No Story Only Good Timesby Roger Young, images by Kevin Goss-Ross / 26.02.2010
It’s eight in the morning and on the way to the dining car sweatface is being told by an “older” Christian woman that she has his underwear. Struggling through the dodgy dining car service and the illegible notes are only the start of the trouble. I hate having to try come up with sentences to make last nights party releavant and it’s far too early to have to try make shit up.
The train to Ramfest is one of those best/worst ideas ever kinda situations. About a hundred musicians, groupies and drinkers trapped in a confined space for twenty seven hours, with whiskey, trying not to peak too soon. Conventional wisdom dictates that drinking early means that an afternoon nap can refresh for the second round, but the wisdom collapses when we meet the guy with the condensed milk and vodka mix.
Memories of the ride so far are vauge snapshots of drfting in and out of various compartments, the party continuously amoeba like shifting up and down the train, squeezing past the Johhny Foriegner kids, talking about drunken hook ups with the Monroe dude over breakfast and listening to Tidal Waves ipod dock slowly run out of batteries.
“The intern is sitting in our cabin rolling a transparent joint, complaining that he should have a leopard in his lap, telling us about his mom having a drug test on standby for when he gets back.“
Those are the only notes I can make out from my notebook, words like “lashing”, “kerosene” and “dolphins” litter the pages. Below are the photographs, I have been promised more red wine if I let Willie and Henk pay for the train tickets back with this internet connection, so no captions.
All images © and courtesy Kevin Goss-Ross.