Photo uploaded by Derek More
02. Travelin’ Light
03. Little Kin >
04. Dyin’ Man
05. Hatfield >
06. Sleeping Man
07. Stop-Go >
08. Pusherman >
09. Blackout Blues
10. Big Wooly Mammoth >
11. Walk On
01. Driving Intro >
02. Driving Song >
03. Guilded Splinters >
04. Drums >
06. Four Cornered Room >
07. Ride Me High >
08. Driving Song >
Notes: Spot of diginoise in d1t02 (on master DAT); recording level fluctuation in d1t10; No Encore
Source: AKG 481 > Oade m248 > SBM-1 (48kHz)
Taped by Deepesh Misra. Transferred by BobbyHurley.
|from Mr. Phil’s blog…
FRIDAY, AUGUST 13, 1999 / HANNOVER > BERLIN – Arne, Annaliese, Stacey, Bill, Jeff, Matt, Pat and I had all crashed at Harmut’s place in Hannover on Thursday night. Now it was the morning of Friday the 13th and we were all slowly regaining consciousness. Harmut had laid out a great brekkie spread of ham and dried sausage, eggs, cheese, bread and coffee. I ran to a Konditerei to pick up some pastries to contribute. I had hoped for a mid-morning start but there was no way it was gonna happen. Hartmut was traveling with Pat and me. Before he could hit the highway Hartmut had to fulfill his responsibilities as host: get all his guests up, bathed, fed and out of his house. At 12:30 p.m. the three of us finally rolled out. Destination: Berlin.
Harmut’s driving and his directions helped get us into Berlin in under three hours. We dropped him at a subway stop so he could meet the friend with whom he would be staying. A city boy, I took over the driving as Pat and I headed crosstown to former East Berlin.
Now Pat is great guy and lots of fun to be with on tour. He has a comprehensive knowledge about Panic, its repertoire and tons of other music. His sense of direction and roadmap-reading skills, on the other hand, are on a par with say, your average rock.
Driving around lost in a big city? You’ll do well to have just about anyone other than Pat riding shotgun, shaking his head as he becomes more and more mystified by the fucking Rand McNally. By the time he located a street on the map, we’d be somewhere else.
“How can they change the name of the street if we’re on the same street?” he asks. “They can do that, Pat,” I answer, “because it’s their fucking city!”
Eventually we made it to the Hotel Griefswald, booked for us by Berlin’s own Linus Scheffran and conveniently located two blocks from the venue: the Knaack.
We were hungry and I wanted to show Pat the funky Tascheles art center I had visited in 1996, when I was researching a RELIX article on the German Deadheads. We grabbed a taxi and in minutes were enjoying dark beers in the courtyard of the former squat that had evolved into a major avant-garde cultural center. At the outdoor theater next door a trippy little group was soundchecking for their evening performance. Pat and I are so blasé that we blew off Panic’s soundcheck so we could go listen to another band’s soundcheck.
We downed the brewskis, then went across the street to Goa, a nouvelle Indian restaurant. We had a great meal on the outdoor terrace.
1: Travelin’ Light, Little Kin > Dyin’ Man, Hatfield > Sleeping Man > Stop-Go > Pusherman > Blackout Blues
No encore. Whether that was because the Spreadheads didn’t holler loud enough or because Panic didn’t recognize the “encore” request that the Germans chose to express in their own language, is immaterial at this point. Maybe there was some sort of live music curfew. Encore or no encore, for this one Panic kicked it bigtime, in the second set particularly. Because it was Friday the 13th, folks had been calling for “Superstitious,” but “Guilded Splinters” is an excellent, spooky tune for this calendar date.
Soon JoJo and J.B. left as the band bus was about to roll out and I crawled up the street to the hotel. Back in my room, I turned on the TV with the sound off, spread out the Saturday paper (newly acquired from Reception), then . . . instant crisis! As I started to take out my contact lenses, I realized I didn’t have my eyeglasses and the little contacts case. Of course I searched every inch of my luggage, totally in vain.
Friday the fucking Thirteenth.