69 Charger
Live at Gruta 77
Madrid, Spain
June 5, 2006
By Cheryl
(SugarBuzz Seattle)
Photos By Cheryl
After a 13 hour plane ride from Seattle to Madrid, most people are pretty wiped out. My friend, Anne, and I are no exception to the energy zapping voodoo of air travel… but the notion of being in Spain and on vacation for 2 weeks fueled a burst of energy. In the spirit of, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” A bullfight, shoe shopping and sangria swilling were certainly on the vacation agenda, but in any country I visit, I like to go hit at least one live show and “do as the rock n rollers do.” After a short nap, a shower and a couple of beers, our energy burst was stoked to hardcore upon catching the speed and muscle of the Dutch punk rock band, 69 Charger.
After navigating the metro out to the ‘burbs’ as some in Madrid may call it, we hiked a few blocks and stumbled upon club Gruta 77, which could be only best be described as looking much like any other rock bar anywhere else: A black walled, sticky hot-box with band stickers, posters, the floor slick with booze, the air thick with cigarette smoke and jacked-up bathrooms. However, this one is full of Spaniards, and mostly men with dark hair.
Whatever notions you have of the Spanish nightlife beginning late and ending at dawn, this is not the case on a Monday night. We arrived fashionably early at 10 something pm, catching the last few songs of opening Spanish three-piece rock assassins, Tres Tristas Ninjas, complete with black shorts and masks.
I don’t speak much Spanish, but managed out to order the giant keg cup of Mahou after a series of gestures combined with yelling “Mas cervesa grande por favor” to the bartender over the competing Spanish ninja rock. I wondered if my accent comes through in reading lips, something all bartenders must be skilled at in such venues.
69 Charger takes the stage with their blazed set of loud, fast and greasy garage punk rock, lubed up with some rockabilly to burn rubber after a California crawl through influences like Sonics, New Bomb Turks and Replacements. Perhaps it was their roadie, or just a rabid fan, but some guy kept wiggin’ out in the middle of the floor, then climbing on and jumping off the stage, singing all the words to the songs.
This high-energy quartet flipped a bitch from speedy guttural punk and high kicks to a feature of lead singer and guitar, G. Charger in a spoken word piece called “When I put the bass guitar up his ass.” Hopefully, this piece served more as an intermission than fetish chronicle, as they were back to catchy, throbbing tunes shortly thereafter, occasionally hinting to the audience that they needed a place to stay that night.
Sadly, the show was over around midnight! Jesh, we had hoped this could be an all-nighter, since our internal clocks were actually about 8 hours behind, and we had some Mahou left in our cups. But it wasn’t quite last call, so we mingled with the men from 69 Charger for a spell, then some guy from Ireland who, oddly enough, didn’t speak much English (?) We met some guy from Japan who’s been living in Madrid for 7 years, who offered to buy us a beer.
Along came Daniel, who may have been in Tres Tristas Ninjas, not sure as they were masked and Anne and I killed a few beers by this time, who told us a tale, in pretty good English, of visiting the US as an exchange student, staying in Idaho on a Mormon compound where homely women wanted his sperm. Feeling sorry for Daniel while we were also doubled-over in laughter, we encouraged him to return to the US someday and hit the larger cities instead. Then out of the corner, I spied a guy with a Zeke t-shirt, and I felt like I was right back in Seattle.
The club was closing around 1:30. We headed outside to shuffle towards the Metro, which closed at 2am. Daniel knew we’d never make it so he hooked us up with his non-English-speaking friend to give us a ride back to our flat in the center of town. Sure it was a bit of a hell ride, but it is truly amazing how 3 people can hold a 45 minute conversation using rudimentary English, punk rock band names, hand gestures, a bit of French, the Spanish I learned on Sesame Street. This evening was served piping hot out of the rock n roll global melting pot, tasty, but portioned such to make me hungry for more.
http://www.trestristesninjas.com/index.php