Last year we decided to create a booklet that would go in various venues around London to help promote the site. Unfortunately, due to cost, it never happened. It will happen though but until then, heres one of the articles that was originally intended for the aforementioned booklet. Tour Diary: Adam Gnade and Youthmovies Or How We Became the New Noble Druids of Stonehenge By Adam Gnade So now it’s 3 am in the Youthmovies bus. We’re all ecstatic and blind-drunk and rumbling a thousand miles an hour down the country road to Stonehenge with the windows down and the night air rushing in and an awful trance CD blasting over the stereo. We dance on the seats, take vodka shots, punch each other, throw ourselves against the side panels, and rock the bus wildly as our driver Danny tries his damndest to keep her on the road. “Fucking Stonehenge! I can see it!” shrieks Graeme. And there it is, Stonehenge, looming dark and surreal, moonlit in the fields before us. Mindless with joy, Graeme breaks into song, screaming “life without the cow!/no more milk and cheese!” Danny slams on the brakes and brings the bus to a sudden stop, its headlights cutting through the dust and illuminating a vast, flat expanse of countryside to the east, the stereo pumping beats with a steady ooonsk ooonsk ooonsk ooonsk. “Open the door, Sam!” shouts Al. Empty bottles, oranges from the rider, and flattened cigarette packs tumble out as we fight to be first out of the bus. We sprint across the road and end up at the barrier fence built to keep late-night psychos like ourselves out—all of us singing and screaming and beating on each other and waving bottles in the air like battleaxes and war-hammers. We stop and take it in: Stonehenge, just barely visible through the mist rising off the fields. Slowly the moon shows from behind the clouds and the stones appear like ghosts. “Fuckin’ a, man,” I mutter, and that’s all I can get out. I’m still dumbstruck when the chanting begins, but I know it’s the right thing to do so I join in and raise my voice to the purple-grey sky. And there we are, staring at the stones from the other side of the fence, our jumper hoods covering our eyes like priestly cowls, shouting drunken nonsense druid chants. We decide to climb the fence in shifts. Graeme and Danny go over first and jog out across the darkened lawn. “I’m gonna get some shots of you with Stonehenge,” says Al and he trains the camera at Andrew and I. “Proper druid, that one,” says Sam pointing at Andrew, his big voice booming. “Proper wanker more like.” “Where’d the vodka go? Did Graeme bring—” I start. “Naw, s‘here,” says Pete, holding it out to me, and I’m flooded with love, love for my friends and love for being free and out there knocking around in the world and making music while this weird blue rock spins and we all hold on and wish for the best and try our hardest to live right before we die. Back in America my friends are all fighting against a real cocksucker of a government. Here in England we’re about to raid Stonehenge. I take a slug of vodka. It goes hot in my chest. “Faaaaaaanny caaaaandle!” Graeme screams unintelligibly as he and Danny run figure-eights through the stones. I catch a flash of white from Graeme’s jumper then see Danny’s silhouette as he slaloms around a stone and heads back into the center of the ring. “Oi! Get the fuck out!” screams a new voice from inside the stones. And then there are torch beams cutting frantically across the lawn and flashing on the stones. The moon emerges from the clouds again and we see Danny and Graeme running towards us, two security guards in pursuit. “I guess we should … head back to the Travelodge, then,” says Hamm, nonchalantly. “I guess, yeah,” says Andrew. And we walk back to our bus and climb inside to wait for Danny and Graeme.