Black Metal a.k.a. suffer camp.

THE CREW SETTLED IN on the sky tube and I looked at Navs, Partanen, Horn, and Ponts, thinking this was pretty hesh ('cause Creature's got this trip lined up where we're all supposed to get black metal 'n' shit). Then I look over and see Gravette and Perkins, and I got my doubts about their tolerance of the black arts. But I've seen our streetbacks endure some of the most retarded punishment on these past trips, both physically and mentally. Their allegiance has been pledged. Then we've got Hammeke. He's just mandatory. He ain't no stranger to the crew, or its afflictions either. Shit, he can dish out some foulness as well. He's a veteran pledgy.

I kicked back and popped a pill, now confident in our assembly. Plus we got our latest Creature thug Stu Graham and our boy Sal picking us up from the London airport. Sweet. Little did I know Suffer Camp was going to set in, and we would have a Baby Lamb on our hands.

UK Mission

WHY IS IT so damn hot? Where's the good ol' gloomy overcast that Great Britain is known for? Gone. It just so happens it hasn't been this hot on the Isle since 1911 or some shit. Straight up record heat wave pushing 100 degrees. The first thing we do is jump in this EuroVan, begin sweating, and drinking warm brew. It's obvious we need to head north to Scotland--but not without a little pit stop in Rumford, Harrow, and then on to Wales.

Wales 'n' Shit

SAL REGULATED the wheel. He lives in Wales, too, so we got mixed in with his crew right off the bat. Things get pretty fuzzy at this point 'cause it's so hot and humid and the homies got us drinking this homemade booze, so I'll explain it how I remember it: in flashes. Local metal bar appearance, epic dumpster trash and smash brawl, wake up on a ramp to screaming Catholic school children, drive to Blackpool, Stu suffers a powerstack on the mini, big Al and Nays hold down a hesh sesh for Woody, done. Sorry for the lack of details, but the Welsh don't play.

Ave, Scotland

BY THIS TIME we got DIV with us, ol' Stu's counterpart and rip lord (please refer to Keg Killer). If yer wondering about aforementioned dumpster brawl, DIV had a lot to do with it. Aye! Ask 'im. So I'm looking around the van and I can tell everyone's getting stoked. It's cooling off, the overcast-gloom is appearing, and we got some ABSU in the speakers. Back on track with the black 'n' shits about to get hectic.

The Bricks And Livi

STU HAD a couple spots in mind, but time was getting short. We needed at least a full day in Livingston skatepark before we departed to Norway. We barely had enough time to cross the Irvine brick trannies off the list. Al's sideways disaster slap was well earned, backs were blackened; we suffered there for hours. Navs even got dirty on some frontside flights off that extension. Real sick. You try and not hit your head flying out from under that bridge. Whatever, we're out, and headed to Livi.

Sal drove us through central Scotland risking our necks on some stretch of road called the Lang-Lang. Don't ask. It was sketchy. Luckily we arrive unscathed, ready for a full day at Livingston skatepark. This park's old! Like 25 years or so. First thing I see is some young locals getting busy in the downhill half that leads into this huge wide-open dish (this is where Gravette tried to fly out of the half and grind this guardrail, but instead sustained a Wilson straight to the back. He got carted out and was instantly named Baby Lamb). To the right is the bowl. It's like a wide mouth keyhole with a shallow end dish in front of it. Super fun and highly truck damaging. It took me a minute, but then I realized I'm standing where Phil Shao did some epic transfers. To the left lies this spine/hip region. Obtaining high speeds is the best through there, especially when it's filled with half-hooligan, half-rollerblader types getting drunk off some elixir named Buckfast. They generally stay on that side but the day was young.

Stu was still hurt but we couldn't help and spend most of the day plaguing that area with hyper-speed follow the leader. Kids were diving out of the way left and right. There were so many rollerblades lying around over there that we were just chucking 'era in the river, and no one even noticed. These kids are nuts. All ages and they don't stop. I swear this one kid was like seven or eight, drunk as piss, smashing bottles in front of us. They're all hammered! Fights were breaking out randomly the whole time, sometimes two separate ones simultaneously while cops are running around looking for the kid with a hammer. Insane chaos.

The whole time we're holding down the bowl, skating, with hell circulating like we're in the eye of the storm. Right when I though it was mellowing out, here come a couple of no-shirt guys and their mates. Great--one spies the notorious hacksaw board I've been riding and tries to skate off on it. Nope, snatched it up quick and told 'em to fuck off. The bloke walks away for a second, but comes back hot. Before I could even lift an arm, Stu throws a devastating right over my shoulder and lands one straight on his grill. So perfect I almost start laughing, but now here come his boys. One dude chucked a full can of brew, intended for me, but tagged Stu square on the forehead. Boom. Stu didn't even flinch. Instantly we rat packed 'em and ol' Ponts came out of nowhere for the final blow, and they were out. But they made sure to let us know they were coming back and someone was going to get stabbed that night. Alright, thanks. Sleeping at the park was a bag. Damn, did we love that place, though. Big props to DIV, Stu, and the locals. Later.

