When springtime came in the shaky year that was 2003 blue skies and broken hearts were stretching all over Paris as if it was the only place that could really comfort me in the whole wide world. I hadn’t been to many places and bleak romance had never really been my share but roaming those streets was such an eye-opener, a culmination of all things that you know you’ll miss after high school. I saw the weirdest flick ever at Centre Pompidou and got poked by some weird foreigners who thought I was part of the act, I got high on sugar and fell into the tub that kept our pubes and Heinekens cold when hiding from a teacher, there were fake drug transactions, hotel room raids by a Marseille gang I don’t really wish to ever encounter again and we also managed to perfect the ancient game of tossing a bra from one hotelroom window to another. I wish I could remember everything a bit more vividly but all these trips down memory lane have gotten the best of me and all the details.Anyway, what I still remember the most from that era is how concerned the teachers were about me. Looking back I guess they were just scared that I’d show up at school one day and blow their heads off ‘cause they definitely went out of their way to prevent that from happening. I always had to go on these little talks about drugs and depression and they always granted me privileges they thought would help me get through life a bit better. Whenever I wanted some time off from field trips I just asked and they would let me go out on my own while everyone else had to stay together for whatever tour they were doing. That was pretty awesome I guess but I didn’t think it would work in a metropolis that has about 10 million people ready to run me over with their twingo’s, an event that would most certainly screw said teachers over both insurance –and conscience-wise… I guess they thought the risk of that happening was minimal when they decided to let me stroll down the Champs Elysees on my own. I already had the whole thing planned out perfectly back home. I pretty much survived the entire weekend on Mickey D’s 95c hamburgers (meat is murder, people) just so I could spend the majority of my pocket money on records. In order to be able to spend that money I had to come up with an excuse that pretty much went like “Ey yo, I’m gonna go ahead to the Virgin Megastore and I’ll meet you guys down there.” Ferris Bueller ain’t got shit on me.
Up till that point, the Virgin Megastore was the wildest place I’d ever been to. They had actual copies of all the records I had read about online. I had this whole wantlist in my head that just vaporized upon entering the punk/hardcore section. Making a selection was a task not even God Himself would be up to but I fucking managed. The crop: JANE DOE, to which I’ll probably dedicate an entire fanzine at one point in my life, JUPITER, to which I’ll probably dedicate an entire fanzine at one point in my life and FUEL FOR THE HATE GAME which I was just listening to right before typing this out. The price: 56 EUR. Nowadays I have enough sources to score about 30 records for that kind of money but I still think it was worth every goddamn cent.
I could’ve done this post about the other two records as well but I'm already doing two entire fanzines on those and it had been a while since I listened to HWM but I just did a sec ago and they still hold up so well. Also, they were the only band I had properly checked out prior to my Virgin Megastore revelation as opposed to CONVERGE and CAVE IN who were only just myths to me until then. But the CAUTION record had been on constant rotation and I was still figuring that one out when FUEL FOR THE HATE GAME ultimately pulled me into lifelong HWM loveage. You can’t put a price on that and you just can’t trade in all of those wonderfully depressing memories that come along with it. I survived and so did my teachers so I guess it’s all good…
Peace.
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