The Mush Behind Your Tongue In Cheek

October 30 - The Magic Skull, saki Chicago

2010-11-02T14:52:00.005-05:00

Tonight we performed an original three act theatre play for the saki in-store seance.

The Bitter Tears

The Magic Skull

with

Alan Scalpone as Buzz Cudz

Mike McGinley as Babs Cudz

Reid Coker as Tiny Cudz

John Leonard as Uncle Professor Cudz

Tony Mendoza as Vinnie Draculabeletti

Holli Hopkins as the stage manager?

Act I

The Cudz family (pictured) is getting through another day together.

It is filled with the violent images of war, franchise restaurants, and fiendish accusations.

"Well I never wrote my name in snow with a cat's face!"

In a moment of frustration, Babs Cudz, a wounded floozy with a box of wine for a purse, vacuums a magic skull from their couch cushions.

The Skull speaks with a thick, Mexican payaso accent, and bemoans his wasted life watching TV.

He lists the many television programs that took up his existence:

... Spencer For Hire, Benson, Jake & The Fatman, Lifestyles of The Rich and the Famous, Highway to Heaven, Helltown, TJ Hooker, the black Jackson 5, Quincy, Ripley's Believe It or Don't Believe It, Parker Lewis Can't Lose, The Morton Downey Jr. Show...

While listing, the Cudz family decides to sell the skull for money.

The professor, a pedophile with Tiny Cudz (a consenting bearded baby), suggests they sell the skull to Harvard.

They get in their Lexus QX-570 and head east.

Act II

The Lexus QX-570 resembles a Yamaha PSS-470.

Buzz Cudz, a Vietcong obsessed veteran, leads the family in song.

"Sonics for breakfast, Sonics for lunch, Culvers for dinner..."

The skull gets diarrhea and they must pull over.

Act III

While the skull shits on the side of the road, Dracula emerges.

"Why is that skull shitting in my fog?"

We learn that he is Vinnie Draculabeletti, the great grandson of Dracula residing in a castle there in Hackenbuttz, New Jersey.

The skull and Vinnie recognize each other as long lost lovers.

They sing a ballad.

The skull demands a marriage.

During celebratory swigs of box wine from a nearby bucket, both Tiny and The Skull have disappeared.

Tiny returns to let everyone know that he buried the skull.

Dracula punches the baby and yells at the audience in the record store.

The Skull speaks from Heaven.

He likes it up there.

He breaks up with Dracula and informs the Cudz family that they are fart smellers.

"Goodbye!"

Everyone feels shitty.

Tiny begins a song called "That's Life".

Everyone sings and dances.

Though Uncle Professor never did find a way to turn horse manure into lightning.

Here's a review of our smash hit box office record busting one night only revue.

July 11 - Circle A, Milwaukee WI

2010-07-18T18:20:00.006-05:00

We woke up surrounded by first generation hippies swing dancing to zydeco at a Cajun festival. Egad!

Where are we?

Madison.

While Mike went book browsing, Alan, Justyna and I stumbled around looking for World Cup action, only to find it in a SRO sports bar.

A lot of the college kids rooted for the pot team.

A girl jumping for Spain got her college hair in my mouth.

It was 0-0 after all that standing so I went to heavy metal/punk record store and read new information about Danzig. I guess he has a few cats and doesn't vote. He has some conspiracy theories about the Bilderbergs and...

Then I realized I had outlasted the kid in the giant mohawk, and could read about Danzig anytime.

So I went back to the sports bar and watched Spain score a goal.

Then the satellite went out.

Alan and Justyna headed for Milwaukee while Mike and I walked through a rain storm.

A parade of five drunk wet people smeared in red and yellow sang Spanish victory slogans to White Stripes riffs.

World Cup fever.

Circle A is the best.

Tiny, fun, beer, jukebox, grouchy soundman, real people.

More folks from Chicago and as far as St. Louis travelled out for the show, including our keyboardist John!

Also on board was Liz from Bully Pulpit, who later audio taped us in the men's room getting into character. Wow, it's like she won a radio contest or something.

We were reunited with our friends The Itinerant Locals, who were winding down their US tour by train. Yes, starting from Hot Springs, Arkansas, the duo and their children have embarked on a 50-some day, 20-some city jaunt across Texas, the southwest, the northwest, and the midwest. They lead impossible lives!

Their accordion and a tuba combo resurrected scratchy gems from the past and the unknown.

"Squeezin' oil out of oliiiives!"

A grand time indeed. I hope to play with them again someday.

Our set, the last Bitter Tears set for a while, was described by Mike as wily. His upright bass poked patrons and Alan and got unplugged by dancers. I dropped sticks I wasn't supposed to and stunk up the slide whistle solo and drum fill pick up on "Inbred Kings".

Shit happens.

During "Moline" Mike's baritone guitar became unstrapped.

Then shouting people wanted to be a part of Alan's monologue.

"You guys are weird!" was ultimately observed out loud.

The soundman begrudgingly gave us an encore, and we played "Things The Boys Love" quietly sans microphones.

We arrived home around 3am.

I didn't get to bed until 5, ruining any chance of catching up on sleep until next weekend.

ROCK AND ROLL!!!

I mean, shitty day job!

July 10 - The Project Lodge, Madison WI

2010-07-18T14:38:00.006-05:00

The drive proved nice and short.

Short enough for Mike and I to wax poetic about life and ideas.

And short enough for Chicago friends from the Columbines and the Electrical Audio board to join us for the festivities.

The Project Lodge seems to be a general performance space, catering to wall art weirdos, theater geeks, improv nerds and music jerks.

On its stoop, we drank Supper Club canned microbeer, while Julia introduced Mike to brandy.

A bag of No Salt brand potato chips sat on a stool, lonely and unpopular for all of the night.

The Bitter Tears were a three piece tonight.

In the van, Mike and I made a decision to wait for me to catch my aerial drumstick during the break in "Stumper" before jumping back in. I had been dropping it about 86% of the time, because I was trying to bounce the stick off the floor tom, catch it, and hit the beat, all in one quarter note rest. You can't rush gravity. It's like trying to throw a ground ball to first before it gets to your glove. The ball goes through your legs.

So now we are bringing the song to grinding halt, all for one lame bit of flash that I clearly stole from 1966 Keith Moon.

I think the show was fun. It was a bit sloppier than last night.

We played "Things A Boy Loves On TV" for the first time in a while.

Mike Behrends and The Gentlemen Trailblazers headlined with suitable music that sounded good. Hooks, y'know. Those things work.

Around 11pm we were suddenly kicked out of the space because one of the owners had a tummy ache. So our friend Reem ended up hosting an after show party on her deck.

Of the ten people there, she knew four.

More brandy was consumed and stories were told.

I learned that the guy from Anthrax invented a watch that operates in speed-metal time.

Then a local man told us his tale: He smoked a bowl to prepare for the washing of his dog, when suddenly his parents showed up unannounced. He kept them busy outside with his dog and his children while he ran around those spraying solvents. Every time his dad comes over to the house he has to take a poop. Luckily, on that occasion he chose not to.

Somewhere around here someone fell out of their chair from brandy.

The evening was telling us that it was going home.

July 9 - Quencher's, Chicago

2010-07-16T11:31:00.002-05:00

What a delight to play first.

Get the show out of the way, and spend the rest of the evening with remnants of gunk smears on the face and glops of stage white in the hair.

While getting dressed in the men's room, we were heckled by some guys while they urinated.

It seemed we had hit a new low.

"Hey, flush!" Mike commanded to one of the departing urinal hecklers.

To his credit, the heckler complied.

It felt good to play again.

We didn't rehearse.

Hadn't played since the PRF BBQ about a month ago.

Mike resurrected his upright bass, and strapped it on like an electric.

An old friend of the band made dolphin coos from the audience.

Then she lifted her shirt to expose her braziered boobs.

That was my first time meeting her.

Alan's "Moline" monologues have been getting funnier and funnier.

I almost choked on the popcorn I was method-acting eating.

IfIHadAHiFi curated this show, and acted as the bougher between us and the headliners. They filled the room with gorgeous down-stroked noise shenanigans. I love seeing that Firebird get tossed around. It's my pornography. Mr. Alarm played a fender bass, in that he played his bass with a car fender.

The reunited Fuckface had a polydemonic setup: Four drum kits sans snares and cymbals in front of the stage, two guitars, a bass stack taller than the bass player, and a guy on his knees banging away at barbells and things that go ding in the night. The frontman, a greying acid casualty with a T-shirt tucked into a braided leather belt mumbling through a shitty PA, could not compete with the ferocious drum moat. All eyes were on the four drummers, pounding and pounding the toms. It was hypnotizing, though their cover of "Wave of Mutilation (UK Surf)" broke the spell. If they added some horns and some cheerleaders they could become Fucka Face-a.

We all went home separately and slept in separate properties because we live here.

May 31 - Cardigan Arms, Leeds England

2010-06-01T04:01:00.017-05:00

"LAST DAY OF THE TOUR."

I would have used an exclamation point but I needed to conserve my energy for the show and drinking pints.The morning began with a gift-o-gram from Electrical Audio's Greg Norman. Presented during breakfast croissants, our former brassman, slide guitarist, danswer, and slide whistlist showered us with two bottles of champagne and an assortment of ethnic and mammary-specific pornography publications. Distracted, I mistook a picture of a hag resembling a Steven Tyler blow-up doll for a platter of bangers and mash. Thank you, Greg!!

Moments later, the six of us embarked on a voyage through the English countryside in search of an abandoned manor. Nestled in the small village of Sutton cum Duckmanton, Derbyshire (where teenage boys perform handstands for the passing motorists), sat the Sutton Scarsdale Hall, a once-tony, now-bony estate. It overlooked a green and yellow meadow, popular with dog walkers and couples reading the newspaper in peace or aborted argument. The information plaque mentioned that William Randolph Hearst had once had his hands in this palace at one time. I suppose the SLA got to it later.

Ten miles down the road was a functioning castle, The Bolsover Castle, which is politely pronounced "balls-over-castle". Upon our arrival it was discovered that The Castle charged an admission fee of seven pounds. I suggested we go "balls-over-fence" instead of paying. This was not a good idea, so we went to a roadside pub on the way to Leeds for coffee, pints and crisps. There's something about the British pub that I find comforting. The stenchy carpets, the semi-surly service, the dark wood. I understand why many men choose to live in them.

The Cardigan Arms is a traditional British pub with a squatty venue upstairs, torn of all its traditional charm. I had my fourth pint of the day during soundcheck, and then we all went to Daniel's flat for dinner. Daniel put us up last year after our Brudenell Social Club show, and made us the UK's best coffee. His girlfriend, a culinary wizardress, had been preparing our meal all day, and it showed. The lamb was tenderer than Alan Alda, while the tofu with peppers punched me in the taste. Plus we got to eat more of these green items named vegetables. I required seconds. Thank you, Leeds, for one of the best meals on the tour.

Gareth S. Brown performed movies and music, sampling live instruments with old short films. We had a reunion with Cowtown, with whom we played the Spanish leg of last year's tour. They were in fine form and fine sweaters, debuting a new heavy number that took Mike's fancy. If I hadn't done all my drinking in the afternoon I would've caught more than the end of their set. Instead, Alan had to wake me up in the van, just in time for me to misremember Dave, their excellent drummer, by calling him Nick. Embarrassed, I apologized and told him my name.
"Right. Tony. I remember."

Ugh.

I decided against quitting drumming forever and played the show, THE LAST SHOW OF THE TOUR .It was a decent set, I suppose, despite the soundman insisting on keeping Now I Got Worry up at full volume during Ronald's awkward spectacle. Mike teased the Brits about the doughy qualities of their skin. We berated them for cheering the mention of George Jones, after berating them for the previous silence to the mention of George Jones. Simmo said my drumming had energy, and seemed genuinely enthused about the performance. We closed THE LAST SHOW OF THE TOUR (!) with "The Fire Messiah" and cleaned the scum off our faces in a public water closet for the last time.

On the drive back to Nottingham, we subjected Simmo and Helene to Henry Rollins reading Get In The Van. Thanks to Hank, our ride home "was the most direct line to what the fuck it was all about."

This European tour was easier in some ways (the van has seatbelts and less than 200,000k on it!), and harder in other ways (no time to skype, no time for laundry). There were some constants: Alan's perpetually intermittent sneezes, Reid's hemorrhaging geyser snoring and somnambulent mutterings, Mike's insomnia-influenced darkness, my effeminate giggles and sighs and bad punnery.

Sometimes we had excitements: like the surprise of a bright flash-bulb explosion from a French speeding camera, that parking ticket on our first day, discovering overnight dents. One night someone used one of my drumming brushes as a flirtation device.Tolls, ferry fares, gas. Side of the road lunches. Gas station lunches. Lunches behind the wheel.

Laying down for five minutes while everyone else gets out at the rest stop. Naps in the van. Naps in the park. Naps behind the drums. I slept on two cots, three beds, and 17 floors. Some of them were cushioned, the punishment for bringing a sleeping bag.

We lost a different sleeping bag, as well as a camera, a keepsake cushion, 2 pairs of sunglasses, a piece of equipment, the other drum brush, a sweater, earplugs, and money. Mike tried to lose his blazer, his sweatshirt, and both of his bags, but they kept getting returned to him. Alan broke his glasses.

It could have been a lot worse (see Brainiac, Minutemen, Lynyrd Skynyrd).

Earlier in this thing, I have extolled the virtues of all the rad folks that helped put this together, and made it as smooth as it could be. A lot of these people who put on these tours, put on these shows, put up these bands, work themselves to exhaustion. As do the bands. Everyone is exhausted.

Is it fun?
Yeah, man. I loved seeing The Pyrenees, and the dopey Black Forest, and the big dumb Alps. I loved the home cooked meals we had. I loved when people laughed or danced or felt compelled to enjoy what we do. I love Europe.

Despite these perks, many of the promoters we talked to have mentioned impending retirement. It makes sense. This version of rock and roll or whatever you want to call it is a young man's game, and many of us are getting older and married and having kids and cats and houses and eking out a stable life. Suddenly taking months off from that life for a seemingly endless existence of beer, bad sleep, and sexual frustration appears less appealing.
Would I do this again?
Well, of course.
I wonder if anyone else will want to.

May 30 - Dot to Dot Festival - Trent University, Nottingham England

2010-06-01T03:48:00.008-05:00

A late breakfast of croissants, French bread and salami, and chocolate pain was supplemented with Simmo’s sausage sandwiches. Another afternoon performance with The Dot to Dot Festival. We followed Burly Nagasaki, a local coed two-piece that cracked me up. Joey and Tez vogued to a dance track, played scissors on a K-Records sweater ballad, and shambled through a surf instrumental (“Phew!”), before taking audience questions related to Elvis. They closed with a call and response tune about a giant peanut butter sandwich. Nottingham’s Mo Tucker answered with supermarket intercom authority.

JOEY CHICKENSKIN: How much does that sandwich weigh?

TEZ WRIGLEY: That sandwich weighs...four..pounds.

After their set I asked Ms. Wrigley, who reminded me a bit of an old pom-pom flame's haircut, who her favorite member of the Memphis Mafia was.

"Charlie Hodge," she replied without hesitation.

