"We discovered that the frontman of new Hammer faves Taking Dawn is an amazing writer," explains the British metal mag on their site. "So here is the first of many amazing reports from the road!"
Enter the quick-witted, loquacious Chris Babbitt, who gives Metal Hammer an unforgettable report from the band's recent UK tour with labelmates Airbourne. While Babbitt admits that "Tangents simply beget tangents in my convoluted little world," his tale is both entertaining and educational nonetheless! Read on to find out why and how, and get your copy of the band's debut album Time to Burn right here!
"I’m not much of a drinker. Anyone who knows me will tell you that (I’m not much of a “blogger” either, yet here we are). BUT let’s just say when you’re on tour with a band like Airbourne, Darwinian principles take root. You adapt or you abscond. Mix in or miss out. Fight or flight, motherfucker! So naturally I selected* the former and formed gills, because those guys drink like fish (yet I never ONCE saw them drunk!). To be fair I don’t have the tolerance (or the bank account) to get anywhere NEAR annihilated on the road (unless, of course, YOU’RE payin’). With ever-important shows to play the next day, I couldn’t allow the crippling effects of a harrowing hangover to compromise a single performance.
"Seriously, schoolgirls outdrink me. I hold my liquor like a little girl. And THAT’S not even true, because three lovely little girls drank me under the table just the other night at the Crobar in London (but that’s a tale for another time…and frankly if you’re a card-carrying VIP of the bar, you’re PROBABLY a seasoned alcoholic, and rest assured I mean that as a compliment, and rest even further assured that I employ more commas than Niccolo Machiavelli, and if you don’t rest so easily assured, just pick up The Prince).
"So anyway, after an astounding response from an enthusiastic Leeds crowd, I found myself abandoned by band and van and left to the ill-wired whims of a busted-ass washer/dryer at the venue. Laundry is as a rare a commodity as safe sex on the road, so every opportunity is obscenely indulged (so much so, that I opted to walk the mile and a half to our motel, than dare another day in the same underwear…because there’s nothing safe OR sexy about used underwear…well, I suppose that depends on how they were used…and by whom…ew?). Well, the venue locked me out after they swore I had till 1:30am to get my shit (NEVER trust venue security, they’re full of SHIT! I know because I did it for 4 years at the Hard Rock in Vegas). So, I’m stranded outside, yet all the rap, rap, rapping and tap, tap, tapping got me no-no-nowhere with the locked-ass venue, and I was about as morose as a Poe poem while I piddled about the entrance with no recourse but loud obscenities hoarsely hollered at an all-too empty edifice. Then, lo and behold, who should round the bend but my saviour, STREETY (bass-basher for Airbourne and artist extraordinaire)! And what’s that he’s got in his hands but a big black sack bearing a striking resemblance to the bag I’d left atop that damned dryer. It was like Christmas come early, and Streety was my younger, thinner, grizzlier Aussie Santa, but his cheeks still had a whole lotta rosie goin’ on You just try lookin’ into those eyes and tellin’ me there ain’t a twinkle.
"Tangents simply beget tangents in my convoluted little world, so let me wrap this up. We (Streety, Roadsy, Vinny [lights] and Adam [guitars]) hit a local haunt called the Santiago, conveniently juxtaposed to our Travelodge. My bassist Andrew and our driver Dale (who had arranged for said lodgings to have immediate access to the best rock bar in Leeds) were there with the rest of the Airbourne crew, knee-deep in the delicacy of the evening. The privileged few already know that I’m speaking of the infamous Whore’s Asshole. I don’t believe I’m at liberty to divulge its ingredients, but let’s just say you have to lick the rim and there’s a peanut involved. Sounds vile, right? DE-FUCKING-LICIOUS! Many an Asshole later, Roadsy and I are swapping stories and clothes (don’t ask) while Streety was schooling me on the finer points of The Boss’s explosive arrangements. Amidst the Thin Lizzy licks so thick you could taste them, the KISS-crazy bar proprietors closed up shop, but allowed our clique exclusive after-after-hours access, which we abused thoroughly and thankfully. Alas, the best of times often feel the briefest. Bus-call came too quickly and we bid one another a fond farewell, but not without a little photo-op, which I now have to figure out how to attach to this damn thing (technologically inept sums me up). I love those beautiful fucks, and I love all you beautiful fucks (if you’ve bothered to torture yourself by reading this far) for indulging me in the fine mess of a blog. Smooches!