Dave Grohl and mates relax before world tour

As I stopped for a cold pretzel from a street vendor (you know you're hungry when one of those babies tastes good), I imagined the freelancer chowing down on some warm weiner-shnitzel in some cozy Munich tavern. I munched on the stale dough as I joined the guest-list line for the press in front of the club. By the time the Roseland Gestapo let us media folk through the door, the Foo Fighters were well into their fifth number.

As usual, the sound system in the club was atrocious. I was not alone in this opinion, either. All around me, people stared at one another in disbelief. If I didn't know better, I would have thought it was sum kinda joke. What can I say. When people shell out good money for tickets, they deserve better – we should start a revolution.

Let's see if I can describe the sound (if I'm a really good journalist, I should be able to handle this challenging task.). Here goes: a dull, throbbing noise surrounded by waves of indiscernible static, or to put it more succinctly, the Foo Fighters didn't have a chance...

The fact that rock & roll survives this kind of mistreatment is a true testament to the art form.

The bad acoustics notwithstanding, the band put on a hell of show. Clad in customary black, David Grohl hopped about the stage like a jumping bean. And drummer Taylor Hawkins looked to be in fine form, sans shirt, pounding the skins ferociously. As I walked to the bar to grab an expensively cheap cup of Budweiser, the freelancer once again flashed through my mind. What was he drinking right now? Some frothy local lager, no doubt, served up by some plump fräulein in a quaint German tap house, I'll bet.

I looked up from my beer. El Foo Fighters were bathed in a warm violet glow. Nice effect. At least they looked good...

The Foo Fighters played material from their two CDs, with the exception of an abridged version of Prince's "Purple Rain." Suddenly, I noticed that the sound began to clear up. Either that, or the cheap Bud was starting to work its magic. Pretty soon, I could actually hear what Grohl was singing and, to a certain extent, what El Foo Fighters were playing. Let me tell you, these boys crank it out. Simply put, the Foo Fighters play great, kick-ass rock & roll – something that seems sadly in short supply these days.

Well, what can I say. I got a couple of minutes of distinguishable music, so why complain. In addition, Capitol Records promised NY Rock one ticket and left two at the door. I sold the other one to some fellow for $10 (half the ticket price). Ha! Two free beers for me – who says writers don't get paid.

I decided to get a little closer to the stage. On the way, I passed the steam table. Delicacy of the night: hog dogs stewing in their own filth. Do they server this crap in Germany, I wondered. Oh yeah, that's right. They call them frankfürters over there. I also noticed a familiar aroma circulating thickly through the air. The Foo Fighters crowd apparently likes their contraband...

Sadly enough my attempt to reach stage-front failed, for the most part. I squeezed myself up a couple of rows, at best, while the band played their final song of the evening. Surprisingly, El Foo Fighters did not return for an encore, although the response from the crowd was more than adequate. I wouldn't doubt it if club management laid some sort of curfew on them, or maybe the band was as unhappy with the sound as some members of the audience were. 10:15 and it's Good Night, Irene. Oh well, it was fun – sort of – while it lasted...