With a feedback soaked soundcheck, we took the stage to another backline of Marshall stacks. Like Robin Hood, we used the equipment of the rich to make music for the poor. Mike’s wisecrack about Margaret Thatcher mistaking a milkshake machine for a bidet, and sitting on a steaming pile of bubble and squeak, resonated with the poor. After the set a gentle security thug paid me a compliment on my drumming. Thanks, mate!

These afternoon sets are funny. What do you do afterward? We chose to hang out at a pub that served honest ales and scrumpies while smoking fags with goofy French birds speaking in cat tongues. Right? We met some new Brits that made fun of my Dunhills (“That’s what my father smokes!”) and told us about a ploughman’s drink that tasted like meat! Of course I wanted to try this chumly or brimbly or brapsworthy or whatever the fuck it’s called, but the pub didn’t serve it. So we went back to the club to cash in our food voucher. Gimmee a fuckin’ bap, man, I’m drunk and hungry!! Right? Every inch of the festival crawled with current British style: gals in black leggings, men in skinny jeans, L.A. pay-to-play hairdoos, Desperately Seeking Susan hats, I even saw a guy sporting a 1987 tight roll around his ankles. I never knew irony could be sexy.

It was decided that the festival was stupid now, so we went back to Simmo and Helene’s for some more spirits and listening to fuckin’ records, man. We busted out Isaac Hayes, Lionel Richie, “Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft,” Heavy Vegetable, Half Man Half Biscuit, obscure thrift store funk finds, and Simmo’s coup de grace, “Don’t Worry Be Happy” at 33 & a third. Don’t knock it til you try it.

Then Simmo, like a librarian, read us jagged children’s satire by Raymond Briggs, and I admired Helene’s twisted Peanuts drawings, demanding that she contribute artwork to my other band.

The evening faded, the turntable spun, my eyelids kissed. My surname, shouted with a British accent, arose me as I grasped a sweating Czech Budweiser, glazed in an armchair.

May 29 - Dot to Dot Festival - Thekla, Bristol England

2010-05-31T07:21:00.007-05:00

The clouds pissed British gloom on Alan, Reid, and I. Mike emerged from the morning fog of his overnight in the van. Another morning, another English breakfast. Beans!

"You guys look a bit knackered," observed our host Gary. "Do you know what that means?"

The Dot to Dot Festival had come to Bristol, and The Bitter Tears were slotted a corner to play it. The van rolled up to a mess of tents and fences choked by a serpentine queue of indie blokes and indie birds. We checked in, grabbed our complimentary 4-packs of Red Stripe tallboys, affixed wristbands to our wrists, and walked toward Thekla.

Thekla is a boat, an oldish vessel, docked on Bristol's Mud Dock. We were the first band to play the afternoon stretch, beginning at 4pm. It was nice to have a backline already set up, so we only had to bring the guitars, the keyboard, and cymbals. But with the amps being huge Marshall stacks, the bar's tiny stage barely accommodated a quartet. I had to hoist myself up by the ceiling rafters just to climb over the drum kit.

With only thirty minutes per set, we stayed tight and upbeat. Tightish. During "Grieving" I tried to do gymnastics on the ceiling for the cymbal washes. I lost my balance and crashed into the kit. It might have looked like Gladys Ormphby ruining an innovative Lionel Richie video.

Reid's Reggae Ronald character has been interacting in the audience before the set. He was almost accepted by a few fashion-savvy indie cliques, but ultimately rejected thoroughly. Such is the life of Ronald. The boat hipsters seemed to like us though.

After the set we made way for a Dutch band that didn't like us, and hung out eating savory pies out of a box while watching festival kids. Then it rained and got boring. We were told we had to move the van. I suppose I liked Bristol during the three hours we had inhabited it. Performing on a boat again was fun.

We met up with our booking agent Simmo and his lovely fiance Helene in Nottingham. We treated at a vegetarian restaurant, where vegetables were consumed for the first time in 47 years. It felt weird and strange. I'm not sure my body was ready to adjust to something healthy, but you have to take chances in life. Our waiter, the chef, was a skeletal man with silver eyes whose voice growled and whose smile doubled as a checkerboard.

Afterward we relaxed at a pub with real ales until it closed at midnight. Then it was time to get rained on for the fourth time in a day.

May 28 - Labour Club, Northampton England

2010-05-30T06:41:00.011-05:00

Reid and I grabbed a traditional English breakfast and caught up on all of the world’s events thanks to The Sun. Now I know about the Lizard Ripper who beheaded a prostitute, the Elvis yob who broke up a pub, the woman who holds the record for most tattoos, and the seven-year-old who was raped by a thirteen-year-old friend. “Disgusting,” said Reid, referring to his breakfast. I was just glad to have been kept abreast on news of the world.

It was a crabby day. Four tired old men, attached at the hip, unshowered, unshaven and unlaundered, sitting in miserable British traffic, over and over again and again. At one point Mike turned off the engine while we sat frozen on the highway, and finished reading his book.

Because our rented Nord is a garbage sack of fried worthless circuits, our booking agent Simmo sent down a replacement keyboard for us to pick up from a castle twenty miles north of London. After winding through the blind, narrow sculpted equestrian trails of Hertfordshire, the keyboard was right there in legendary Knebworth. To our delight, Led Zeppelin also lent us a tambourine and a gong, The Beach Boys lent us their “Don’t Panic” sign, and Genesis died in a plane crash.

In Northampton, we split up and took in this strange town’s sights. Jagged-beaked birds showing lots of black legging mixed with puffy old tea bags on a shopping holiday. The men were 35% 1977 via 1994 punk, 25% pub goblin, 15% yuppie, 10% football hooligan, 10% scorned immigrant, 5% Manson fringe. I wanted to eat at a place called Alfred R. Ballsworthy but they didn’t serve pints. Across the street there was a burger and beer special for under five pounds, so I did that.

I saw Reid, who had just purchased socks in lieu of laundry. He had just seen Northampton’s own Alan Moore at a café. He wore his hair large like a wizard and wore a ring that doubled as a can opener. Alan Moore, that is. Coincidentally, Bitter Tears Alan had just been talking about Alan Moore, picking up the most recent edition of Dodgem Logic. Reid and I ran into Mike, who had just come from the cemetery. The three of us had a real ale called Rip Van Tinkle and discussed women’s haircuts and Pink Floyd.

The Labour Club has been around for about 25 years. The Labour Party uses it about once a month for meetings, the rest of the days it’s a rock club. It’s like a speakeasy- the bartender buzzes you in. Its clientele is men in undershirts, men in day-glo vests, parents and the children, Spanish speaking hipsters, and parents whose children have flown the coop. One of the men in an undershirt and I had a lengthy discussion on Vegas, Detroit, and politics. He wanted to steer the conversation toward “those damn immigrants”, so Mike and Reid left. We resumed talking about Vegas and Motown. Before leaving he gave me a sort of black power handshake.

The evening opened with acoustic labour folk from Ghost Train, prompting a boy of seven to dance. The Bitter Tears played to an older mature audience. It felt like performing for a large family that accepted and encouraged your life’s errors. They drank pints and heckled, a refreshing surprise after the frozen fish tank of listless London. Gary the promoter passed around a hat that was actually an ice bucket and filled it with sterling.

All night the bar played great music. After our set, Gary, who spoke with a Ricky Gervais cadence, spun my favorite obscure Who song (“Dogs”). Andy Skank, who runs the club, locked the doors further and let us drink ales to our content. We sat on tattered velvet ottomans, ragging on Bruce Springsteen and certain aging British punks until Mike crawled off to sleep in the van.

May 27 - Bush Hall, London England

2010-05-30T04:15:00.010-05:00

The alarm was set lightly for 8am. It rang for thirty minutes before I figured out that the extremely repetitive harpist busking outside the Chartres train depot didn't exist. Time to scramble. I threw a hefty chocolate sponge called pudding into my mouth in exchange for my last Euro. We hurried just in time for a truck to block our exit from the hotel, and watched two men deliver 850 sandbags of flour to a bakery. Life is exciting when it's happening.

We made it to the Calais car ferry around 1:30. The next available boat wasn't until 3:25.

A saucy immigration woman assumed correctly that I was the drummer. I asked her if I looked like one.

"If there's such a thing as a look."

A mother hen type eyed our embarkation cards.

"The Bi'uh Teeuhs. Think I've 'eard of 'em."

Having done our driving duties for the day, Reid and I ate Cornish pasties and got pissed on the ferry ride to Dover. We were certainly not the only ones…well actually we were the only ones eating Cornish pasties.

Mike was condemned with the task of driving from Dover to London during rush hour. The Garmin 250 said we should go through the most congested part of Central London that it knew of. We spent 17 minutes in Trafalgar Square, 13 minutes at Piccadilly Circus, 33 minutes along the River Thames past Waterloo Station, and 20 minutes in Shepherd’s Bush. Last year before our London show, I went out for an amazing dinner at the world renown St. John’s. It was the best meal I’ve had in the United Kingdom. This year I ate a dry ferry pasty and filled a 1.5 liter bottle with my own urine.

Our triumphant return to Bush Hall! In September we opened for Magnolia Electric Company, playing to a packed house. We were a success to end all successes. It was weird though, there weren’t any homecoming floats for us. Or any ribbon cutting ceremonies or over-sized keys to the city for us either. Huh. There was a nice British woman who informed us that we were late. Like really late. Like three and a half hours late. Like the doors are opening soon late. But for real she was nice about it. We had four minutes to load in, set up, and soundcheck. We did it in four seconds, and used the remaining time to lift weights and never compromise our integrity.

Backstage there were crisps, carrots, hummus and pita bread that were washed down with beer and wine. We met and chatted with Leif Vollebek from Montreal while Reid hung out in the backyard with the chickens.

I forgot how icy these London audiences can feel.

There were six or eight tables set up for people to enjoy the show seated up front. The rest sat on the floor. Polite silence. Smiles. Unsmiles. Acknowledgement of the possibility of fun. We played the set. Mike made fun of Margaret Thatcher. I pointed out that no one was dancing. They seemed to like it. I don’t know. It’s London. Everyone has to protect their excitement. Heaven forbid you should feel something.

I guess Beth Orton was at the show. If so, she’s a tall one. The Brits surprised everyone by buying some merch. We all drank too much and I drove us a few blocks to Jim’s Guesthouse, where Reid’s strange-looking 20 pound note was rejected.

“I don’t know what that is but my boss won’t like it.”

May 26 - Spoutnik, Nantes France

2010-05-30T04:11:00.005-05:00

Another glamorous day of waking up early, not showering, drinking coffee, eating bread, leaving thank you note, driving, eating rest stop food, driving, drinking hot coffee out of thin plastic mini-cups, driving, listening to something to keep the driver awake only to have the opposite effect, switching drivers,

driving, not being able to check email or communicate with the outside world, driving, driving, still not showering, driving, wearing the same underwear for the fourth consecutive day, driving, reading the suicide chapter in a book about death, driving, not being able to nap, feeling empty, driving, getting stuck in traffic,

arriving at the club, unloading, drinking beer, smoking, soundchecking, eating delicious homemade food from a microwave in a closet, waiting, smoking, walking around the town for ten minutes, getting into costume, playing show, selling merch, talking briefly to people, signing merch, loading out, getting coffee, smoking, switching drivers, driving, still wearing the same underwear, driving, scratching your itchy scalp, driving, smoking, listening to unreleased music from your peers, missing exit you were supposed to take, rerouting, smoking, looking for a motel, finding motel that is full, driving, finding another that is also full, driving, getting lost, driving, calling several motels- all of them full, driving, cursing the popularity of a Wednesday night in France, cursing European motels after dark, cursing the tour, driving, still not showering, smoking, finding expensive hotel that has a vacancy (!) but while checking in the clerk realizes that there are no vacancies, preparing to sleep in the van for the night, driving one more block, spotting Hotel de L’Ouest in downtown Chartres, listening to man in wifebeater say they have rooms for us, paying man in cash, walking up three flights of stairs to charming no frills hostel-like accommodations, smoking at 2am, setting world’s quietest alarm for 8am, missing girl, missing home, missing life, dreading the seven hour drive plus ferry to London tomorrow, being glamorous.

May 25 - L'Apocalypso, Bizanos France

2010-05-30T03:53:00.014-05:00

I s’pose I’ve been a bit pissy lately. Turning annoyances into typhoons. Whining like a crying, asshole baby. Oh well. This morning Dani, our guardian angel in Spain, made us coffee and we took him out for our last Spanish meal of the tour. Dani works harder than you ever will, but is much more pleasant to be around than Rollins. To thank him, I would like to make Chicago as beautiful as Spain. But I don’t think that’s going to happen anytime soon.

The Pyrenees Mountains kicked the Alps’ ass. The Alps are bunch of numbnuts that you look at and go “huh”. The Pyrenees are green, gorgeous mounds that flirt and let you feel them up. We stopped to get a random eyeful and found ourselves scaling and mounting their majestic hills. Mike darted high above us, toward a distant cave. He was up there for a while having a religious experience until the concept of mountain lions spooked him back down to civilization, sockless in his chef’s clogs. We cooled off below near a stream that groped the snow.

Later on down the road, Mike and I dipped our heads in the frigid fury of a waterfall. It seemed to baptize off all my petty tour crabbiness. Also, I haven’t showered in a few days, so that was nice, too.

As we entered France we listened to my terrible mix. Six songs were declared unlistenable: Franki Valli’s version of “Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright”, Butthole Surfers “Pepper”, some Darkthrone song, a warbling 8-track dub of “Working For the Weekend”, Jan and Dean’s demo for “Laurel and Hardy”, and the theme from Cheers. This puts me in the lead for worst mix, unless you count John’s mixes that inspired this game.

I was sincerely awestruck by the stamina of this band, for they endured The Blessed Union of Souls, a barking dogs version of “Obladi Oblada”, “Misery Tomb” by Samhain, an 8-minute account of a birthmark removal operation, the Home Improvement theme, Yngwie Malsteem’s “Magical Mystery Tour”, and singing psychic Frances Baskerville’s horribly repetitive ballad about the assassination of JFK, plus nine other dismal workouts. It is my belief that a record collection should contain music that you don’t like.

Last year L'Apocalypso was located in a storage space in the small town of Lons. This year it has moved to the town of Bizanos, named after the pizza chain famous for its pizza patties and buckets of low fat cheesy sticks. Remember this catchphrase? “Bizanos! Buy somethin’ already, you stupid faggot.” Ah, memories.

The van pulled into the loading dock of a squatted factory. Its windows shattered, its walls graffitied, its floor shat upon. This was it. I don’t know how on earth the unreliable GPS found this spot- it didn’t even have an address, just a street. Beyond splintered pallet lean-to’s for rocks and sticks and bottles stood a door. It opened into an air conditioned, carpeted, dry-walled, soundproofed, decorated, live room. A spread of home cooked food sat warmly waiting. It looked like a venue. Relief.

