Hey Ben. Benny Ben Ben Ben Ben. It’s ok, friend. We remember what it was like. We remember the early days. We remember the first European bookings, the excitement of being alone in an airport, never quite getting over the fact that someone else has paid for your flight. We remember splashing out on a warm can of Heineken on the plane, quietly hoping the businessman sitting next to you will ask you what your travels are in aid of. “I’m DJing tonight” you will say, turning your head to watch the purple clouds sail past the window. “How about you?”
Yes, it feels good. And a couple of years pass, and the bookings mount, and before you know it every weekend is spent in a strange yet familiar airport, tired and hungover, 800 euros in your pocket and a solemn pride in your loins. You stride across the twilit tarmac at Łódź, or Copenhagen, or wherever the hell this is, a lonely record box-dragging figure lagging behind the pack of normals rushing to board. These people have no idea what you were doing at 4 o’clock this morning. These people have no idea what kind of car you were driven to this airport in. These people have no idea how much money you’ve just earned for 1 hour’s work. They wouldn’t, because you are sitting there like it’s nothing; expressionless, exhausted, a steaming hangover mounting behind those Raybans. And you will do it all again next weekend, or perhaps even tonight, like the goddamn professional that you are. Your silence belies your strength. You sit there like it’s nothing. It is nothing.You’re exhausted. It’s nothing. You’re quiet and strong. You get out your phone and open up twitter.
We know the feeling well, Bennypants. Yes we could join you on the road and, as you put it, “write a real article about our experiences and be the Kurt Eggers of the scene.” But reading about being on tour is about as boring and exhausting as actually being on tour. And we’re not sure if you meant Dave Eggers or if you were actually comparing us to renowned Nazi-sympathiser Kurt Eggers, but we are sure that even such esteemed memoirists / fascists would struggle to make a week on the road sound interesting. There are only so many ways you can write about being tired, or eating a burger, or being in an airport, or being tired, or being in a slightly different airport. And you lads have got that covered.