Anon ymous goodbyes.

April of 2000 was cold and wet in New York City. The kind of cold and wet that made spring seem like an eternity away. I was young enough to be unconcerned with the venture we were undertaking for the better part of April and the first weeks of May. Touring Europe with a punk rock band was, for many of our friends, both an unreachable dream, and a right of passage for the more serious bands.
Todd was upset that the banks didn’t disintegrate with Y2K. Brian was psyched about the tour, as were Sharon and Derik. I was more anxious about playing well than anything, but this tour ended up being more fun than any of us had dreamed about.
The part of our Euro-rock adventure that is important to the tale here is a stop we made in Croatia. We played in a poor town; at a club right on the river that fed the small semblance of local trade that existed. There has been a little debate between as to the name of the town, the exact town we were in. We really only did a few days in old Eastern Europe, so to misname the town would besmirch the accuracy of the tale and therefore is being omitted.
There were kids lined up outside, too poor to pay the entry to the club and buy a record, so many were opting to just buy a record and go have a beer with their friends somewhere else. The kids were so poor that the show, a record, and 2 beers were equal to about a weeks pay…and those who could were spending it to see the Cable Car Theory.
We decided to hand out records for free. . .this way a few more kids could come see the show. The clubs in Europe generally gave a case of beer or two to the bands, and we shared these with the kids who came in as well.
At some point during the night, one of the locals we befriended began telling us about the Nazi problem in the town. Kids were beaten, mugged, humiliated, and occasionally hospitalized. They were being bullied, intimidated, and psychologically beat down by people of such low caliber it made me sick. Low and behold, a few of the Nazis showed up to the show.
Andre Funke told them to fuck off during Come What May’s set. There was a confrontation with them during our set, and we scared them out of the club. For the first time, the asshole contingent of the town was put in their place, and they ran like the cowards they are; tails between their legs. The kids…were alright.
April of 2007 was warm in New York City. It was the kind of warm that melts the frost just below the topsoil and sends that moist aroma of planting earth into the air. Den of Thieves was hopping a plane for what would be a two week vacation in Germany were we would play a few shows and hang out with some old friends from the Cable Car Theory days. Chris and Pat were psyched about hopping the pond to tour for the first time overseas. Justin was filling in for Sean, who was delayed by Uncle Sam for his training exercises with the Army. I was more anxious about playing well than anything else, but this tour ended up being more fun than any of us expected.
We stayed with our old dear friends Marcel and Oliver, and their roommate and our new friend Christian. Marcel had worked hard to book us a few shows as our original booking agent screwed us royally and shit the bed with the lack of shows presented. It was OK, we all needed to get away, and in the end, Marcel did a bang up job of getting us more shows than days off.
We played a couple of nights at the Az Conni in Dresden, near Marcel, Oliver, and Christians Flat. At one of the shows we played, we played with a band made up of a bunch of kids from s small town in Croatia. I don’t want to besmirch the name of the town and make my recounting of this tale to become inaccurate; so it is being omitted. They told us that they were at a little club on a river bank the night Cable Car Theory and Come What May rolled through their town and stood up to the Nazi cowards, driving them out with their tails between their legs. Pat was shocked…he had heard the story 100 times (maybe less, maybe more) from me, Brian, and Todd; but now he was hearing it from the kids affected.
It seems our one act of intolerance to the intolerant had snowballed, causing a number of kids to do the same. The kids in the town started walking in groups no smaller than three, and they always were ready to gather up together in a show of defiance against these pricks. It seemed we had shown them they had something of their own that none should attempt to take from them.
I felt a swell of pride having learned this. I had been part of a cast of characters that had, somehow, actually used punk rock to change something big, to defend something wonderful.
Pride, it seems, is always haughty, ignorant, and immature.
Upon returning to New York, I told everyone how good it felt that we had done this small thing; how our ember had grown into a fire. All were pleased. Some were even as proud as I.
A few months passed and I started getting alarming messages on a social website about the death of a vibrant young punk rocker who lived in a town in Croatia where a club used to be on a riverbank, and a bunch of rowdy Germans and Americans had stood up to some Nazis, back when they were a real threat. It seems that this vibrant young person had been alone, and a cowardly bunch of now downtrodden Nazis had come upon him. They stabbed him several times and left him for dead…bleeding, scared, and alone. He died on the ground with no loving arms to hold his hand or teams of doctors and nurses fighting the good, desperate fight to save his life. He breathed his last on the bank of a river that fed what semblance of a growing economy the town had . . . because he was unafraid of the little men with big boots.
I wept for days . . . sometimes soberly, often not. The guilt I felt was laborious; and I began to resent myself. My dream of a world where only those who live hate were hated, of a community of individuals whose merits were as unique as their fingerprints, of a life of humor and art. . .they came crashing down on a young man on the bank of a river where a club used to be. . .
This is why I no longer can play music. It wasn’t my arm that slew this person, and it wasn’t my will that harm befell him . . . but it was my actions that inspired him to dream the same dream, and act for the dream. . . and I can never forget it.
This is why it was so easy for me to walk away from music. This is why I will never look fondly back upon it and think, “. . . those were the days”. . .