We explored the decrepit cavities of this once functioning I-dunno. Everything looked raped. “Fuck R Kelly” was the mantra on one almost-wall. The world’s worst mattress lay dead, soaked in its own mildewy mix of rusty rain and browned bodily secretions. A neutered shower stood in the center of it all, its purpose having long ago been aborted. A strange fruit. A scarecrow against hygiene. You had to watch your step. While clambering across a caved-in roof, the bridge of garbage doors I was using started to wobble a bit. Mike balance-beamed like Quigley Down Under to a room whose dark pit of broken bones was once a floor. Every other step contained broken glass or blackened human feces. I snapped a grunge photo of the band and caught a good Elliot Smith pose out of Reid before we all got tetanus and jaundice and breathed in a bunch of asbestos AIDS.

Stephan, who put the show together, had prepared the great spread of fruit lentils, ham pasta, and an assortment of flavorful pizzas. After all we were in Bizano’s (“Home of the best fuckin’ pizza ever, you better not be a faggot!”). On the walls of this Bizano’s hung rock portraits of action packed shows. Lo and behold there was Dani from Picore, watching over us with the caring eyes of an abuelo.

The Welter Quartet was a variety of fun. The diminutive singer Clemence Pantaignan wore a short pageboy coiffe and circled the microphone while the quartet alternated between John Zorn jazz rock and unpredictable cabaret. Sometimes a song would find a groove and then a pitfall, sending all the instruments tumbling down onto a pile of nail-covered squatters. Ms. Pantaignan’s best bit was a piece in which she sang a verse as a woman and then dramatically held a moustache-on-a-stick over her lips for the verse as a man, all the while pounding out an Elvis shaky leg tango. They closed with “Blue Moon” and “White Light White Heat.” France!

A Spanish hangover was apparent in our set, as the errant “gracias” or “este cantante” leaked out. Reid’s Reggae Ronald opening still continues to baffle audiences of all origins. The Frenchmen egged on our cowboy sound with hoots and “yee haws”, while a particular girl danced the entire set like a happy lass from a little house on a prairie. Another woman did cartwheels. I talked with the dancing girl after the set, Sara. She said her old band made music "like The Beatles but more beautiful." I asked her if she thought the music was more beautiful than Jesus, to which she modestly chirped “yes.” This was met with polite applause.

Magic Alexis put us up once again in his big ancient country home on the outskirts of Pau. The twenty minute drive was filled with a vile improvised vignette. It starred the Bizano’s guys in a father & son chat about converting homosexuals to straightood by sucking the “faggot” out of their brick-hard cocks, among other things. It turns out the Bizano’s guys are complicated.

I have heard that parents and relatives and good people sometimes read this blog. For this I am very sorry.

May 24 - Desafinado, Zaragoza Spain

2010-05-30T02:49:00.008-05:00

We woke up because it was time to go. Take a look at this list of things we didn't do while in Barcelona:

* Visit Parc Guell

* Relax, swim, and enjoy the beach

* Take a tour of Gaudi architecture

* Give Euros to a human toilet on Las Ramblas

* Flirt with Spanish disco chicks at a tapas bar

* Murder a fan of the wrong team at a soccer match

* Make meaningless love to a vampira under the bleachers of a bullfight

* Cure cancer at an absinthe bar

* Discover the newest fatal disease at a wax museum

* Deliver a stranger's baby while trapped in a cable car being held hostage by sky pirates, who we defeated when we taught the baby judo when they weren't looking

* Anything

Mike suggested we grab a cup of coffee and a light breakfast in town before heading out again. That sounded like a good idea. Oh, but then we’d have to find parking. And there’s nothing in this neighborhood. So where would we go? Downtown would take too long. Our worthless GPS would just get us lost for hours. Let’s just get on the road and get something on the way to Zaragoza.

And that’s what we did. Everyone ate paella above the tollway traffic in the Spanish version of a Howard Johnson’s. Everyone drank coffee, except I substituted coffee for beer.

Our GPS is a Garmin Nuvi 250. I can’t tell yet if it is a complete piece of fucking shit. Here is a recent consumer review I found on this computer:

How would you rate the following?

Usefulness: It has been severely useful in turning us around over 2,454 times.

Helpfulness: It helped in getting in and out of cities in the most stressful, aggravating, and time-consuming ways possible.

Pleasantness: It is as pleasant as a stubbornly clueless, vaginaless wooden robot with intermittent, untrustworthy authority. She sounds like a stupid, white trash American family hired an intervention leader “cuz she’s got one of them Inglish accents” for a loved one who is addicted to logic, peace, and quality of life.

Any aggravating qualities? None, unless you count the Garmin Nuvi 250 Global Positioning System.

What words do you associate with the Garmin Nuvi 250? Fuck. Fucking. Piece of shit. This sucks. Fuck you. Why!? You stupid fucking piece of shit. What?? Shut up!! I pray for the British woman that sounds anything like you. (Various growls, sighs and grunts). What the fuck? Jesus fucking Christ. Goddammit. WHAT DO YOU WANT US TO DO!?! Where are we going?!! Why are we going here? She wants us to go down there?? No. Oh no. She’s saying I should- but the screen is pointing that way. Fucken. All that just to turn around?? WHAT!?! (Forehead on steering wheel). Fuck. You.

If the Garmin Nuvi 250 were a person, who would it remind you of? A mutilated, tortured, dismembered victim of deserved murder.

If you saw the Garmin Nuvi 250 on the street, how would you greet it? Have you ever seen the movie Funny Games? What about Marathon Man? Oh yeah, The Last House On The Left. Some Cannibal Corpse lyrics come to mind. Have you ever heard of Jeffrey Dahmer? Faces of Death? Faces of Death II? How about Faces of Death III? What are they doing these days along the Gaza Strip? I guess some of that stuff.

Let’s say the Garmin Nuvi 250 was your high school guidance counselor. Would you heed its advice? Does “heed” mean “to burn alive with a flamethrower”? Also, is “advice” another word for “entire body”?

Any other comments? What is the address of your headquarters?

Yeah, so there’s that. We managed to find Desafinado, a café in Zaragoza. The speakers played a jump blues mix that soothingly looped. If they had chosen to play loud boring punk or Chicago post rock I would’ve punched myself in the face. I hit the touring wall today. Even the relaxing wooden labyrinth game at the bar was enough to frustrate me into near tantrums. You know, like when you try to sit on a chair, and you miss it? And then your foot slips off of a barstool? And you lost your camera, but it doesn’t matter because you’re not seeing any of the fucking towns anyway? And you don’t know it yet, but you’re about to lose your second pair of sunglasses, the ones that cost 15 Euros at the rest stop? And your Spanish still shamefully sucks, even though your father was a fun, respected Spanish teacher every day until the day he died. And you’re just a pouting, unshowered, chubbying American shithead sputtering clumsy Spanish 1 Tourette’s while rewearing the same American or bought-at-the-club clothes with no laundry day in sight for the next twelve reruns of this exhausting programme.

But look on the bright side: this experience is only costing you over $3000 in airfare and time off from work.

I probably shouldn’t have a beer in the afternoon anymore.

Tonight’s café set was to be a quiet one. Reid kicked things off by mingling through the packed café in his riches-to-rags Reggae heavy breather character, Ronald. Alan and Mike sang off mic, directly to the intimacy of the room. People listened. Alan’s elbow was just inches from my one piece drum set, occasionally augmented with a hi hat perched Harlem Globetrotters-style on my pointer finger.

The vocal-shearing chorus of “The Companion” was reduced to a gentle a capella, and “Cairo” was played the whole way through without miming. Mike’s pre-song stories have gotten more and more fanciful and entertaining. He’s become Spain’s Buffalo Bill. Zaragoza seems to favor the double encore. This time, the well sucked almost completely dry, we played “Mandaria”, a personal favorite that I had never played with the band.

Afterward Dani took us out for delicious falafel. We came up with a high-velocity musical interrogation game, where a mafioso names a musical artist and the interrogated must immediately declare what it means to him. Dani was in the hot seat.

TONY "THE PALL BEARER" MENDOZI: Paul McCartney solo.

DANI "POLVO" PICORI: Hamburger.

Tonight I shared an air mattress with Reid. I was woken up every ten minutes by Alan, because of my snoring. Eventually he just moved to another room. Hey Alan, why even bother trying to sleep? You're just gonna have to get up again anyway, right?

ZZZZZZZ!!!!

May 23 - Kasal de Roquetes, Barcelona Spain

2010-05-24T12:43:00.004-05:00

I love touring! Touring sucks. Why do we do it?

Today while transferring personal belongings from the back of the van I heard something drop. I looked around for two to three seconds, didn’t see anything, and thought nothing of it. 200km later I realized I didn’t have my camera anymore. No big deal, it was just a gift from my girlfriend that cost her a couple of hundred dollars. It’s just money. It’s just a relationship.

I can have fun on the blog and wax thesaurusly about the romance of touring life, and I do. But when you wake up and someone has vandalized your rented gear, or the sexual dream you're having- the only sex you’ll have on the tour- gets interrupted due to your snoring, or you don’t wake up because someone’s snoring never let you sleep in the first place, you type “sucks” into the thesaurus.

Kasal de Roquetes is located up in the hills of Barcelona, where narrow streets drape the mountains like dropped spaghetti. Mike and Reid looked for parking while Alan and I talked about girls over beers and tapas. Barcelona is a thriving city with a rich nightlife and an endless list of things to see and do. We were near none of these things. Since daylight still shone, I asked the bartender if we were near Parc Guell, the beautiful public park conceived by Antoni Gaudi. We were so far from it she had never heard of it. But the anchovies out-of-a-jar tapas were truly amazing!

I love touring! Touring sucks. Why do we do it?

The venue, a youth center of sorts, filled up with young kids for soundcheck. Poor Reid has been plagued with keyboard and amplifier issues. Today Mike acted as sound man while Reid tried to just get a sound out of his equipment. I lied down behind the drums and took a nap.

Parmesano played an energetic set of deconstructive rock that propelled the youth center to the front of the stage. Fun 5ive Style guitar tones, hints of Unwound, and 90’s discipline rock. Their youth made me feel old.

I thought we had a decent set, though I couldn’t wait for it to be over. I’m trying new theatrical things behind the kit, some of them fun, some of them to mask failure. It was a good set. Who gives a fuck.

It took 75 minutes for everyone to say goodbye to one another, only to meet up again at the flat where we were staying. Before leaving the youth center, Mike handed me a laptop he had found. “Is this yours?” And it was.

At the flat, the discussion scraped music, politics, weather and selling shoes made with shit already on them. All the while two beautiful Catalanian girls sat obediently in the corner, cruel reminders of our continued loneliness. At 3am someone turned on the radio, which was playing all 60’s American vocal surf music. To the horror of my bandmates “Hot Rod High”, “Hot Rod City” and “Wax Board and Woody” gave me a second wind. My explanation of the humorous double entendre of woodies was met with universal silence. This went on for much longer but I’m too bored to write about it.

I love touring! Touring sucks. Why do we do it?

May 22 - La Late de Bombillas, Zaragoza Spain

2010-05-23T05:01:00.007-05:00

We rubbed our eyes open to the smiles of Eli and Helena, our wonderful hosts in Madrid. They provided coffee, breakfast, and discussion of common interests. Everyone we have encountered in Spain has an earnest passion for their loves. And the warmth from their embraces could power a small village for weeks.

Javier picked us up downtown and gave us a tour of his architecturally sound sound studio, Estudio Brazil. Alan geeked out on microphones while Reid and Mike dusted off old and new numbers on a Fender Jazzmaster and a Gibson hollow body bass. I think it would be fun to record here and tour this big hearted country as a way of warming up.

Maria had made cocido for lunch, a delicious traditional Spanish dish of pork with garbanzo beans that reminded me very much of my Cuban grandmother’s cooking. I relaxed reading about The Fall and Scritti Politti in their sunny garden, and the boys tickled Maria’s beautiful, bouncing baby grand.

How do you thank these fine people of Madrid? Lots of times we sign little visitor log books that our hosts have on hand. I feel like I should cut off one of my fingers and put it in there. You know?

John Leonard’s weird gift mixes inspired us to create a game. Make a mix of 22 random horribly compiled songs. If someone in the van skips a track, you get one point. On the drive back to Zaragoza we listened to Reid’s shit mix of new Metallica, old Scorpions, Spandau Ballet, 14 minute Floyd throwaways, and home demo wonkery. He scored five points. Alan declared that he would easily win this game. Mike challenged, “Put your shit where your mouth is.”

La Lata de Bombillas means “a can of lightbulbs”. Above the stage hovered a giant sardine can twisted open, uncovering a field of little bulbs. At soundcheck the rental Nord keyboard died, leaving Reid with nothing to do during the set except giggle like an Adams Family pedophile. The ever-working Dani from Picore made a few calls and within moments a pretty woman arrived with a Moogy Roland. While he tinkered with the spacey moon sounds, it felt like we were in a 70’s filmstrip about proper hygiene.

Back on today’s planet earth, Spanish tortillas, bacon-wrapped sausage and plates and plates of traditional food were served outdoors. I toothpicked a savory pastry that proved a bit orgasmic for me. Our bellies were filled but our eyes were hungry with eternally gorgeous Spanish women. I’m sorry. We tried to control the beauty of Spain’s fairer sex, but it cannot be done.

Since it was Dani’s and everyone else’s birthday, the can of lightbulbs was festively decorated with balloons. We had a really fun show. How could you not? The two-steps kept the room swinging. Mike’s mischievous mistranslations of subject matter created baffled chuckles. When a balloons popped, women screamed. I presume they looked amazing. Reid’s new galactic Mummenschanz keyboard parts gave some songs new identities (“Inbred Kings”, “The Love Letter”). Alan unleashed a trumpet on “Vanilla Bean”, prompting “Too Tall” Jones endzone dancing from a goofy but outrageously alluring girl (jesus christ alright already we get it spanish women are pretty you haven’t fucked your girlfriend in forever awesome just shut up and go jack off somewhere) . After our second encore (!) a bearded boy shook my hand and told me we were his new religion. I gave him one of our tracts.

The can of light bulbs became a beer soaked dance hall, as a generation got nutty to obscure Spanish garage hangovers, ironic tacky Spanish disco, and Spanish versions of mop-top Beatles and “Sweet Home Alabama”. Or was it “Werewolves of London”?

May 21 - La Faena, Madrid Spain

2010-05-23T04:09:00.006-05:00

After a wonderful lunchtime feast of eggs, breads, meats, salads, beer and wine (!), we made the short trek from Salamanca to Madrid.

Ah, temporary relief from long drives.

But no relief from hellish ones.

Mike absorbed the task of driving during Madrid's Friday rush hour.

Our worthless piece of shit GPS took us through a tunnel that rendered her clueless and useless.

We were perpetually 10 minutes away, but never 10 minutes away.

30 of those ten minutes were spent squeezing between Madrid's closet-sized side streets.

50 of those ten minutes were spent sitting in traffic that made NYC look like Dodge City.

90 of these minutes were spent looking at ham museums, more annoyingly beautiful women, and the Puerta de Toledo through a windshield that was more bugs than glass.

Persistence and dumb luck got us to the venue as people began buzzing to get into the show.

The dressing room came equipped with an acoustic guitar, a drum set, a vibraphone, and a vibraslap, so The Bitter Tears recorded a one rehearsal/one take birthday song for our friend Gillian with a G.

Last year we played one of our best sets at La Faena, an art space that looks more like a storage space at first. We were happy to share the bill once more with Tostadas and their soundtracks to unreleased David Lynch films.

