he is - and from Lia’s expression just how big a fan she is.











Job done. Now, I really do appreciate it when they stop like this, even if they can’t summon up a smile; every day in so many different cities, the same old crap over and over again? I’m impressed that any of them bother at all. So, wherever possible, I try and say thank you. In this case it backfired on me a wee bit, which I certainly wasn’t expecting.

“Michael. Thanks for coming out - damn decent of you. Really appreciate it, mate.”

Yes, I know. My English-ness occasionally goes a wee bit over the top when I’m nervous. He eyed me for a moment, and whilst it wasn’t a full blown glare the icy regard was enough to make me cringe. This was not a happy man.

“I just do my job,” he replied quietly, and went into the venue.

Chastened, I tucked my tail between my legs and rejoined Lia and the others. She was trembling.

“Lia?”

Bright eyes, far away, and a smile so wide I’m surprised the top of her head didn’t fall off.

“Lia?”

“Weiki!”

“Yes mate, Weiki. Let’s have a look at the pics, then.”

It took a bit more prodding and a couple of reminders to breathe, but eventually I got her hands to stop shaking long enough to get the camera out and show me the pictures. I burst out laughing.

“You know, you ought to put those up and caption them - ‘and Weiki was really really really pleased to see us!’”

Back to waiting, with much discussion as to who we would see next and when. The when was becoming important; it was rapidly approaching that point in the afternoon where a comfort break and a warm up was critical, and you can only put that sort of thing off for so long no matter how many rock stars you’re waiting for.

Michael reappeared - hair tied back and looking a little more awake, poor bloke - eyes darting around, watching the gathering crowd. We just waved, and called a cheery hey, Mike; we got a wave in return and a rather relieved smile once he realised we were staying put and not coming over. The thought that it’s the bad behaviour of some fans that has made him so wary of dealing with with them at all is sad at best - and tragic at worst. Full marks to him for making the effort to bother, because I really don’t think that I would possess that sort of generosity of spirit.

And then who should we spot coming along the grubby pavement but Sascha? Little flight bag on wheels trundling behind him, dealing with the fans with aplomb and a smile, looking tired but--

Something was becoming obvious as he approached. Now, Dani is about the six foot mark. Michael, six three. Markus is a big lad, long legged - six five. But Sascha? He just kept getting bigger as he approached. Bigger and bigger and BIGGER.

By the time he reached us I had to tip my head back to look at him; I’m five three - five five in the Boots Of Doom - but damn. This kid is six eight if he’s an inch. I knew he was big but oh my goodness; the thing is, because he’s proportioned normally you really don’t notice until he’s up close just how ginormous he really is. Comes as quite a shock, no matter how much research you’ve done and how rationally you think you understand the figures.

This was going to be fun.

“Hey Sascha!”

He blinked, then smiled at me. He has a very sweet smile, and terribly intense eyes. I found myself noticing that he doesn’t, as I always thought from his pictures, actually wear eyeliner; it’s just that his lashes are so long and thick that they frame those grey eyes with an elegant dark sweep, neater than any pencil. Why do some guys get all the luck? Whatever, in the flesh he’s pretty enough to take your breath away.

“You’re English?”

HA! Gotcha.

Yup, flown out for the gig staying with a friend, blah blah blah. I got my pic, struggling not to look too floored by the combined facts that he’s (a) immensely pretty, (b) incredibly tall and (c) apparently also very nice. Lia’s turn, and seeing the pair of them together had me laughing so hard I almost dropped the camera. You see, Lia is all of four feet and nine inches tall... making him nigh on two feet taller than she is!

No chance of getting them both in on the usual landscape view, and I turned the camera round. Sascha looked down, and snorted, patting her on the head. Lia grinned.

“I feel like pixie!” she exclaimed, and I shook my head.

“That’s because you are a bloody pixie,” I told her with a snort, and Sascha cracked up. I took the photo.











Bless him, he stayed for as long as he could and then vanished into the depths of the venue. Lia and I eyed each other.

“Four out of five,” I said, “is not a bad haul for pre-gig.”

Lia grinned.

“So what say we go get warm?”

“Good idea.”

Standing in a freezing foreign city waiting for rockstars is all very well - but there are times that a warm room, a cup of coffee and a flush toilet just have them beat hands down. Trust me on this.

~*~

Comments

Helltrek pt4

[kelpierocks.livejournal.com]

I'm loving this. The pictures are adorable and you had so much fun! It's great to relive this with your diary, thanks for sharing!

[bella-cheval.livejournal.com]

This is so great to read---and pics too :)

My, Sacha's a big boy, isn't he? You two look so tiny next to him!

Can't wait for more.

[silicondreams.livejournal.com]

*sighs half happily/half nostalgic*

That was one great day. *stands straight, crosses arms and pretends to stare at Markus' ass* Mmm.

[silicondreams.livejournal.com]

And I don't think I'll ever stop cringing at my expression in the Mike pic. I mean, I never look good (aside from Dani's one) but that...*hides in a hole*

[mayqueen517.livejournal.com]

You are absolutely gorgeous. Both you and Andy are.

And that expression makes that whole picture. *grinning*

Hero worship. *winks*

And good lord, I'm an entire foot taller than you Lia!

[hanks-lil-pit.livejournal.com]

I went ahead and read all the installments before cluttering up. It sounds like you guys had a great fucking time. I think that's awesome. And a little girl lovin'...can't beat that. I'm glad you got to go solo and relax a bit. Good for the nerves.

Hank