Suffernorge

ENTER THE LAND of ancient Pagans and Viking brutality. Some friendlies from the distributor immediately escorted us to a "black metal concert" in Tonsberg. It was already midnight, but the show didn't start 'til three in the morning. By the time we rolled in people had infested the whole town and were partying full steam, raging on boats docked along this river walk. Approaching the club/warehouse we noticed oil can fires and usual suspects lurking about. But most of all I could hear the dreaded blast beats bellowing from within. We knew nothing about the bands plating, but the first pummeling bands put Baby Lamb to sleep. The last band, Koldbrann ("gangrene" in Norwegian), is uncut, unholy black metal with just the proper amount of corpse paint, spikes, and bullet belts spewing lyrics in their native tongue. They took the cake. The drum kit was crushing some of the rawest beats I've ever heard live. The shit was going off and the crowd was in some kind of worship trance. It sounded like mosh to me, so I instinctively applied the sacred blindfold technique and commenced to thrash. I was open for a free shot to the face but no one stepped up. We'll worship our way; you worship yours. After the show we slept on this dock next to an ancient reconstructed Viking warship. Wait, did I say "sleep?"

Stavanger

STAVANGER IS HOME to our brethren Christian Brox. He's larbed through the States many times and shredded many pool faces well before this whole pool explosion resurfaced in the other mags. Now I'll tell ya, the crew was discouraged at first. It's all pricey $10 burgers and $7 beers, and not a lot of skate spots our spoiled asses are used to. Plus Brox and I instantly ditched 'era in his 1970 Dodge Coronet, which left them understandably more chapped. "Give it a couple days," I said. By the way, P-Stone is flying in and he's always running that "got it" attitude. This is when the Viking phase set in. Brox' best friend Tygga has nothing but hospitality in store for us, but you got to keep up. Bikes, boats, beer, and food--those activities kept us busy. We explored scarce spots in the city, but the real highlight was going up to this mountain named the Preikestolen. Norway is one of the tightest countries I've ever been to. Even with the lack of Dreamlands and Grindlines, it's proper to just check it and roll with the punches. Thanks to the Brox family, and if you want a Creature board in Norway, talk to our new dealer Tygaa. Buy or die. Oh yeah, and sorry 'bout the fat lips.

On To Copenhagen

WE SHUFFLED into town with the crew pretty much still intact, but looking to settle into a little hostel comfort after sleeping outside almost the whole time in Norway. Wrong. The first night was hell. That European heat wave crept back in strong, and we're in this rectangle room with nine bunks right at street level so you can't leave the window open for fear of getting shanked or robbed. Suffer Camp is now in full swing. The black metal glam is long gone. Foul, rotting human sweat mixed with gas and feet led us to quickly dub our room Auschwitz. Getting the crew out of that cell and into the city was easy in the morning. We assembled around this bench across the street each day to enjoy a cold Carlsberg and watch the conveyor belt of ladies on bikes. Afternoons were spent at Copenhagen skatepark, where we met up with Nicky G and the vert regulars. The vert scene is proper. The locals congregate on the 13-foot decks about an hour before dark. The ramp's got one extension. That's it. Every inch is just straight blastoff coping. Fuck a million obstacles and mega roll-ins on avert ramp. No room for Mountain Dew here. Nothing but crew, some cans, fastplants, huge tailgrabs, spliffs, and one of the fattest traveling method to fakies I've seen out of Darren in awhile. Damn. Much respect to Nicky and the park locs for hyping up the sesh, and big thanks to our angels of mercy Camilla and Annika of the local skatepark association for taking us out to dinner.

Are We Done Yet?

NOPE. Just across the water is Malmo, Sweden. Time for a little Oregon feel in Scandinavia. But before I get into that we were hit with some bonus vigilante tranny spots courtesy of Pontus Alv and his posse. First we hit a wicked barrier and wall jam zone on a dead-end street. So sick. The barrier had a round top with the bottom of one entire side trannied up with 'crete. The other side was the same, except the middle of it was left untouched for that channel effect. The wallrides were gnar. One was banked to wall and the other was two little trannies spaced about three-feet apart. Pontus was smashing huge frontside wallride grabs on the bank to wall, and skating the whole place like he built it. Duh. The next creation was just brutal. Piece by piece they'd constructed this bowled-in schralp pit, kind of a maze of three-foot lumps with the highest part being a 4-foot high quarter right in the center. Partanen's suffering knows no bounds, and he went down his list of hits on that center quad. Believe it. Mass props to Pontus.

The Park

THE RAINS CAME and cooled things off, but shut down the park for a bit. Us fiends got in a couple of damn good days. Navs, Horn, Parts and I immediately took to the kidney bowl with the pillow fat coping. Then we drifted over to the 10-foot square sector that shallowed to a six-foot pocket with a hip and a deadly poured loaf coping that is hated on by some of the locals. The crew showed 'era how to stand up on that shit during our only scheduled demo. High Times right there, folks. Thanks to all who skated with us and kicked down brews and tunes that night. 'Til next time, Creature's got yer back. Ten-four. Over 'n' out.