I tried a new outfit tonight courtesy of Reid: a tight green girl's shirt about shoes, bright yellow early 90's rain paints, a brown doo rag and sleeping nightshades. During "Grieving" my slide whistle got caught in my underwear, so I played it. It looked like that thing that every teenage boy has tried but few have succeeded in doing. The nightshade played a role in my new bit for "Moline", where I slowly fall asleep while playing the gradually disappearing beat. The Bitter Tears and Madrid both had fun, so it worked out.

Afterward, our hosts Eli and Helena whipped up some delicious magro con arroz, and everyone gabbed about Star Trek Next Generation into the whee hours. Around 2, our suitcases rolled through Madrid's Mardi Gras of club goofs and futbol hooligans. They wore all that style stuff and chanted drunken sports dirges until "San Tropez".

May 20 - Ralo, Salamanca Spain

2010-05-22T16:59:00.010-05:00

7:30am! It was Greg’s last day with us, and he had to be at the Madrid airport by noon. He will be missed as a human as well as a laborer. Greg always helped load in, load out and sold merch. His tips and tricks on how to get by in life without spending a cent were priceless. His presence perked things up as he snacked on expired yogurt from a Swiss trash can or regaled us with tales of Alaskan hitchhiking and Canadian bear killing (self defense). His ability to adapt and his spirit are to be envied. He must have thought we were a bunch of soft jello pansies when we paid for things like food and shelter. Hats off to Greg! May our paths cross again.

Reid drove our bug-caked beast through the endless blur of untouched Spanish countryside. On roadsides we explored spooky stone shacks in the red rocks, relaxed on the steps of an abandoned hotel restaurant, and played in its hot, rusted playground.

Salamanca is a college town, home to the oldest continuously active university in Spain. It’s been around since the 13^th century, which is older than America…and Dick Clark (BOI-YOI-YOI-YOING! Applause! Fanfare! Confetti! Standing ovation! Champagne! Human cannonball! Parade! Obama! World peace! Explosion of Mars! Sudden inclimate weather! Cannibalism! Destruction of any evidence of life as we know it! Deep century’s long freeze. New life forms! Evolution! Language! Technology! Dick Clark’s New Civilization’s Rockin’ Eve! BOI-YOI-YOI-YOING! Applause!...).

We spread out today, checking out them jumbo churches, serene rivers, and the constant flux of well-bottomed college girls. It was torture and stupid. I haven’t "seen" my girlfriend in over a month. Haven’t showered since Zurich. White make-up clings to the locks of my itchy, itchy scalp. The elastic band on my three-days-in-a-row swimming trunks can’t contain my ever-expanding beer-then-pasta-then-beer tour gut. Ugh.

Blech.

ANYWAY, Ralo is a garage in an industrial block of Salamanca. When we first tried to find it we ended up in the locker room of a factory, where men and women were changing into their work coveralls. A man chomping on the final moments of a cigar shooed us away.

We reunited with Anteojos friends Javier, Maria and Carlos, who were so kind to us on our last visit. Tostadas, the pretty duo with the funny name, played sweet & sad instrumentals on delayed guitar and Rhodes. Maria’s Italian Jen-Moog circled around the songs like a sleepy bee making moon honey (I'm auditioning for Pitchfork in 2005). Someone passed around green foam squares and Salamanca’s bookish drop-outs relaxed their bountiful asses after a long week of exams.

Reid opened the set with a molester’s guffaw into the mic. Mike translated our songs in Mexican. I ate a banana during Alan’s monologue in “Moline”. “Things The Boys Love” made its European debut. One of these days I’ll catch that bounced stick during the one-beat break in “Stumper”.

After the show Jose from Ralo treated us to a 2am breakfast that would stave off substituting my hand for a relationship. For a little while. What I am is an amazing human.

May 19 - Centro Cultural de Matadero, Huesca Spain

2010-05-22T15:06:00.006-05:00

Greg and I greeted the day with a morning dip in the Mediterranean Sea. She was cold like a refreshing coat of bee stings. After an inexplicable jog (I hate jogging!), I took the wheel for the long drive to Spain. The dreary, rainy curves of Nice morphed into the gustiest roads in western Europe. "VENT VIOLENT," the signs howled. The winds teased the van like God’s rich, spoiled stepsons tormenting innocent squirrels. The gas gauge beeped, indicating we only had 77km of travel left. Forty miles passed without a service station in sight. At one of the countless French tollbooths, I asked the attendant if any services were ahead. She spoke as fast as she could in her native tongue and pointed further. We didn’t have time to teach her American, as there was a line of cars behind us now. Further up we finally saw a sign for gas. In 71 km. The gauge said we had a little less than 40km of gas…so we turned around and kept the van steady in lower fifth gear through the bullying breezes of fraught France.

It was not looking good. We were not rocking out to awesome tunes on the radio, cracking new hilarious jokings, noshing on authentic unpasteurized brie, or high fiving our mind blowing triumphs as a band. We sat in stressed silence pondering the length of the roadside footrace that awaited us.

The van sputtered to yet another tollbooth. The gauge read 4km.

“Gasoline?”

The tollbooth attendant, yet another comparatively attractive woman with a musical cadence and a chipper disposition, shrugged. In the immediate distance sat a goddamn gas station and we fucking pulled up to a pump as the gauge declared 0km.

That little adventure added two hours to what was already a nine hour driving day. It went from nine hours to eleven hours. 9 to 11. 9-11. Do you know what I mean? Here is what I mean. Running out of gas near the French Riveria is equivalent to the tragic and horrifying and still unbelievable events of September 11^th, 2001. Thank you, look for my upcoming column in The National Review.

I drove a second leg through the turbulent rerun of southern France. Mike took the second five hour shift, and Reid put the icing on our big, ugly unhappy cake.

Crossing into Spain, our bonehead GPS lost her marbles. In her mind we were driving through the brushes and fields of rural Aragon.

“…recalculating…recalculating…recalcutlating…recalculating…”

Her screen looked like we were playing Paperboy with a racecar. Meanwhile our original keyboardist John Leonard had made some music mixes for us to listen to in the van. His selections included “Zippity Doo Dah”, random Motown #1’s, soundtrack music for slow space movies, an unlistenable nine minute 4^th generation C- audience bootleg of a Neil Young concert, and other random cruelty.

We enjoyed them.

A little after 9pm we rolled up to El Centro Cultural de Matadero in the modest metropolis of Huesca. The building loomed large with gargoyled cow heads protecting the big room with rows of theater seats. It came equipped with an efficient and professional sound crew. It was the biggest sound on the tour so far. Dani from Anteojos Booking greeted us with a backstage spread of salchicas, jamon serano, tomato bread, a variety of Spanish omelettes, and thin slices of goat fat. Spain takes care of their friends and The Bitter Tears are friends of Spain. It’s great to be back.

The crowd showed reserved Aragonian enthusiasm during our inconsistent set. A false start of “Spark” opened the show, and my prom dress got caught up in my snare drum and kick pedal. But “Moline” cooked, “Companion” was lovely and hateful, and “The Passion of St. Matthew’s Boxcar” converted a few Spanish poblecitos.

We bookended the set with a prickly and skeletal showing of “Murdered At The Bar”. We should stop playing that song in a different room over the telephone. In retrospect a three song encore was plenty. Undeterred, the gracious Huescaians showed their appreciation in oddly high merch sales. After the show Dani accompanied us for an hour long trek to a wonderful flat in the skies of Zaragoza.

May 18 - Driving Day, Switzerland & France

2010-05-22T15:02:00.003-05:00

We woke up late. Our dodo bird GPS got us lost in the Alps. We had arranged to meet up with our friends from Stella Peel in Nice for dinner. They were going to leave work early to accommodate this. We were not going to make it in time. Drag.

Reid and Mike drove through big chocolate Switzerland and warm oily Italy. Somewhere near Livorno or Bologna or Spagettios we found the one Italian rest stop that had nothing decent to offer. It was called On The Run. Hungry and existing, we settled for greasy slices of pizza served with a hint of condescending impatience. When we reconvened in the van Greg was wearing an On The Run uniform, complete with a faux-corduroy cap! His most impressive dumpster find yet.

It was 10 to 10 when we met Sylvain in Nice. We had 10 minutes to catch a French dinner in the neighborhood before all the restaurants closed. We rushed into a spot that specialized in regional southwestern French cuisine. Sylvain’s wife Stephanie and their tiny, energetic pup joined us for confit, foi gras, carpaccio, and assorted hardcore sausages. My duck was dark hedonistic decadence, with enough buttery bites to constitute a walk along the beach and contemplate a dip in the sea.

“I wish I had an illness,” Reid pontificated. “This would be a good place to die.”

“Maybe in the morning it would be better,” Sylvain advised. After all, he had to get up in six hours.

I would like to be sincere for one moment without any snark or smart ass garbage. The people we have encountered on this tour and the last tour of Europe have been some of the kindest possible humans to such an oafish lot of stained American clowns. They have fed us, they have put us up in their homes, they have trusted alone in their homes while they slept elsewhere, they have rearranged their schedules and their lives to ensure that we are taken care of, and then they have payed us. My sincerest gratitude for this is hard to describe in words, but let me try: It’s like Santa Claus asked you to marry him, and he acts like the Fonz, but instead his jukebox plays delicious food and funny looking money.

In Nice, most people leave their cars in neutral. This is so they can be moved in order to accommodate a potential spot for someone else. We inched back a compact Peugeot so our Ford Transit could nestle for the night.

After we arrived three hours late and almost missed dinner, Sylvain and Stephanie still offered their apartment in downtown Nice for us to stay the night, while they crashed elsewhere nearby but not so nearby really.

We relaxed with port wine, a massage chair that soothed you with Miami bass, and France’s strangely arranged computer keypads. Like fairytale gnomes, fell asleep one by one until only the littlest insomniac was left to sawing sounds of group snoring.

May 17 - Boschbar, Zurich Switzerland

2010-05-22T14:49:00.005-05:00

Since Switzerland has the highest quality of life on earth, I thought I would eat the highest quality breakfast possible: a pretzel with salami slices.

Greg was in dumpster diving heaven. He fished a complete double-bacon wrapped cheesy bread from a discarded tray, plus yogurt, mayo and a picnic’s worth of fruits and veggies. Not only that, but he scored a duffel bag, a child’s knapsack, plus Lyon-Barcelona September 12, 2001 soccer scarves for the whole band. Sometimes he encountered snafus. Greg took a sip of a found container of chocolate milk.

“Ooo- don’t drink that. I think it’s salad dressing.”

Our GPS is a British woman who seems a bit daffy at times. Today she took us on a jogging trail that led to a photogenic forest. I would have gotten some better pictures, too, if it weren’t for all those glaring joggers. For having such a high quality of life, most people in Zurich seemed glum. Maybe it’s that detached Ferris Bueller ennui that comes from never experiencing anything of low quality.

On our own we found the Fluntern Cemetary, atop a peak overlooking greater Zurich. Inside laid the remains of James Joyce and an author named Canetti, who I believe wrote novels about pizza.

The kooky GPS then navigated through the cobblestone pedestrian walkways of the old town. We locked her in the van with the windows rolled up and took a walk along Lake Zurich. At the Cabaret Voltaire Alan and Greg spotted a poster for our show. Mike, Reid and I grabbed a beer and watched the rain continue to follow us. At an English pub I chatted with a couple from Tulsa in their 50’s. While I ate a sausage buttie, a cowboy in a yellow slicker barged in and hijacked the room with what thought was good cheer.

“You guys don’t play that black crap do ya?”

He was a salesman from Colorado who sold racist horse trail rides to Europeans. He talked big and sat large and rattled off names, places, and slurs. The Oklahomans weren’t into his schtick so much, which manifested into a cordial quarrel over the meaning and value of the word “couple”. He kept apologizing about not being able to make the show, though we never told him when or where it would be.

The show was at Boschbar, newly relocated to Section 4, a strip of Zurich where prostitution is tolerated. Last night we were enticed with random flashes of Swiss cleavage while we searched for a hostel.

Doomentels, a Swiss gent by the name of Dominick, opened the night with a solo set of nylon string guitar in reed organ musings in English. He covered Tom Waits with what looked like a Speak’n’Spell football.

I couldn’t believe the turnout for a rainy Monday night. The place was packed, insulated our set, our loud set, but not louder than the foosball fanatics who contributed fooscussion to “Grieving”.

After the set Mike took a head-clearing walk down Section 4 in full make-up, threatening the street competition, and amusing a passing squad car. Alan asked a local woman what her hobbies were, and she pulled out a sheet of paper that listed them beside easy-to-understand illustrations.

The DJ spun Chicago jump blues and unironic classic rock. Occasionally he plays “Worthless Sleaze” off of our Jam Tarts LP, and was completely unaware that we were that band. The DJ saved everyone’s life tonight, including a wobbly young man who proudly paraded down Section 4 with his pants and underpants around his knees.

May 16 - Day Off, France, Germany, Switzerland

2010-05-22T14:28:00.005-05:00

Our first sunny day of the tour. I ate some choco-pain, drank a café ole, and used the café’s toilet paper, as Flore’s flat was flat out of that. At the café, men retained style in their twilight, playing tarot card gambling games in casual suits, coiffed baldness and flashy rings. While the others slept in and the adult teenagers played videogames and music from 1994, I took a walk while trying to look European.

Eventually everyone woke up and Flore returned home. We serenaded her with bad George Thorogood blues improvs and “Unchained Melody” en Espanol. We said farewell in a parking lot and our hearts bled tiny French tears.

The Black Forest of Germany has provided a wealth of inspiration, from Hansel & Gretel to Rick Steves. The Bitter Tears decided to see what all the spooky fuss was about. Since it was still constantly cold and no one brought a tent, camping was ruled out. Perhaps a hotel or a motel along the way would give us a nice night’s rest. We encountered a few buildings that said “hotel” but turned out to be residential condos or hillbilly hideouts. I peeked through a dust-crusted lobby door only to see a scattered assortment of tools.

“Maybe ‘hotel’ means ‘tool shed,” Alan speculated.

Mike drove us up the breath-taking spine of the forest, reaching elevations of over a gazillion kiloliters. Ready for a break, Reid and I walked into a giant Shining-esque lodge and inquired about rooms. An annoyed woman trudged out, greeting us with a frown. We used words like “euros” and “how many” and numbers like “for” and “four”, but she would not understand us. I used the noun word “room” and she seemed very surprised to learn that we had come to the hotel looking for a room.

“Ohhhhh! Rooooom.”

She frowned some more and shook her head “no”, then waved us away. As we retreated, I overheard her screaming at her husband, a poor wood cutter, and then locking away her two step children overnight with only bread and water.

Every enormous hotel we came across seemed deserted. Greg pointed out how easily these abandoned barns could be squatted for the night. It became apparent that the Black Forest is just one huge ski resort. Of course! Why would anyone ever want to come here in the warm months when you can hike through its gloriously green trails? That would be fucken stoopid, right?

Thankfully, a wonderful lodge on a crest overlooking the endless hues of the forest was open and had vacancies. But! The rooms were only 86 Euros per person, and we would never stay at a hotel that seemed so cheap and desperate. The walls probably crawled with roaches made of rubies, and I’ll bet you couldn’t drink the water because the faucets only gushed caviar. No thanks, fleabags.

