Metal Injection

Airport bound at 9:30 am

Ever want to know what its like to go on tour with a working-class musician? METAL Injection correspondent Justina Villanueva went to Russia with avant-grind specialists PSYOPUS and filed a two part report. Part 2 will be posted later in the week. Also, check out an entire PSYOPUS set of live videos from St. Petersburg right here

DAY 0 & 1: Back to the USSR for the first time

It's 11 a.m. We haven't even left New Jersey yet, but the tour talk has begun. "Tour talk" includes the sexually frustrated vocabulary that develops when you've been away from your girlfriend for too long. Brad, the sound guy the band acquired for the Russia dates, shares [shows?] his anti-boner tranny surprise … oh the evils of Cinemax porn. Somehow Russian whore houses come into the mix. The guys are debating the "coolness" of whores. Chris says there's no hunt in getting a prosty, but Jason disagrees. He thinks there could totally be a bargain hunt. We're immediately surprised that Jason's tour alter-ego has kicked in so quick (we call him "The Bauers"). He usually can't even spell the word sex until 14 days into a tour. So, for him to be throwing daggers into this conversation means he's already out of his element (sans jetlag and sleep deprivation).

Drummer Jason Bauers getting wine-wasted.

Jason, Brian, Brad and I began our liver poisoning with our plane dinners. We were expecting to have drinks constantly handed to us in Russia and we wanted to be ready. To justify it though, we also wanted to sleep. However, incessant boozing is the exact kind of activity Chris shouldn't be around. Granted, he's a very strong recovering alcoholic. He tours often enough to have people constantly partying around him, but we all knew it was going to be really rough in Russia. Of all the ironic situations that could happen to a person, Chris met a person we least expected to meet on the way to the airplane toilet. He met a Russian AA counselor, who invited him to a meeting in Moscow. There IS life after sobriety. When he returned to his seat, he proudly held his new friend's business card and that's when I knew this tour was going to OWN.

Ten hours later we were still on the damned plane. I had a shitty beer nap but I was happy because Stockholm was on the plane's map, which means we're close and I could fantasize about us having an emergency landing in Mikael Akerfeldt's backyard. Inside the plane almost everyone was dreaming away, except for Mike and Chris, the yappiest Americans in the world. I bet they didn't even know what they hell they were talking about.

Everyone on the plane had reached delirium⎯even the adorable Russian toddler who wore his red Delta eye mask and pretended he was sleep-walking through the aisles had reached hysteria. Being stuck on a plane for 12 hours, as opposed to being in a van for a 16-hour drive, was a whole other world.

It was the next morning in Moscow. We landed safely in a winter wonderland. Our gracious hosts (Anton, Timur and Eugene) picked us up from the airport, where you can smoke indoors. With a scarce amount of sleep, I was in a city I'd never been to before. I couldn't read shit, I didn't know what the fuck anyone was saying and I must say I LOVED IT. Along the freeway were all these tiny shops. Everything looked like a miniature version of something. On the way to Eugene's flat, I was at my calmest. I was anxious to see where the hell we were going, but I really didn't care. I was expecting it to be a barer version of a dirty Manhattan-sized studio apartment.

On the way to the Red Square.

At our arrival, I felt like we just got fucked, but in a really good way. Not only did we get to Moscow alive, but how the fuck were we in a gorgeous condo, with a meal awaiting us? Eugene's flat was a mini palace to us. It was cozy with a jillion rooms (including a jacuzzi, sauna and a music room with a heated floor). Anton's wife made us a delicious lunch. Chris couldn't stop saying, "I'm in such a good mood." We all were. It was a completely surreal feeling to be on the other side of the world.

However, my clearest memory was the first shot of vodka. Not because I blacked out, but because it was the greatest alcoholic liquid I'd ever tasted. Yet, I don't think the four shots were enough to keep me warm throughout our long walk to the Red Square. If there hadn't been glass storefronts displaying my reflection, I would have believed that my legs fell off. Lesson 1: Double layer at all times.

After the Red Square, the guys napped and I showered. We had a 12 a.m. train to catch. The train station was a much cleaner, much saner Penn Station. Most importantly, THEY HAD VENDING MACHINES THAT SOLD CARAMEL WAFFLES! The first train ride was eight hours and very comfortable, with cozy private cabooses.

Day 2: PsyOpusMania begins

(Jan. 7 in Nizhniy Novgorod, Russia)

I got caught.

This is a small city. PsyOpus is playing a very Christmas-y decorated venue called The Wizard. As they were sound checking, I was taking a MySpace-mirror picture of myself, but only to get caught by some dude's [band guy?] girlfriend. She apologized for walking in, which was even funnier.

Upstairs from the main stage there was a bowling alley and a bar/lounge area. As we passed the security guard we started freaking out. THERE WAS A GIANT FUCKING PSYOPUS POSTER ON THE WALL! Little did we know that there were tons all over the three cities the band was about to play. In fact, we came across a sticker on a guard's door in the metro terminal, a poster on a sneaker shop's storefront and even a sticker in the toilet at Club Mod.

The show was incredibly fun. The better fun was after the show though, when Brad couldn't stop ranting about how a security guard put a gun to his head because he wouldn't have another shot of vodka. It was the same guard who kept requesting Beatles songs while we loaded our luggage into the cab. He was speaking in screams, "DISCO!" Timur was the least bit enthused by Mr. Gun Man's drunkard behavior. He calmly (but, like that quiet psychotic-type of calm) told him something that shut him the hell up.

Before our train ride back to Moscow, Anton made sure we ate at a "traditional Russian" restaurant. Now, these guys loved throwing around the word "traditional." It was hard to tell when that was a good or bad thing. This night, it was a really good thing. We all had borsht and bowls of delicious perogies. And, the best traditional Russian appetizer: Vodka.

Day 3 (MOSCOW): Masters of "Traditional Russian"

Arp gets claws of love.

"Traditional" Russian Bath …
For those of you wondering about the differences and added complexities of being a girl on the road, let me tell you about awkward situations. It's hard enough for me not knowing when the next shower will be, but it's even harder when you don't even know where you are. So any mere opportunity that might include a shower, I'm jumping off a bridge for it. In this case, we all hopped into a Russian bathhouse together. I'm not attracted to any of these guys in any way and it's the same the other way around. Still, any chance they got to make me feel uncomfortable, they took with pride. It was five of them, plus two Russian dudes I barely knew, butt-ass naked under their towels. And we were in a very small and HOT room. All the guys were complaining about the unbearable sauna heat. There was sweaty ball talk, which is something I'm always prepared for considering I did a summer tour with them (back when they discovered Gold Bond powder). Anton kept pressuring Chris to get a traditional Russian massage. Finally, Chris gave in. And, this was something I was NOT prepared for. We all left the sauna and waited for this old dude to come rub Chris down. Five minutes felt like an hour. The old dude returns in nothing but a towel. He's holding oak branches in one hand and ice cold water bottles in the other. He taps Chris on the shoulder to follow him back into the sauna room. He then told Chris to remove his towel. We were all freaked out and ran to the plexiglass door to see what is going on. Chris was laying flat on his belly at the top most part of the sauna room; you know the warmest area. Suddenly this dude started beating Chris' back with the oak branches. Before we knew it, he made Chris stand up. I couldn't watch anymore. It was too much. But, between the smacking sound of the branches and everyone else screaming I knew I did the right thing. This bald man was punishing Chris' dick with the branches.

Traditional Metallica cover goes wrong …
Everyone knows the most awkward Metallica cover is hands down Snoop Dogg's rendition of Sad But Truuuuuuuuuuuuuue. But, only a handful of people know the most awkward moment to take place before a Metallica cover performance. That is because it took place in Moscow when only us six dumb Americans could understand that something awfully wrong had happened.

After the last song of the encore all the kids were screaming: ONE MORE SONG. ONE MORE SONG. With no more PsyOpus songs up their sleeves, the guys knew what they had to do. Chris yelled, "WHO LIKES METALLICA?"

Without a doubt, the crowd went nuts.

"WHO LIKES BLACKENED?" The kids were still going berserker.

"DOES ANYONE KNOW THE LYRICS TO BLACKENED?" Of course everyone was still cheering but there were no real volunteers. Chris yanked the mic closer to this small group of kids in the front. "DO YOU KNOW THE WORDS TO BLACKENED?"

This one kid closest to the mic was shaking his head yes with all the confidence in the world.

Chris said, "You know the words?"

The kid still saying yes with his head shouted into the mic, "MASTER OF PUPPETS!!!"

What the fuck just happened? I mean we got what happened but we really don't want to believe that it did. Despite the belly-full of laughs that ensued, we were a bit heartbroken. And, of course, that's the only moment of the show that Brad did NOT get on video. (Insert Lambgoat-type "get AIDS" Brad comments here.)

Brian, Brad and Timur after the Plan B show in Moscow.

After the show …
It was the end of a great show. We were practically sold out of merch, with only three shirts left. Some kid asked Brian and Mike to trade shoes with him, but they didn't share the same size foot. Jason attempted to trade shoes laces with him before realizing his laces were attached to his kicks. A mystery girl also passed Jason a Christmas toy and disappeared.

Brian had way too much to drink, with countless shots and Jesus knows how many beers. Mind you, none of us were drinkers. During the entire summer tour I probably had a total of six beers, Brian had about two and Jason only had one (and we all remember the night he practically hugged the gin bottle after calling Piper the stripper from Bourbon Street). Oh, and Mike doesn't drink and Chris is a recovering alcoholic, but no worries, they didn't even smell the alcohol. So the fact that Brian was having a beer before the encore was a shocker. And watching him stalk the bar for vodka was scary. Yet, it wasn't as hilarious or traumatizing as him showing me his balls. As if our visit to the Russian Sauna wasn't enough inappropriate PsyCock for the day (including Chris getting his dick beat with oak branches), I had a long night of Brian taunting me as he went in and out of frequent laughing fits.

At the train station Brian's munchies-fit led him to think it was okay to eat a piece of chicken he dropped on the floor. Chris started screaming at him, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" He kept telling Brian he was going to spend the night hugging the train toilet. Don't worry, he didn't. And, he probably would have died had he got anywhere near that toilet's floor.

Come back later in the week for the conclusion of this Dispatch. Also, don't forget to check out an entire live set of the band shot in Russia!