When stillsostrange and I arrived in Stockholm, almost the first thing we spotted was a concert poster for Gogol Bordello--appearing that night at 8 at Stockholm's amusement park on Scansen. It was about 7 pm when we realized we could try to go--but what with running around finding an ATM, figuring out the transit system, the fact that we hadn't eaten anything, etc--well, we decided to go out for pizza instead.
And before we got here, Amanda discovered that System of a Down was playing in Sweden last Friday. Unfortunately, all the way across the country. And during the con. So that didn't work out either.
Ah, but then yesterday she spotted a poster for Flogging Molly at the same amusement park. And by now, we've got the transit system figured out. And I had 500 kroner left, which was about enough to cover the tickets and ice cream. And needed to be spent anyway, right?
So we decided we'd go get some dinner at that pub we found and adored yesterday, and then go see Flogging Molly, by dog.
Except as we were walking across the bridge from the T station to the pub (Stockholm is a series of islands in the Baltic Sea) we noticed that the inlet below us was getting choppy in the wind. And no sooner had we descended into the depths of JT's when the bartender (her name is Mia, and she's amazing, and has fantastic taste in music, by the way--today's selection was a mix of Great Guitar Solos Since 1950-ish including Dire Straits, Chuck Berry, Jethro Tull, lots of Hendrix, and early Deep Purple) came running over and said, "You have to come up the stairs and look at this storm!"
Reader, there was lightning and thunder. And hail. And when I say thunder, we could hear it in the vault with the music cranked.
I should mention here that stillsostrange has a music travel curse. Any time she's traveling and discovers a desirable concert where she will be, something will happen to keep her away from the concert. I have seen this happen with Das Ich in New York.
Well, we decided we'd check again after dinner, and if it looked like it might let up, we'd go to the concert. And if not, we'd have another beer.
But an hour and a half and some elk burgers later it was lovely out, so we settled up and got back on the T.
Of course, we had scarcely bought our tickets and our ice cream and found the stage when another storm blew in and it started to rain again.
Reader, our raincoats are packed. Our flight is at 8 am tomorrow.
We got wet. Really wet. At least there was no hail this time.
And then the band came on, and Dave King gave a brief pogoing lesson for the newbies on the ground (the crowd was tight. I think it was a safety precaution.) and there was music, and we were wet, and it was loud and good, and the storm blew over, and the sun came out, and a fucking gorgeous seven-band rainbow filled up the sky, and there were crowdsurfers and drunken assholes and lots of happy goths and punks and singing and fist waving and bouncing in place, and even a mosh pit, though mostly not near us. And Swedish music fans are adorable and still do the rock and roll horns unironically.
Wet fans are wet:
Adorable Celtic punk band:
View from a pogo:
And so the curse was lifted:
Alas, they're Danskos, not Pogos, and boy my feet hurt. I wish I'd been wearing my Docs, but they're packed, and no power on earth can make me unzip that suitcase until I am at home.
Good night, Stockholm, on the night when you have no night. Thanks for everything: you are a beautiful and generous city, full of amazing things.