Um European Tour Winter 2005/trying to rock the ICA   Leave a comment

I know. I’m shit. I’ve either been:

1. Too wasted to think/type.
2. Busy.
3. In Phil’s forum on
4. Composing a devastating critique of modern life in my head that never really seems to come together. Fascists.

Anyway, the good news is that I might (and believe me I’ve been holding back on y’all for some time in case it jinxes the deal) be going to Germany and Holland to do a few gigs, possibly as many as three. The two in Holland look pretty certain.

Going to Berlin means that I get to hook up with Nathan Blunt, and he’s been readying himself for the German leg of the Um European Tour Winter 2005 by translating some Um lyrics into German. He seems to believe that I own the balls that would make me get up in front of hipster Berliners and chew my way through Africa Is A Fridge in German. Anyway, it’s all grist, so what would be nice if some German speaker could read through the following translations and tell me what they think they say. Then we can retranslate it back into German and keep doing it until it sounds like William Burroughs at a Nuremburg Rally.

Norwegishe Blues

Liefest du eine Meile, die Schuhe eines Anderen tragend,
müsstest du sie nie wieder zurückgeben.
Manchmal müsstest du dich verlaufen,
nur um zu wissen, dass du auf der richtigen Spur bist.

Vielleicht kommst du an und hast betrügerische Miene,
weil du weisst, dass die Wahrheit schmalzig klingt.
Wenn du einem Geistlichen die Beine des Teufels zeigst,
weisst du, dass er angeturnt werden wird.

Also, lauf eine Meile, meine Schuhe antragend.
Weiß nicht ob sie die richtige Spur ist.
Manche Leuten ziehen sich die Norwegischen Blues zu,
dann müssen sie die zurückgeben.

Elend: der Senf für deinen Taktrindfleisch,
im Ausland ist alles englisch, es schmekt dir falsch im Mund.
Aber wenn der Nordwind manchmal weht,
musst du dem Süden den Rücken kehren.

Afrika ist ein Kühlschrank.

‘Ne historische einseitige Raublage.
Afrika ist ‘n Kühlschrank der Welt, weißt du das nicht? Ach, nein? Alles klar!

Schwarzer Mutterleib der Welt, woher dein weisser Arsch stammst,
ich meine, du musst prüfen je, woher deine Zehen laufen,
ich meine, deine Selbsterkenntnis ist mit Sand befleckt geworden.
Bist eine alte Seelenwüste, die wie ein Mann umherschweift.

Afrika ist ein Kühlschrank.

Du bist wie ein Kindchen im Haus eines Prächtigen,
gibt ‘nen Überfluß von Sachen darüber du nicht nachdenken musst.
Du jagst ‘nen Saft ins Glas und laufst hinaus,
deine junge Energie könnte jemandem helfen zu sterben.
Fünfzig Millionen Leute, Hänchen, Uran, der Reichtum des Pharaonen und manche Fußballspieler

Afrika ist ein Kühlschrank.
Afrika ist ein Kühlschrank.
Afrika ist ein Kühlschrank.
Afrika ist ein Kühlschrank.

“Die Nacht kommt, dann bewegt sich der Leopard: verstohlen, unbarmherzig und schön.”

Some of it sure does sound pretty in the Teutonic tongue. I’d like to hear it recited by a maniac with a strong accent, especially stuff like “Fünfzig Millionen Leute, Hänchen, Uran, der Reichtum des Pharaonen und manche Fußballspieler”.

What else? I bought some records at a car boot sale the other day.

Voice Of America – Cabaret Voltaire
To Each… – A Certain Ratio
The Only Fun In Town – Josef K

I kind of wanted that Prince Controversy p/s single but I kind of didn’t want to pay £6 for it.

What else? I did that gig at the ICA. I was hungover and fatigued beyond belief. I got lost on the way because it was so posh and I got vertigo in Trafalgar Square and I couldn’t ask anyone for help because they were all foreign too. I was trying to listen to Aphex’s Druqks and I had to turn it off and go and ask where I was in a Waterstone’s. Eventually I got to The Institute Of Contemporary Arts and everybody had a badge saying “London” and I felt really left out so I sat on the floor and read a discarded copy of the News of The World. I seemed to be experiencing greater symptoms of loneliness and roughness as every second went by, and so when the-elongated-version-of-Daisy told me I could get beer and crisps off this little lad Keith I said “wicked” and she said “wicked” back at me because she was relieved I thought it was. I didn’t really. Wicked would have been a dressing room with wine and pizza, but that was only because I was feeling so horrible. So then when I saw the box of Carling next to the stage I started talking to myself in an angry way in the middle of the crowd. It was really crowded and I had my Swedish Army coat that weighs as much as an elk and a bag full of digital valuables and I felt hot and sick and there was nowhere to sit and drink the world’s worst beer, warm. There were slides that some artist had taken of some scenes of the underclass at play. Generally I like that kind of thing but it seemed kinda wrong here, for some reason. Then there was an award ceremony for films, which I didn’t watch. Then a chap with good upper body definition played some acoustical music with his band. I sucked all the evil I could out of the air and got onstage when they told me to. I kept my coat on, put my shades on, put my big fur hat on, and got my shit on. Waving the can of Carling at the crowd, and speaking in my patented “Manchester” voice, I told them that “This a posh gig for me. “Mind you,” I continued, “I’ve played the Tate before, and there they give you little bottles of Becks, so think on that. Don’t throw the baby out with the fookin’ bathwater.”

And the gig was alright, although there was a lot of chat, but we seemed to end up in a situation where about a third of people were grinning at me, and it felt like our secret, like when you’re tripping in the pub and you look at your mate and it’s like “tee hee hee, we’re drinking beer and we’re on powerful hallucinogens, whereas this other lot are just drinking beer, the twats.” When I got off I ended up talking to the guy who’d won the best film award about the documentary form and getting bought Guinnesses and having strange women in red coats point out dead flies on the ceiling to me and chatting to The Dude Chris and His Wife about pregnancy and lion attacks. Then I took a last Carling from the box (which was almost full, although people in the crowd could have easily thieved them) and headed back out into The Mall, which was surreally deserted.

Posted January 25, 2005 by peteum2013 in Uncategorized

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