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In early June 2023, I packed a small bag, slung a camera over my shoulder, and squeezed into a van with Fastloud—the Barcelona-based skatepunk band I’d known for years. Ten days. Four countries. Eleven shows. No tour bus. No luxury. Just music, asphalt, and whatever couches or floors we could crash on.
Fastloud aren’t just another punk band to me. We came up in the same DIY trenches—sharing backlines, flyers, venues with beer-soaked floors, and those long nights that end with sore throats and sore backs. I knew VIctor, the drummer: we met during a weird crossover moment at my day job at the PRBB, where he happened to be working on a video project. Small worlds collide when punk’s involved.
So when they announced their first European tour, I reached out. Not to ask for a slot on stage—I’d left that behind when I got kicked out of my last band—but because something in me needed to go. I offered to come along, take photos, document the ride.
They said yes.
I said fuck it, let’s go.
The Road
The first show was Les Herbiers, France. Then north to Luxembourg, Belgium, the Netherlands, Switzerland, and a zigzag back through Lyon and rural France. We played squats and bars, youth centers and cultural spaces—each with its own smell of smoke, beer, and lived-in gear.
We slept little. Ate worse. I remember one night waking up with someone’s sock on my face, another spent trying to fall asleep to the sound of snoring and a broken toilet flush. No complaints, though. This was the deal, and I had signed up willingly.
What you don’t always see from the outside is how being together 24/7 in a van can grind even the best of friends down. Tensions flared, sometimes stupidly, sometimes not. They knew each other too well—inside jokes turned to real digs, silences grew heavier with each kilometer. I became the unofficial mediator. Maybe because I wasn’t fully “inside” their bubble, or maybe because I wasn’t trying to be one of the band. I was just there to observe, help, and shoot.
Sometimes that outsider perspective is exactly what a band needs.
Through the Lens
I shot everything. Load-ins, soundchecks, cigarette breaks, breakdowns—both gear and human. I didn’t just want photos of performances; I wanted to show what it really felt like to be there. The tiredness behind the eyes, the weird food, the high of a good set, the low after a shit one. I was chasing authenticity, not press shots.
One of my favorite moments? Reims, France. The promoter, Cilou, welcomed us into her home, where she lived with her boyfriend Paolo and their son Gino, who must’ve been around eleven. They didn’t just host us—they embraced us. We ate, drank, laughed, and talked late into the night like old friends. There was a warmth there that cut through the exhaustion. The kind of hospitality that reminds you why you do this.
Another was Lyon. After the show, standing outside the venue, the promoter Mathilde and I got into a long conversation—nothing dramatic, just honest. At one point, she looked at me and said, “You know, you’re really good at this. I think a lot of bands could use someone like you.” It hit me harder than I expected. Maybe because I hadn’t yet allowed myself to believe it. But in that moment, something clicked.
The Shift
This trip changed something in me. I’ve worked over a decade in communications at the PRBB, managing logistics, dealing with tension, helping different teams make sense of shared goals. On tour, those skills kicked in. I realized I could handle more than photos. I started managing the schedule, negotiating with promoters, making sure the band ate and slept and didn’t implode before Lyon.
That tour made me realize I could do this professionally. It paved the way for what came next: joining The Movement, one of my favorite bands from Denmark, as their tour manager, photographer, and communications guy. But that’s another story.
What Remains
What stays with me isn’t just the noise or the kilometers. It’s the connections. The squat in Belgium, where we met a group of people living almost entirely outside the system—off-grid, autonomous, and uncompromisingly DIY. The venue owner in Carsan who fed us from his garden. The strangers who became friends. The conversations that reminded me this subculture still breathes, still fights, still matters.
Fastloud’s first European tour was raw, imperfect, loud, and beautiful. It wasn’t glamorous, and it didn’t need to be. It was punk—plain and simple. And I was lucky to be there, camera in hand, riding shotgun.