It got dark as Mike navigated us frustratingly through the tiny farm roads and Sunday ghost towns of rural Germany. We arrived in Zurich around midnight and found a hostel. In its lobby some English blokes debated music, trying to educate a bird in the process.

“Oh, I thought The Clash was a type of music.”

Two Arian kids were poring over their recently purchased KISS merchandise, marveling as they unrolled posters and smoothed T-shirts. I paid five Swiss Franks for instant ramen in a bucket. For lunch I had eaten something called a doner box, which is a doner kebob sans pita served in a box. I was going to sleep in a splintered wooden crate, but decided to bunk it up Boy Scout style with the boys in the hostel. Greg spent the night in the van, pretending it was a spacious Black Forest squathaus.

May 15 - Brussels Cancelation

2010-05-22T13:48:00.005-05:00

Tonight we were to play a show in Brussels, but the venue got shut down. Black Flag must have played there once. Pigs ruin everything.

With an unexpected day off, our possibilities were endless. We could go to Rebours, a robot war in Holland, we could show up to a squat in Karlsruhe, Germany and play a show, we could go to Brussels anyway, we could go to The Black Forest and camp without camping gear. With so many options, like orphaned pups at our feet, we decided to just stay in Metz for another day.

Luckily, our hostess, the lovely Flores, said we could stay at her flat for another day. She didn’t mind, she would just stay somewhere other than her home for one more night. Flores rules by the way. Her flat came equipped with a guitar, a pump organ, harmonica, melodica, a bamboo xylophone, and didgeridoos.

We grabbed some pain au chocolat and visited a giant church with Chagall designed windows. I was actually impressed. Usually churches have a Pavlovian affect on me where I become immediately sleepy and uninterested. This church left me conscious and uninterested.

Mike and I found interest in an afternoon snack of heavenly carpaccio.

Flores met us in the afternoon for crepes and Belgian beer. Over forty drinks in two bars, she tickled our day with girlish giggles and language barrier silliness. It felt like we were all collectively on a wonderfully drunken first date. In a legless moment of improv, Flores and I switched jackets before she vanished for work in the rain.

I woke up in a film of drinking sweat on a futon wearing a small leather Michael Jackson jacket. It was dark. Some teenaged men were listening to G-funk and figuring out the chords to “Smells Like Teen Spirit” while playing with a four foot long pipe that had a clock built into it. The rest of the band had already gone out to see Aphex Twin play a free concert at the art museum. Except Reid, who unbeknownst to me was still in the flat passed out from the afternoon gluttony. But at the time it was 11pm. And I was simultaneously groggy and in France.

I went to the bar, hoping to get my jacket back from Flores. The bar was empty except for Alan, Mike and Greg. Apparently they had had their fill of Aphex Twin. A curiosity by the name of Stephan entertained from behind the bar, sliding beers to Alan and Mike like in the westerns, cracking jokes about his suicide attempts and his son’s mysterious name, and making faces that Jim Carrey could only dream about making.

At a doner kebob stand Mike and I were offered hash from some funny French knuckleheads. The short one, “Joe Pesci”, pulled out a lead-looking pellet from a box of Marlboros. “So which are easier to fuck? French girls or American girls?”

We got our doner kebobs to go.

May 14 - L'Emile Vache, Metz France

2010-05-15T16:06:00.008-05:00

A victorious return to Metz!

On our last visit we had conquered this town!

Flashback: Getting drunk on beer laced with pico (sp?), trashing rental drum kit, being ignored at a tapas restaurant while wearing horrendous make up, prancing in a pink nightie through a fortress, climbing over guardrails protecting decent people from a 50-foot drop into a shallow river, dropping camera, losing all pictures from Metz, getting a pretty girl's name, losing her name, aggressive offers of homosexual oral sex, stagediving onto the windshield of the van, and doner kebab.

This time we were just as conquerous, and every bit as victorious!

We parked the van next to the fortress and just left it there. Who cares, right, man? When you're The Bitter Tears, you live like there's no tomorrow, or if there is tomorrow, you might pay 30 Euros. Check out these awesome pictures I fucken took, man:

Yeah, we laid waste to this town!

The rest of the bands in all of Europe were too intimidated to play with us, so we played alone.

During soundcheck all these adult women were checking us out. We made sure to play our best soundcheck ever. We were the hottest shit. Afterward, we couldn't even eat any dinner without being hounded by Metz'z adultest women. They wanted to know everything about us: our band name, our city of origin, our city of origin, our band name. Everything.

Our set made grown men dance and adult women cry from their vaginas. It was almost too good. But in France, nothing is too good, so we were averagely amazing. We left a permanent stain called "awesome" on that stage. Metz, we rule!

Speaking of stains, every adult woman in France or Metz could not keep their hands off of us. They deserted their dates, many of whom had taken drunken spills on the sidewalk and were left to tend to their own bleeding noses. At the bar, a completely adult woman put me in a seven minute headlock until I cried "Edith Piaf." A drooling derelict got behind my drum kit and played some confused jazz, until Reid and I rescued him with mind blowing keyboard accompaniment. Everyone I know described it as "genius" in French. Some kooks, clearly inspired by our brilliant impromptu, pounded out broken Lennon and Dylan ballads on an upright piano. They got a record deal right then and there. We kissed every French woman ever, marking them eternally with our stage-white-caked brilliant faces.

Metz, you love us so much that we love you!

See you in the morning, man.

May 13 - L'Aquilone, Liege Belgium

2010-05-14T19:37:00.010-05:00

So far Europe in May is rainy and cold. Beautifully dreary. Romantically ugly. Sexily horrid.

At a Dutch rest stop Mike, a professional chef, described the process by which his sandwich had been made. “They took pesto made from pickles and then they pissed on it.”

On the day sheet for today’s show:

Will food be provided?	YES
Will drinks be provided?	YES (+/- 5 drinks/musician)
Will accommodation be provided?	YES
Any other useful information:	Can wait to see you

They could wait to see us…

Thankfully, when we arrived in Liege a few hours early (!), Julian from Honest House happened to be walking by. Not only was he able to wait for us, but he also provided a wonderful walking tour of the city while we munched on Belgium’s famous frites. Belgium frites are to french fries what Tesla was to Marconi. Tesla the band that is.

After some café ole, Belgian beer, and a hearty dinner at L’aquilone (which means “Aqualung” in French), The Friendly Dogs took the stage. The overly talented trio took control of some truly unwieldy Beefheartian punk. The singer was a British ex-pat with an absurdist streak that kept the crowd in chuckles between spurts of rubber chords. The bassist switched between electric, upright, and several wooden stringed oddities. The drummer was the most impressive drummer I’ve seen in the flesh. A presence of tall French calm, he had a wingspan the length of Liege. His tiny jazz kit was augmented with a Vistalite bass drum, a jungle gym of cymbals, small gongs, and bell trees, a xylophone of cowbells, Hanna Barbera electronic triggers, various sheet metals or foils, and an endless magician’s kerchief of shakers, shlingers, schlangons, and zeezles.

He played with precision randomness and hummingbird quickness. I don’t think he’s played a quarter note in twenty years. It was almost like his talent was a sickness.

My favorite song was about a sad dwarf called "Super Dwarf", a thrice-shifting number that boomeranged flourishes of press rolls and slide guitar with auxiliary bass drum thuds and electronic drip drops under the tortured perspective of a lionized dwarf. I was humbled to say the least.

The L’Aquilone bi-monthly playbill described The Bitter Tears as “flexible”. I was hoping the crowd would be flexible, too, now that we had to follow The Friendly Dogs. And they were. We were our normal selves, caked in grime, singing, provoking, sometimes screaming. I got many compliments on my prom dress, even though it kept falling down around my elbows, revealing my developing man-boobs. It made sense that after seeing The Friendly Dogs' drummer, their favorite part of my performance was the dress.

We hung out afterward forever. It seemed like the night would never end. In the outdoor plaza we talked shop with Andrew from The Friendly Dogs while Julian kept our hands continuously filled with Jupilers. Each time I visited the bathroom, I saw my own breath.

Eventually, we found our way to La Zone, an underground hostel and café. Reid’s curiosity was piqued by the half-closed door to the café, brimming inside with the sounds of B. Bumble & The Stingers. We poked our heads in to see several girls dancing slumber party-style. Mike followed.

“Where are we?”

We were told that it was after hours and the employees were celebrating the end of the day, and that we were welcomed to join. And so we did. The walls were themed in basketball, with photo collages affixed to silhouettes of slam-dunkians. An LA Lakers jacket and a Dennis Rodman jersey hung with pride (?). It’s always hard to tell what is or isn’t ironic in Europe.

I sat down with the group until they asked where I was from. I pointed to the Rodman jersey.

"What do people from Chicago call themselves?"

Chicagoans.

"Chicago wins!"

I talked at length with a Belgian man who had spent two years working in a power plant in the hairy border town of Matamoros, Mexico, and with another Belgian man who had a bit of a learning disability, and knew more English than I did French, Flemish or German combined. We talked about the environment, Obama, and eating dandelions, clovers and poison ivy lasagna.

I don’t know when we went to bed. No one knows what time it is ever. All I know is that I left Reid, the lone single Bitter Tear, to his own devices with the friendly group of spirited Belgians. And in the middle of the night I was awoken by the sound of small, nearby Flemish kisses. Dreamily terrible!

May 12 - Havenkwartier, Deventer Holland

2010-05-14T06:06:00.009-05:00

Close all the windows and turn on the gas, because The Bitter Tears return to Europe! This tour’s lineup includes: Alan (guitar), Mike (bass), Reid (keyboard), and me (drum).

The four of us met this afternoon in Amsterdam. Mike discovered a 56 Euro parking ticket on the windshield of the van, signaling the official beginning of the tour and of our financial woes. Alan reunited with an old friend, Greg, who has been living off the grid for the last decade having adventures that most people don’t have the courage to attempt. We invited Greg to join us for more courageous endeavors like loading gear, unloading gear, and eating pasta. He was game.

Greg was staying in a squat downtown, where Alan and Reid had spent the previous night. Greg’s friend Corry joined us, too, and soon the garbage strike’ened streets of Amsterdam gave way to the traffic clogged highways of rural Holland.

At least it was pretty with all those cows and sheeps and shit all over the place. With six of us, it was quite cozy in the van. Especially considering that more than half of us had squatted in a defunct building and hadn’t showered. The van took on a kind of ripe, homelessy scent with an essence of stale, chimney flue.

After just seven months, The Bitter Tears returned to Deventer, a smaller Dutch town sort of near Germany. Our host, Laurens, was in great spirits and welcomed us back with smiles and beer.

Hots For Helga opened the night with genuine 80’s art rock. The singer sang with his eyes, adding humor to covers of Joy Division and Velvet Underground. During our soundcheck, he took notice of Reid playing around with a “No Quarter” patch on the Nord.

“Sounds like your keyboard has too much water in it.”

It became our turn to play music to Deventer. I must say, it was a great first show. Alan jumped around with yards of energy. Mike’s improv instincts were strong. Reid made his keyboard debut with The Bitter Tears in garb reminiscent of an extra on The Munsters. I got dangerously close to blackface. But hey, we were sort of near Germany.

Bitter Tears Behind The Scenes!

For years, Alan and Mike have taken a cue from vaudeville performers of yore, applying a lit match to the end of a wine cork and rubbing its ashes onto their sad or happy faces. It achieves an authentic coal miner’s ragamuffin look. Recently we were told that it also achieves toxic levels of carcinogens into the human body. So now The Bitter Tears have switched to a new, healthier liquid called Face Rot. But we will continue to endorse the use of asbestos for kleenex.

During the encore, someone handed Alan and Mike large plants and the Dutch took pictures like 80’s Asian stereotypes. This devolved into a loud angry rant by Alan translated simultaneously by Mike in Spanish, creating a cacophony that never quite crescendoed. It just sort of ended. Mike calls these shows “crumblers”.

We crumbled back to Laurens’ home, where the festivities were just beginning. Alan played trumpet while I pumped out Beach Boys and Arm Soup songs on an antique pump organ. Meanwhile, downstairs a huge air guitar party had ensued. It was Zeppelin. I came in just in time to add air drums to the first snare crack of “Achilles Last Stand.”

We played air instruments until dawn, man. We were awesome and always ferocious. Between bursts of Russian kick-dancing, Mike and I assisted Reid in breakdancing to Metallica’s Master of Puppets LP.

Pumped and frenzied, I put on a Heino record, which was answered almost immediately with Maiden. Reid responded with US Maple and everyone went home. James Brown’s Hell segued into Deventer’s morning birds. Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Music waited on an ottoman, frozen in eternal potential energy.

April 10 - Peoria Theater, Peoria IL

2010-04-11T22:14:00.014-05:00

The Peoria Theater sits inside a mall that has been on life support since 1982. Attached to the theater is a bowling center, a sauna, and a neglected arcade.

Two security guards dressed as California Highway Patrolmen oversee the property.

When we arrived Derrick Hart & The Fantastic Possibilities Of Life On This Planet were assembling their massive stage show. While Mike and Alan bowled, I made a beer run that involved a Schnuck's cashier who had never heard of Jim Beam or bourbon. He used a telephone. I was told the guy who runs the liquor department had gone home early.

Returning to the megaplex, I found John and his wife Christine hanging out in the parking lot. John drank coffee from a thermos and smoked a cigarette. Soon one of the mall ChiPs approached. We were told to move, proving that coffee and cigarettes doesn't play in Peoria movie theaters.

Derrick Hart and his crew had decorated the stage with plush toys, homemade Radio Shack lights, and a life-size robot that seemed in a decent mood.

They kept their music slow and easy on the ears. Derrick gently referenced boxing legends in a Grandaddy timber, using "smurf" as a verb, while his right hand man Eddie launched flatulent balloons upward and onto the songs. Then he added Fisher Price feedback with a Toys 'R Us guitar. Sometimes he narrated through a megaphone, and let his horsey-on-a-stick whinny for emphasis. During one song, Eddie slowly unravelled his body from a mummified cacoon, revealing a butterfly costume in the song's crescendo.

The sextet was dressed for success, a motley melding of gnomewear, Nehru, sombreros, baseball caps, tape moustaches, and robes. Several kids sitting on a couch wore gorilla masks or those novelty springy alien antennae things that were popular in 80's malls. All the while a film played behind them. For the final song, a barrage of streamers bounced off of the band, and supermarket fireworks popped, like a family version of Great White's live show.

Derrick Hart put on something special for Peoria.

Too bad Peoria doesn't know what special is.

We played next. We weren't very good. We closed with "Vanilla Bean."

Three times.

During the fourth "Vanilla Bean," someone shouted out "Laura Clark."

Laura Clark is a 17-piece band that takes a long time to set up. While they were still setting up, I retrieved some keys I had accidentally left near the stage. I apologized for walking through their set up, and said it would be the last and only time.

"Good," said the lead mandolinist flatly.

Laura Clark is also the name of the band's lead singer. She is an "attractive" girlwoman who plays original guitars and musics. I think it's really cute that such a beautiful girl can be a woman with a band of men to make her songs sound so professional and good-sounding. Her father played keyboards and favored major sevenths, the kind that contemporary adults go mad for.

"That's my Dad. It's past his bedtime."

The rest of the family laughed. It was a good family time atmosphere.

"Thank you for staying. I know it's late. We're going to play some nice songs."

Laura Clark the band did play nice songs. All 23 of the band members knew exactly how to play their instruments the right way. Every song sounded like it could have been on the shiny radio. They played so properly, it sounded like 47 people were playing. And there were only 34 of them on the stage! They were that good.

And gracious, too!

"Thanks to The Bitter Tears. That was an experience."

That's the thing about being an artist. You have to have life experience. And Laura Clark was born with it.

"Can someone get me a beer-JUST KIDDING!! I don't drink beer.

It tastes like pee."

Now even though Laura Clark has never had a beer in her life, she knows that it tastes like pee because it smells like pee. That makes sense to me! Besides, her husband would kill her if he caught her talented face drinking a beer.

The only reason I immediately left after that was because I had to go drink some pee, I mean, use the restroom. On the way there a gentlemen compared The Bitter Tears to Phish. He insisted that he meant no harm for several minutes.

At the concession stand they sold liquor and pee, I mean beer. The guy behind the counter switched to speaking in Ebonics when talking to black men. I ate a soft, warm pretzel and watched other conversations, until someone asked me how Jay Bennett had been portrayed in the Wilco movie. Meanwhile Alan sold a bunch of CD's and pee, I mean LP's.

Our records just sound like pee.

The original plan was to spend the night in Peoria and drive back the next day. But if we hit the road right away we would get home by as early as tomorrow. Mike took the wheel for the necessary trip directly back home right now.

As the morning birds chirped in Chicago we passed an establishment called Family Bar.

"The family that drinks together, stinks together."

A big thanks to Derrick Hart & The Fantastic Possibilities Of Life On This Planet for putting together a wonderfully odd bill in reverse order. Since The Bitter Tears didn't "play in Peoria" I wonder if we should remove it from our past shows list.

March 28 - Circle A, Milwaukee WI

2010-04-02T19:08:00.008-05:00

Though we've seen it over 700 times in our lifetimes, none of us had never been to Mars Cheese Castle in Kenosha, Wisconsin. So Alan, Mike, my girlfriend Lauren (making her Bitter Tears road debut) and I used it as a pit stop.

It had a lot more to offer than I thought.

In addition to the obligatory cheeses, jerkies, and obnoxiously scatalogical, sexist hot sauces ("Ass In Space," "Fiery Fart," and "The Big Hot One" featuring a cartoon bikini girl with fake tits and collagen lips sucking off a porn-sized pepper), there's a deli, a bar, a long knight's table, maces, and suits of armor. And best of all, a gift shop!

The Circle A is a tiny bar owned by a pair of quirky adults who live upstairs. It's what a childless couple's child could look like if they had a good jukebox. And they do! 45's of James Brown, Strawberry Alarm Clock, and Kitty Wells played while friends (including Yale Delay and Mr. Alarm from ifihadahifi) filled the one-room bar to capacity.

Wereworm began the night with truly enjoyable instrumental rock of the Thinking Fellers variety. Tom Stack (painter, illustrator and creator of many gig posters) bashed many a flam on an early 60's jazz kit that resembled a delicious honeycomb. One of the guitarists had a Stu Sutcliffe stage presence, his back to the crowd the whole time. We were in for a good night.

This was a rare Bitter Tears show as a trio, just Alan on guitar, Mike on bass, on me on drums. The room was packed and tight. The neck of Mike's bass crashed into my ride, and the body of Alan's guitar rode my crash. We kept the tempo mostly up with "Fire Messiah," "Moline" and "Rough & Ready." The guys from hifi added a round of whiskey into the show and things got kooky. One of those fruit shakers (apple) found its way onto my floor tom, so I beat a hole into it. All of its beads leaked onto the drum, and when I pounded the drum they flew into the happy mass like confetti bullets. They returned the favor with flying beer cans, which pissed off the living ghost of Rollins. Too bad, Hank.

Yale Delay tried to tackle me during "The Companion," which ended with nasty cymbal washes, ringing everyone's ears into tomorrow. Reluctantly the 10pm DJ allowed us an encore, and we dusted off "Murdered" for the messy mass.

Afterward Yale thrust another 16oz Bitburger into my hand and bear hugged me into the ceiling and onto a blue collar regular. The guy told me to watch out, but he liked the show. It took a long time for me to get out of make up and figure this one out: You have to work in the morning and Lauren's driving your drunk ass home.

Circle A is tops!

March 20 - The Valley of the Vapors Independent Music Festival, Hot Springs, AR

2010-03-22T22:29:00.010-05:00

At 6am I felt the urge to vomit. The bathroom upstairs was occupied. I didn’t know the location of the bathroom downstairs, but I went down there in my underwear anyway. I hovered above the kitchen sink and drank a glass of water in Alan’s parents' house. I drank another and lied down on the cool floor of the kitchen in my underwear. I woke up at 7:30 in my underwear and found a bathroom. TOURING!!!

In Blytheville, Arkansas we found The Dixie Pig, a barbeque spot in the middle of yet another dying small town in Main Street America. The service was nice (the waitress gave us each two glasses of water to drink from), and the meat spoke for itself without too much input from the sauce. In the Memphis area, meat is to man as sauce is to Stepford wife.

We returned to The Valley Of The Vapors Festival in Hot Springs, this time in the rain. A steady stream leaked from the hills down to the valley, muddying the dirt parking lot where a car echoed “Sympathy For The Devil” against the rocks.

A speedy bluegrass outfit named Cletus Got Shot growled Jim Crow songs with an upright bass made out of an industrial plastic tank.

Next was Projexorcism, a visual “Revolution #9” made up of old instructional film reels, their projectors manipulated by an entertaining man in bunny ears. It lasted forty minutes?

The kids in Hot Springs wanted loud and fast, some of them wanted it hateful. They yelled, they danced, they questioned, they hugged, they tossed out “we love you”s, they tattooed the word HATE on their inner lips. We played a loud set. We played a good set, too. The HATE-tattooed went bananas for "The Companion." It took three shows to get tight, just in time for the end of the tour. A-one, a-two, a-thrreee! Crunch! A-thrreee!

Closing the evening was Frown Pow’r, a quintet form the Little Rock area. They borrowed Alan’s guitar amp. They should have borrowed his tuner, too. They were a sloppy fun mess. The bass player looked like Brian Wilson with a Jonas Brothers haircut: a dumber angel. The singer looked like Rod Blagojevich, the perfect front man. The mandolin player had 5 pedals, adding a high-pitched drone to the clumsy party rock. After several false starts, they inexplicably closed with “Shout,” the Isley Brothers song, the one heard at weddings. They even left a gap for the crowd to sing “shout,” but no one did. “You know you make me wanna (silence)…” It sounded like the song was being edited for television. People danced and had fun, myself included. Except for the dancing part.

Zac and Cheryl from Itinerant Locals put us up once again. This summer they are going on tour by train, performing in spots like Tucson, Minneapolis, Klamath Falls, Minot, San Francisco, and more. It sounds pretty amazing. Look for an Itinerant Locals show with these Bitter Tears in Chicago this July.

March 19 - 2720 Cherokee Art Gallery, St. Louis MO

2010-03-22T22:08:00.005-05:00

After pancakes, we hit the road. I decided to forget my cellphone in Champaign. This is the fourth time this year I have left my cellphone somewhere else. It means that I love having a cellphone and that I cannot imagine life without it. My cellphone is who I am. My cellphone is what I will always be.

Alan forgot his jacket there, too. Mike forgot his inflatable bed. To fit in, John left his social security card, birth certificate and voter registration in the Mississippi River.

The caravan arrived in Missouri, at the doorstep of Alan’s parents. Alan’s mom prepared a spread of feta and smoked gouda. While we each took a much needed shower, St. Louis white chili cooked and fresh corn muffins baked. It was all very delicious.

For some reason load in was at 6pm. At 6:30 we showed up to 2320 Cherokee, a huge art space decorated with out of tune pianos and out of time technology in the Historic Cherokee Shopping District of St. Louis. We were early. The soundman wouldn’t arrive for another hour. So we used the time to rehearse some new songs that we had played only once before at Coach House Sounds.

Thanks to Carlin, the wonderfully quaffed and chopped man who put this show together, our friends The Columbines were on the bill. This is the fourth show I’ve played with them in the last six months. Before I joined, The Bitter Tears were my favorite Chicago band. Now the title must go to The Columbines. John scratches out reverberated Bo Didley breaks on a JC Penney guitar, Kayte goofs off in shades and instigates Danzig impression contests (she sings nice, too), and Julia smirks like a minxy Alice Cramden as she pounds out some tom-heavy cave beats. They closed with “Bullet” but not the one by The Misfits. Fuck yes, please.

Speaking of fuck yes, the taco stand down the street fed us all to complete satisfaction for a fraction of the price. I wolfed down two lengua tacos for $3.

Before our set, John Leonard carted us to the bar where we ordered more drinks, and then wheeled us around the space and to the stage. I was a bit in the bag for this show. But I felt it went well, despite breaking two sticks, missing the big entrance in “Grieving” for the second night in a row, and having a few drum fills truncated by my new, big mink coat. Alan’s parents were in attendance, and several people from their careers showed up, too. Alan brought up abortion. We debuted one of his new songs, “Things The Boys Love,” a happy sing-along about a group of American cowboys who decide to ambush some Indians, only to have the tables turned. It’s told from the perspective of a rabid halfwit who enjoys watching his buddies getting slaughtered.

John and Eliza from Chicago traveled down just to see the show. Hardcore!

Afterward the upstairs art gallery was opened for all to see. It was a gallery filled with art. I noticed two guys exit a door that I thought led to the roof, so I followed. The door did not lead to the roof, but as soon as I opened it a man began yelling and barking and yelling at me. I put my hands in the air and left the art gallery.

With the entire downstairs space to myself I ordered another beer. I had another one while loading out, too. I was feeling good. I was talking a lot. And laughing. I was being an idiot or a rabid halfwit. On the ride home it took me twenty minutes to roll a borrowed cigarette while revealing my internet porn site of choice. I stumbled to a guest room in Alan’s parents’ house, theoretically ending a night of buffoonery.

March 18 - Independent Media Center, Urbana IL

2010-03-22T13:08:00.008-05:00

We tried to fit five in the van sans U-Haul. The equipment was packed tight like Tetris or Jenga or "Truth Or Dare" Tetris and "Spin The Butthole" Jenga. When Mike and John squeezed in, a backpack popped out and onto the ground.

"Careful!" John exclaimed.

"John, is that a glass Pyrex measuring cup in your bag?"

"I like to make tea."

So Alan and Justyna would enjoy a second honeymoon in their car, while Mike, John and I followed in the van. Everyone got excited about doubling our gas expenses for this brief tour of the midwest.

The Urbana-Champaign Independent Media Center is a converted post office in the center of town. In its basement lurks an art gallery, a bike co-op, a Books For Prisoners facility, and a costume shop.

We arrived while a humble guitar picker and a fiddler tastefully soundchecked. Their pickup truck had Pennsylvania plates. The small gathering of aging NPR subscribers bobbed their heads and tapped their hands to their knees.

It was all very polite. I found myself crossing my legs and folding my hands. After their set, they vanished. I never got their names.

A drunk local trio followed with heavy, almost-math rockriffs to the growing and thinning crowd. The frontman got drunk because his hamster had died that day, and he was bummed out. He thanked “Jan and Dean” for playing before them. I was happy that he mentioned their names so I could give them credit on the blog. The bass player ended the set by throwing his bass on the ground while keeping his backwards baseball cap on. It was all very impolite. I never get their names.

The Bitter Tears’ wardrobe was provided by the costume shop. I found the most wonderful white mink pea coat. Alan found a blouse emblazoned with kisses. John scored some terrible tourist or golf wear. Mike looked like he had found some kind of Jesus in a cavern.

The set went alright considering…we hadn’t practiced in a while. Oh, and the sound man left before we even played because his sister had locked herself out of the house. He had to go rescue her. College!

We stretched out a little in the solo section of “Moline.” At one point in the set Alan began uttering. Just uttering. His words were all broken, spilling onto the floor like freshly loosened teeth. It was The Bitter Tears I remembered seeing from the audience years ago, where the show could and would fall apart at any moment for no reason.

Afterward we convened at a house owned by Art, a childhood friend of Alan, Mike and John. Art is quick and funny, and could do stand up if he wanted. He donated a trumpet and a trombone to the band! Some more folks from the area arrived to join in the popcorn, beer, and laughter. We signed an LP for a woman in jail. I didn’t know they had phonographs in prison.

November 13 - The Inferno, Madison WI

2009-11-16T18:23:00.004-06:00

The Bitter Tears arrived in Madison LA-style, in three separate cars. We split into two pairs of spouses and one pair of “tour spouses”: Greg and Esther, Alan and Justyna, and Mike and I.

The Inferno sits on the outskirts of town in a house next to a set of railroad tracks. A small nylon poster with the words THE INFERNO hovered above the front door. It reeked of a DIY spot. Their locked door gave Mike and I time to find a barbeque restaurant and laugh at a bookstore called The Frugal Muse. It was like our second honeymoon.

Once The Inferno opened we were surprised by its actual club status. It had a stage, monitors, two bars, leathery furniture, clean bathrooms, and a roped-off VIP room housing a very important glitter ball. There was even a humorless doorman with a shitty attitude who listened to earbuds while playing Memory on his laptop. Pretty legit!

Mike Behrends began the evening with life-battered guitar tales and shanties. I inadvertently added percussion near the VIP ropes by clanging together giant 3-foot earrings that decoratively dangled from the walls.

Butte, a 2 and a half piece band, followed with the world’s best alternative to a drum machine: a DVD projector projecting a drummer playing the drum parts to their songs. So a man replaced himself directly with a machine. The projector also provided the between songs banter in a girly voice. So the cute girl who is learning the bass was also replaced by a machine.

Madison’s AV Club gave the show some lovely press, including an interview and a half-page picture of The Bitter Tears for their Agenda. It officially brought 11 people to the show.

Esther joined the boys in the men’s room for the dress-up ritual while Mike combed the parking lot for more costumes. He entered the bathroom with a handful of what he called brambles, and what Wisconsinites and most other people call branches.

Alan opened the set solo on stage with “Grieving.” His arm performed the strumming of his guitar, no small feat after he broke it wiping out on a bicycle in Berlin. The rest of us emerged from the bathroom one by one with brambles poking in all directions from our clothes. In the lights it looked like a scene found on the cutting room floor of Where The Wild Things Aren’t.

During the show we played songs, but mostly provoked the small crowd into heckling us about Illinois/Wisconsin rivalry nonsense. The word “fib” (fuckin’ Illinois bastard) was used at us. Greg retaliated by referring to the Wisconsin audience as "SIDS." Alan used the microphone to berate Mike’s new character Brambleman, who seemed more like Rambleman. Esther’s playing was offered up for scrutiny during “The Love Letter.” Greg ended "Vanilla Bean" and the night with a crying trumpet note from the hostile but friendly audience.

Big thanks to Reem from This Is How I Will Get Famous for putting us up, feeding us dates, and recommending breakfast at Mickey’s Tavern. As I get older I’m beginning to appreciate towns like Madison that contain less anger, violence, and stress than fucking bastard Chicago. You have a great state, ya SIDS!

September 27 - West Germany, Berlin

2009-09-28T10:26:00.008-05:00

Driving on the Autobahn is surprisingly relaxing. Simply put the pedal down as far as it goes and stay out of the way. Meanwhile you have forests of tall trees smacking of skewered broccoli to enjoy. I got the van up to 155 kilometers per hour. That’s as fast it can go. It drives behind the beat.

While Greg took the final leg of the tour, I drank all the leftover beer that had been in the van for weeks. It made for an especially grueling load-in at West Berlin, located on the fourth floor of a pisserific squat. The soundman was checking the reverberated mics with “Pryzbylweskiii,” “Jimmy McNultyyy,” and “Ooommaaaarrr,” proving that, like love and horrible cover bands, The Wire is a universal language.

It was the last show of the tour. Our friend Al Burien was there, and a few other people. It was a Sunday. Germany had elected a conservative knob into office on this day and Berlin was bummed. Most of them stayed home and obeyed their sadness. One of them went out and ate the leftover Lebanese food that Mark the promoter was gracious enough to provide.

When I was 16 I played in an ungoogleable band called The Somaheads. For a brief period a fellow named John Donald was in the band. We played a show in a basement and then he moved on. Before his departure he gave me a cassette full of rare Misfits (including the then-unheard 7” version of “Cough/Cool”) that I still own.

John now lives in Berlin and fronts Human Elephant, the other band on the bill. It was great to see John again after close to twenty years. He looks good and now dons a German accent, which limbos down to a baritone when he sings. Human Elephant played loose, confident art rock. Dark orange music projected against a cute, thick Mustang bass and a tambourine chorus of “Terrorist! Heroin!” Thank you, Human Elephant.

The Bitter Tears played the last show of the tour. It was the anticlimax that it is supposed to be. Kinda like this post. The Berliners were very kind though and more than one described the set as a “fairytale.” Thank you, Berlin.

The tour is over! Despite the fact that we are returning home as paupers, it was a success in many ways. A big thanks to Magnolia Electric Co., Simmo, and all the bookers that made sure we were treated well. Thank you to everyone who fed us and put us up on couches, mattresses, and floors. The kindness of strangers in letting a motley mess of make-up caked Americans into their homes is extraordinary. Also, thanks to everyone who has read this.

I like touring and I like writing this blog. I will continue doing both.

September 26 - Freihaus, Hielbronn Germany

2009-09-28T09:09:00.016-05:00

Heilbronn is a town in Southern Germany known for its vineyards,

and for its punks who think the wine farmers are fat dumkoffs. We arrived uncharacteristically early and characteristically hungry. Schnitzel was what we craved so we went to a graveyard. Next to the graveyard was a sports bar that served traditional German food. However, since it was Saturday and football trumped lunch in importance, they were only offering chicken foot. We declined. From the graveyard you could hear the ghost of Sammy Hagar laughing at us.

After a decent spread of Turkish food, Mike, Justyna and I retired to the graveyard for a nap. Alan’s limp followed him like a shadow. In his new Parisian sunglasses he resembled a crippled Elvis. Greg and Esther perused the city center where a shopping festival would occur until midnight.

I woke up surrounded by a rag tag bunch of camouflaged vagabonds, looking to see if I was dead. Before they could begin digging, I walked to the Freihaus, which ended up being a photography studio. A nice man in a Black Sabbath T-shirt, Serge, decorated the room and our senses with spray paint. Lots of people popped in and out, mostly on skateboards and dressed in black. The owner of the studio took some individual glamour shots of Mike, Alan and myself.

Serge’s girlfriend, Anka, made us dinner in their home. She is an artist and a funny one at that. We asked her if she enjoyed skateboarding.

“I tried it but I failed. I am a skateboard loser.”

Back at the Freihaus, Liquid Kitty got things off to a nutty fun start. Part Jan and Dean Ramone, part German drinking music. These two clean guys danced with each other all night, like a blond version of the sinister Mongoose twins from Rad. They would win Hellband but not before Mike and I hopped around competitively throughout the entire set. High knees and kicks with a big beer spilling dosie-d'oh. It was decided that the night would be wacky.

The set was lots of fun. The Germans want to dance, and they want to rock. They have no time for banter. They will tell you to shut up. They will tell you to stop. They will call what you do shit. They will laugh. They will want more of your shit.

Anka put applied tooth rot to her smile, which was met with inquisitive horror. A guy smeared in Bitter Tears make-up came dressed as a Sandwich(!). It was packed like a Vice Magazine trust fund crud party. The Do’s and Don’ts danced against the zine covered walls. During “Murdered At The Bar, “ a flashlight poked through the door. It was a cop. He was dressed all in brown, the lederhosen tickling his ribs. He shone the light on Mike and they made eye contact. Esther delicately played Chopin. Curiosity and fear shone on the whiskers of his moustache.

We played some of our silent hits while the cop stood outside googling Reno 911. The Germans didn’t want any of that silent crap. They wanted it loud and they wanted it now. A man backstage (the office of the photography studio) yelled “Red” at me too many times, indicating that he wanted me to put my beer bottle in the red recycling bin. Then he pointed at the stage and shouted “Play!” just as many times. I hid.

Brushes were used for the first time on a drum kit during “Lightning.” While “Oiling” played very cautiously, Mike interviewed the chatty audience with a mute microphone. A guy yelled “Fuck the ‘60’s!” We said good night to a trashed studio full of sloppy loudmouths.

The Germans wanted to hang out. They wanted to talk about music. We mentioned David Hasselhoff. Mike got on the ground to perform his YouTube impersonation of the drunk hamburger-eating star of Baywatch. A pirate in Cure eyeliner began beatboxing and disco-calling the German singing sensation’s surname. Mike started breakdancing. Brokedance.

We were offered to play a party for no pay at 2 or 3 or whatever time it was. Mike offered them his pants.

September 25 - L'Emile Vache, Metz France

2009-09-27T03:46:00.005-05:00

We are showing signs of wear. I have the sniffles. Greg’s sleep-deprivation driving is depriving the rest of us of sleep. Mike has the sniffles. The wives remain silent, trapped in the middle seats. Alan broke his toe on a Dutch bathroom. He is walking with a limp now. We all look like post-housecleaning Wilma Flintstones.

For some reason, The Netherlands has crazy traffic on its rural bi-ways. At least there are pretty cows and hot air balloons and car accidents to look at while you wait. We drove through Luxembourg and it is that.

Metz is a great town. Its people are warm and kind, and come with a sense of humor. Across the street from L’Emile Vache is a castle with a river that flows underneath it. You can walk through the castle. You can run drunk through the castle in a dress if you’d like. If you’re really stupid you can invincibly climb over the railings in your dress and realize it’s a 40-foot drop to delicious looking river below. And you should get back to the club.

Ahhh, a proper club. With a bar and food and ordinary townsfolk. It was a free show and the turnout was a Metz mish mash of hipsters, straights, and gays. We played with an Olympia band from Germany called Blockshot. The singer was a female Mark Mothersbaugh, her dancing robotic and angular. Very honest and funny and very German.

“This song is about Metz and how it kills itself.”

“When your heart breaks it creates more surface area.”

The keyboard player pounded his synthesizer in a way that made Mike miss John’s boxing glove flourishes with The Bitter Tears. John!

We changed in the kitchen. Tonight was my drunk show. Both “Inbred Kings” and “The Companion” open without drums. I used that time to get more beer. The bartender put some liquor in my beer and I don’t know why I drank it.

The rest of the night is a blur. A cute French brunette talked to me while I was still wearing my nightie and we exchanged names on slips of paper. I forgot that I had blue and yellow make up all over my face when I stumbled into a mellow tapas bar. The slow dancing couples weren’t into my jaundiced tranny trip and I was told there were no more tapas. Then some aggressive, happy men helped us load the van and initiated the topic of blow jobs. They goofed up the windshield wipers and I stage dived into the hood of the van. Greg thought this was really cool.

Mike and I walked the deserted streets of Metz until we found a late night doner kabob place. The doner kabob continues its reign as my favorite late night drunk food. The US needs doner, the enlightened man’s gyro. Hop to it, Obama.

Hey! L’Emile Vache put us up in a hotel! With a bed! And a shower! And a bed! And a shower! And a bed!! My broken camera and drunken idiocy cannot erase from my mind the kindness and loveliness of Metz. Suck it, Toulouse!

September 24 - Havenkwartier, Deventer Holland

2009-09-27T03:42:00.003-05:00

Havenkwartier is a community space next to a river. A weathered work boat rests on its dock. Truck drivers figure out their routes in the parking lot. Homesick American men walk around in dresses getting looks from the truck drivers. The truck drivers leave.

Laorens put this show together at the last minute. The government would pay for it. During load-in we found a footprint of dried Toulouse dog shit on a drum case. We were tired of paying for it.

Boutros Bubba was up first. They played math rock in English with a Dutch sense of humor. A song about a friend who got stabbed in the stomach and chest revealed that honestly he was more of an acquaintance than a friend. Most of the audience preferred taking pictures to dancing. I wish they would send me some of their pictures. My camera has taken a beating on this tour. After I dropped it for the 400^th time, it punished me and I lost two days worth of photos.

Anyway. We played a set and it worked. Alan had the chandeliers illuminated. Esther tried tooth rot for the first and probably last time.

“Oh no! My smile!”

I bounced a stick off the floor tom during the two-beat rest in “Stumper” and this time I caught it.

We played another silent encore with “Cairo.” It’s the Pixies-Nirvana quiet verse-loud chorus bit. But to the extreme. Like surfing a beef jerky snowboard down a canyon of harsh Mountain Dew.

Afterward, Laorens put us up at his flat. He had fed us home cooked pasta, provided lots and lots of wine, left eggs and bacon for us to cook in the morning, and gave me The Rolling Stones and the Making of Let It Bleed to read during the boring green drive ahead. Greg and Esther enjoyed good conversation with Generous Laorens and Boutros Bubba until 4:30 while I slept under a table and Mike slept in the van. Again.

September 23 - DAY OFF, Paris

2009-09-24T13:55:00.008-05:00

It was our first day off from the van life. We all split up to get some time to ourselves in Paris.

I visited the Pere-Lachaise cemetery. It’s set up like a putt-putt village of death, with little street signs that organize the grandfather clock tombs into wards. Locals come to the cemetery to hang out and read. It’s really quite something. Follow the dirt bags and you will find the grave of Jim Morrison. I heard my first southern accent in months. “71, huh?” It was like Heavy Metal Parking Lot. A few blocks down from Morrison is the grave of Chopin, clustered with blue hairs figuring out their digital cameras. It was like Neil Diamond Parking Lot.

The grave of the journalist Noir depicts the man lying down with a bulge of arousal trying to escape his unzipped pants. It is said to be good luck to rub the bulge, and it remains discolored there from decades of lucky people. A trio of German college girls giggled as one of them rubbed Noir’s eternal hard-on. I miss my girlfriend.

Paris is saturated in romance. On a Wednesday afternoon couples were everywhere: holding hands, kissing, making out. Along the river, women rested their heads and legs on their man’s lap. People made out while they walked. The women wore clothes that flattered and revealed their natural curves. I really miss my girlfriend.

I walked a lot. From the cemetery to Bastille, to Notre Dame, to the Louvre, to the Eiffel Tower, to the Arc de Triumph. I heard lots of American accents. “Where’s the tunnel where Princess Leia was killed? Where’s the Palace of Justice? I wanna get Batman’s autograph. There’s four of us, let’s get our picture taken crossing Jim Morrison’s grave. Who’s gonna take off their shoes?”

You win, Paris. You’re beautiful. You really are. I was here last year for all of four hours on Bastille Day. Everything was closed and it was a cramped, choking experience. I skulked around with a baguette and a bad attitude. To me it seemed like Paris was the hot girl in school who dated all the jocks and wouldn’t give me the time of day. But today I got to sit next to her at a mandatory pep rally. I saw her cheer and laugh. And move. She seemed like fun. I still may not understand her or get invited to her crappy parties, but she is beautiful to look at.

The hotel was just a few blocks down from the Moulin Rouge. Next to Sexorama, The Sexy Shop, and across the street from Pussy’s. I wanted to get a beer somewhere and rest my aching feet. All the bars that looked interesting ended up being brothels. I walked into a bar playing dance music. So I walked out. I thought I would get a helmet and try some virtual reality cybersex. But all the shops were out of this. A woman grabbed my arm and wanted me to come with her. Her tug turned into a pull and I had to use a yank to remove myself from her clutches.

I miss my girlfriend.

September 22 - Travel day, Toulouse to Paris

2009-09-24T12:39:00.003-05:00

Just lots of driving. We’ve mostly been eating rest stop food. Please don’t put a sandwich in one of those burnt presses that turns it into an antique football. It makes me grumpy. We did magically run into Cowtown at said rest stop. They had come from an evening of camping and seemed chipper.

We were not chipper. By the time we reached suburban Paris it was 9 o’clock. The van handled the Parisian traffic like a tilt-a-whirl. Mike was burnt out on Glen Campbell, Esther read The Golden Compass in the dark, Alan and Justyna were burnt out on Tetris, Greg sang endless pop choruses, I had to pee-iss, and we had nowhere to stay.

Electrical Audio’s reputation came to the rescue once again in La Frette. Lionel, a former engineering intern happened to work at La Frette, a recording studio housed in a 3-story, 20-room mansion, once owned by Professor Plum. What started as a visit while Lionel mixed Plants and Animals’ new album soon turned into an invitation to a sleepover. We gladly accepted.

Mike cooked dinner for us, and did his best with gas station vegetables and gas station cus cus. Luckily the studio was equipped with lots of old powdering spices and curries. It would be the healthiest thing we would eat all tour. While dinner simmered, Alan and Esther played original compositions on a Bosendorfer piano. It felt like playing a piano made of dominoes.

After dinner we retired like zombies to our rooms in the mansion. The ghosts of bands past sung us to sleep. To think that just last night we were in dirty Toulouse, doubling up in bunk beds shared with spiders. Spiders, ghosts, and zombies.

September 21 - Pavillons Sauvages, Toulouse France

2009-09-22T15:33:00.008-05:00

I asked my friend from 1985, Henry Rollins, to translate today’s experience through his eyes. Here is what Henry had to say:

A rooster woke me up. Just like in the fucking cartoons. Cock-a-doodle-doo! It only made me stronger. The others woke up because of the rotten smells of skinhead feet and skinhead sneezes on the pillows. We loaded the gear and got the hell out of there. See ya, Spain.

I didn’t get any sleep. I never do. I guess that’s just how I am. So I drove the whole way to France. Alone. In the dark. In the afternoon. I saw Alan sleeping during my drive. He looked so sleepy and peaceful. I wanted to punch his throat off.

Toulouse is a dog shit town. It’s covered in dog shit. We showed up at the dog shit venue and some butt-faced hippie gets in our face about load in and shit. If I have to talk to one more fucked up hippie that claims that an abandoned warehouse with a couple of car seats and some vegan idiot drooling on the floor is a venue I’m going to rip out his dreadlocks and use them to jump rope. I could build a club with what’s left of his face.

It was laundry day. In France all the laundromats are in French or some shit. We had to ask this girl doing her laundry how to operate the machines. She never even looked at me. In my mind I saw myself folding laundry with her. I pictured her pushing me away. I saw her walk further and further away. I saw myself alone. In darkness. Forever. I wonder what a woman would ever see in me anyway. Never trust anyone.

We wanted to get some steak tartar but in France if it’s 5 o’clock, you’re fucked. We ended up eating sandwiches and pizza. This country should be napalmed.

We had to do an interview for French radio. Interviews are such bullshit. It’s nothing but pointless masturbation of the ego. I don’t need anyone to know anything about me or The Bitter Tears. If you want to hear our music you should be in the fucking band. The DJ was this blind skinhead who got in our face about America. We told him America was about abortion. It was great. It figures that skinhead DJ was blind. You have to be blind to be a skinhead. Blind to the truth.

Les Koboi du Bitum laid waste to the stage. They were amazing. Two French guys with shower-head microphones drilled to their guitars singing, “Shit! Thank you! Good night!” Their drummer was a shitty Casio keyboard. It was the most amazing set that I have ever seen. After the set I told them how great they were. They offered me a beer. I told them that beer was a crutch and crutches are for the weak. I threw a cup of black coffee in their face and walked away. Nobody seemed to understand. That’s okay. I’m used to it.

We were next. We launched into “Rough n’ Ready” like a bomb and the place exploded. The Tears were on fire. We played our asses off. No show in the history of this dog shit country will ever compare to this show. Greg’s cheeks were so intense from playing trombone he had to ice them on some homo’s keg of beer. Esther’s keyboard was covered in hot blood from her own broken fingers. She played the ass off that keyboard. Justyna was bouncing off the walls freaking out the skinheads. Mike and I jammed out on these amazing rests in “Vanilla Bean” while Alan lashed around in the crowd. In the lights he looked like an ancient Aztec warrior performing a spiritual erotic forest fire dance. When it was all over the crowd just stood there. So we just stood there, too. Then we played a silent version of “Cairo” that kicked in at full volume in the chorus. Toulouse was ours and they knew it. Fuck ‘em. At the end of the day it’s just the same set of assholes.

After the show we waited three hours for the guy who was putting us up to finish cleaning the venue. It was fucked. But it was discipline. You have to respect that.

While loading out all the gear myself I stepped in some dog shit. The dog shit was on the concrete. I felt like I was the dog shit. And the concrete. A stinking pile of waste strangulated by cold, hard truth. You can try to walk around it but that’s just a lie. Some way or another that dog shit is going to find its way into your soul. I sat in the darkness and inhaled the dog shit. In darkness I can do no wrong.

Get In The Van by Henry Rollins is available from 2.13.61.

September 20 - Bonberenea, Tolosa Spain

2009-09-21T01:46:00.008-05:00

A Spanish breakfast of eggs & zucchini, mushrooms, toast with tomato spread & olive oil, coffee, and orange juice was served family style with Cowtown. We took our time. I usually equate breakfast with huge American or English cavalcades of fat eaten fast, but I could certainly get used to a lighter longer ritual. Muchas gracias to Danny and the Arrebato in Zaragoza.

In the green foggy hills of the Basque country lies Tolosa, a small town at the bottom of a long and winding road. After some directions from a quiet mountain boy, it leads to the door of the garish wonderland known as Bonberenea. A former factory, it has been converted into a rock venue-skate park-recording studio. It is decorated as meticulously as it is organized.

There was a bizarro element to the afternoon. When the sun came out it started to rain. So the clouds came back and chased it away. I took a walk and stumbled upon live chickens and a rooster milling about a swing set. Cowtown arrived and immediately took advantage of the soccer field. On the other side of the fence was a pyramid of dead cars. Mike played basketball while Esther and Justyna found ponies to feed and berries to eat. We were starving.

Our soundman was maybe 14. The videographer girl was 12. The boy who took our picture for historical purposes was pushing 11. It felt like we were playing Pee Wee's Playhouse. I think the doorman was a talking chair.

In the lounging rooms it felt great to relax and catch up with life back home. We were right next to the kitchen and its strong garlic aromas. Alan distracted our hunger with some piano. It was too cold for a dip in the pool and no one was in the mood for foosball. While Mike and Alan did a radio interview in the press room I listened to men with power saws constructing gigantes.

I guess we were playing then eating. Good thing the show started an hour late. It was a Sunday and the turnout would be small. Cowtown slammed through their set. I could swear I saw a thought balloon filled with fresh greens float above Hillary's head.

Between sets they played mostly AC/DC and an extended remix of Filter's "Hey Man Nice Shot." The Bitter Tears played a sloppy set to the stoic Basques, but mostly talked to them. I had a bum drum fill during "Stumper," and thought I could recover by doing it again in the next measure. I ended up flubbing the flub and sounded downright incompetent. The silent boy playing banjo with us in the corner stopped left through the set. No one seemed to mind though. It was that kind of a show. Perhaps if we had eaten...

Around 11 we ate. It was delicious. Now time for bed.

The bedroom was filled with mattresses and bunks. In theory both bands would sleep on the beds Fleetwood Mac-style. But I snore. Especially with a belly full of chorizo, pasta and potatoes. So I slept Chickenfoot-style with a rooster.

September 19 - Arrebato XV Aniversario Fest, Zaragoza Spain

2009-09-20T17:41:00.005-05:00

Signs along the jagged, peach terrain between Madrid and Zaragoza showed mountains crying. The jet engine roar of outdoor hardcore led us to the Arrebato 15^th year anniversary festival. Fifteen years is a long time for anything, but it’s especially impressive for a collective of musicians that receive constant scorn and legal stress from the normales. In the midst of the 120 bpm maelstrom an elderly woman slowly approached, struggling to walk but having no trouble voicing her anger about the racket. I apologized in English.

Mike, Greg, Esther and I walked to the Basilica de Pilar, a Catholic equivalent to the Mall of America. An awe-inspiring palace showcased several functioning altars, priests reading the Bible in penance booths, their lights gleaming like blue light specials, and as many crucified Jesus feet as there are pursed lips. I got a postcard for my Mom. On the way back to the festival I purchased a set of Mary Merche paper dolls from a street vendor. I thought this could be a gift for my girlfriend, but then I realized it was for me. I think I’m getting weird.

Javier and Maria drove in from Madrid to catch the show. They are the most lovely people, somehow familiar with my old band Let’s Get Out of This Terrible Sandwich Shop. In Spain it seems that the Roydale record label "es el rey." It was nice to see that wonderful couple in the audience singing and dancing.

It was also nice to see Alan in the audience for “Vanilla Bean,” with a cordless microphone for the first time. As he muttered his way past the crowd and into an isolated part of the park, a few dogs ran in front of the stage. Justyna took pictures and helped with merch, though we had to compete with anarchist literature. Perhaps we should transcribe Alan’s rants and sell them in baggies.

Danny from the festival took care of us, and after a quick spin in Cowtown’s kooky LDV, we met on the 11^th floor roof of a loft filled with a cello, a Rhodes, an electric sitar, and much more. Lately I’ve been drinking too much and doing or saying stupid things. Last night I claimed that Dick Cheney’s favorite band was King Crimson. This was met with silence and in it I went to bed.

September 18 - La Faena, Madrid Spain

2009-09-20T05:32:00.006-05:00

Waiting for us in the morning was a sack of bocadillos courtesy of Yiye. With a full evening of sleep and the simple combination of jamon iberico and queso I gave Greg and Mike the day off from driving. The continuous downpour gave central Spain the look of a wet mutt. I adopted the mutt and named it Empenada Empapada.

La Faena is a dodgy-looking collective space divided into sculpture and music. Maria, a Spanish pixie, welcomed us with homemade pizza-like empanadas while Carmello, a bearded cyclist, delivered his homemade Spanish omelette. Intoxicated by Spain's warm food and hospitality, Mike and I found our broken Spanish slowly mending itself, albeit with Mexican glue.

Alan's wife Justyna arrived, much to Alan's delight. Before she left for Spain, she and Mike's girlfriend Holli had drinks with John. John used words like "miserable" and "minefield" to describe what Justyna was in for. Turns out John is more Rollins than me.

The evening opened with Ameba, my favorite Madrid band. Three energetic ladies, including Maria, singing heartache harmonies in simple English with vintage gear. The male rhythm section was led by Carmello's inventive drumming. A bespectacled Mo Tucker danced when she wasn't playing violin. Ameba! Seek them out.

It was the first of three shows with Leeds' Cowtown, who play fun progressive Nintendo rock in colorful resale sweaters.

Madrid was singing our songs while we were singing them. It was amazing. Javier from Brazil Recording Studios made it sound great, actually making a live mix as the show happened.

A wonderful man named Manolo showed us around Madrid. I had been here before when I was ten. All I wanted to do then was buy a sword and listen to Run-DMC. Not much has changed. Too bad we weren't dressed properly or patiently enough to get into the Fabulous Fucker Club. We ended up at a bar down the street that played classic rock. I think too much beer happened. At the end of The Doors' "Alabama Song" I tossed my bottle in the air, and ended up showering the woman next to me in beer. Outside I saw that the bar was called the American Asshole Club.

With Justyna in the minefield with us, Mike and I are now the only remaining Bitter Tears without companionship. We were supposed to share a pull-out couch that night, but chose not to explore the off-the-blog possibilities.

September 17 - Due, Don Benito Spain

2009-09-20T03:15:00.006-05:00

6am happened. Crabby lobsters were lowered into the boiling water of dawn. It would be a twelve hour drive to Don Benito.

The pate I had devoured had transformed back into a pig, and the pig was pissed off. My stomach was squealing. My heart choked with vengeful oinks. It did not feel awesome.

I opted for the back of the van with the gear and luggage. It was like laying on top of a giant, broken Rubik's Magic Snake. But I could remain somewhat horizontal and the darkness of dawn could continue.

Somewhere in France it happened. I rooted blindly through my luggage for some sandwich bags. I dumped my toiletries from the sandwich bags into the uncomfortable below. I then placed the vomit I'd been storing in my mouth into the sandwich bags. I put more newer vomit in the bags until they were full. Because the sandwich bags had several tiny holes, the fresh, new contents were now dripping onto my sleeping bag.

"Can we pull over?"

We crossed into Spain. In the front seat now, the nausea daymare continued. The van passed signs for the town of Mendoza, my surname. I lifted my glassesless head in time to see a blurry version of the sign whiff by like a strike.

At the next rest stop I could feel lots of eyes on me. With last night's make-up etched in my neck and a pained, hobbling gait, I looked and felt homeless. I found a secluded spot behind the rest stop where I could get on all fours and really focus on proper vomiting. A bicyclist rode past and I gave him or her a wave. Wouldn't want to make a bad impression.

I revisited dark horizontal anti-pleasures in the back of the van with a plastic bag and a bottle of knock off Gatorade that Mike had graciously bought for me. Meanwhile Greg and Mike successfully navigated the long haul through the mountains and rain and clouds that refuse to evaporate.

I heard the voice of Yiye greet us in Don Benito. From the back of the van it sounded like a quaint, generous village in the south of Spain. After the grueling quest for Don Benito, we sat at a cafe that only served chocolate-glazed pancakes with whipped cream tufts. I had green tea.

Yiye really took care of us. He went to the farmacia and got me a bottle of Primperan. He moved the show from his smaller club to a fancier disco with a larger capacity. At 9pm he took us out for the first real food we would have that day, a tapas spot owned by his friend. We were served a special parade of shrimp, croquetas, chorizo iberico, and shaved jamon from the cured pig's leg at the bar. There was even a chicken and zucchini dish with fresh soft queso made especially for my empty, sobbing stomach. Everywhere we went people said hello to Yiye, who in turn promoted the Bitter Tears. He was like an Anarchist Jesus.

The show went incredibly well. Due's shallow stage obliged us to play side-by-side, like a Bitter Tears shooting gallery. Mike spoke mostly in Spanish, even translating Alan's "Moline" monologue, to the mysteriously large crowd. Greg's kooky guitar solo on "Stumper" looked more like a bidet solo on the monitors. I had to cover my ears with the pigtails of my wig during the audience's piercing whistles, which eventually brought us back for an encore.

After the show a beautiful girl named Maria asked me to sign one of my broken drumsticks. I had spent the day barfing from both ends. Greg wanted to feel worse about the van so he drove it into an unseen two-foot pole that damaged the turning signal light.

With two coats of make-up, my Harry Caray glasses, and a pair of cut-offs unwilling to button, I followed the gang to Yiye's bar, Rincon Pio Sound. With his friend Alejandro a spirited discussion of music and politics and freedom occurred over beers (and water). Esther read our Berlin friend Al Burian's comic while Greg enjoyed talking about all the damage he has done to the van.

Around 3am more beautiful girls arrived and began molesting Greg's head and Mike's kidneys. I read an old Mojo article regarding Yoko Ono. It was time to go.

Yiye guided us to a gated university, where we slept in classrooms outfitted with bunk beds. It was a soft end to a wonderfully hard day. Viva Yiye!

September 16 - Localypso, Lons France

2009-09-18T12:51:00.008-05:00

French rest stops offer fun challenges. Here's my tip to those looking to win the challenge: Use the handle of the lockless door to balance your hover over the seatless toilet. This allows your one free hand to do all the other work. Afterward treat yourself to a delicious croissant at the quality bakery.

Lons has a one-sentence Wikipedia page. What I can tell you about Lons is that it resembles Ohio, down to the large barn-sized roadhouse bar erected hastily this week to honor Patrick Swayze. But since "The Swayz" never liked the Bitter Tears we did not play the roadhouse. Instead we played the storage unit off of the gravel alley surrounded by mattresses and pallets. Localypso II.

The backstage area reminded me of the back cover of Who's Next (more Who references!). But what it lacked in aesthetics it made up for in hospitality. Home-cooked chicken and lentil curry with coconut milk, a baguette, and some frightening-looking homemade pig pate. What the pate lacked in aesthetics it more than made up for in flavor. I ate half the jar.

...but the planes are not made of paper played their first show ever, a wonderful mix of anthemic rock and expressive French vocals. Everyone in the band had done their homework on us. Over some pate, Maxime the singer hoped we would play "Murdered At the Bar." Frederic offered us the use of his bass amp while Mike's continues to take dumpy poops on stage. This combined with a longing for his girlfriend caused him to cut his hair during the set.

We've been getting encores lately. For some reason. Europe! "Murdered" was trotted out for Esther to class up with her schooled brilliance. We also played "Lightning," one of my personal favorites, and a song I had never played with The Bitter Tears. Thank you, Lons!

Over some more delicious homemade pate (it looked like a 7-layer entrail dip) Alan and I were interviewed for Le Bal Des Vauriens. As you can see our French has improved!

Alex, the promoter, took us to his 19th century cottage outside of Pau, where we could look up and see the stars. I have decided to not make a Patrick Swayze joke here about a star burning out. Even though he never liked The Bitter Tears.

September 15 - