In search of the uber-mod.

In my best Fred Perry and with my suit laid delicately on the back-seat, we set of for Germany and a mod experience. Having been at the Velvet & Silk weekender last year, I had a good idea what to expect from Krefeld, and it's annual mod get-together. The difference this year was that I would be doing a set for the faithful. Things got off to a predictable erratic start as half-an-hour into the journey I suddenly realised that I'd forgotten my records. We returned, and then proceeded to take a variety of wrong turns ( Sparky, the driver, must be the worst navigator in automobile history, I'm sure he won't mind my saying this as he's sensibly aware of his few failings).
Krefeld is big enough to keep one's interest over a weekend, and also small enough to be known completely after that weekend. The decision to go for one night instead of two now seemed like a good decision. We traipsed the streets with the assurance of locals. The cafe with the yellow canopy, the Irish bar that wasn't remotely Irish in any way, the scary bar with homage to the war, these were our footholds on this fair city. We had simple missions to complete, visit the nice squatters bar and eat at the mexican.

The Nice Sqatters Bar.

We managed to find the said bar, as we remembered it was in a more decrepit and for that reason more welcoming area of town.
Things were completely the same so we chose different seats from before to add to the excitement. We decided to sit outside. Despite the egotistical ramblings of the yank at the next table, the beer went down very well. During this time we kept noticing young mohicans leaving an adjacent street then returning with alcohol. We got up to investigate.
Turning the corner we came across a quite unexpected sight. A cul-de-sac with stalls on either side emblazoned with red flags and hammer and sickles. Further into the street was a small stage with a teenage punk band playing to a small enthusiastic crowd. This in a normal residential side-street seemed quite odd. Everybody that was there seemed very content and very open. A quite refreshing sight. Upon researching the various posters we saw on my return. I discovered that it was a mix of a neighbourhood anti-rascist demo and a celebration of 40 years of the German Communist Party (KPD). A party who's leader recently remarked how the Stasi are sadly missed and he wished for a return to the East German Republic. Still they know how to throw a party it seems.

The Mexican.

Somewhat of a disappointment was the Mexican restaurant. We recalled good food served by the most beautiful array of waitresses. Only to find that it was now run by an entirely male staff. The food was all right though.

We returned to our shabby hotel to find it over-ran by pubescent kids who felt the need to wrestle at every given opportunity. Watching them as they did this in the street, I couldn't help wonder was I ever like this? I fear not. Have I missed out on something, does this omission make me what I am? We began the ritual of dressing for the night. My mate went for a cool dark green suit with black polo shirt. I, my grey suit, pink Ben Sherman and, for a little excitement, a Tootle paisley cravat (oh how this caused ripples amongst the faithful!).

The actual night seems a bit of a blur to be honest. All the usual faces were present and correct, however I felt a little underwhelmed. Still can't put my finger on why, but there you go, these things happen. I played my set in quite a nervous state, it was dark up there so any thoughts of following my ingenious plan which I'd prepared the night before was impossible due to the lack of light. Still that was probably for the best, as I played a fresh selection of pretty sure-fire 45's, with 1-2-5 by The Haunted raising a faint cheer. It seemed to go down well, I say seemed, as the booth was unusually high, obscuring my view of the dance-floor. And then the memory of the rest of the night is lost to that old thief of memory that is alcohol.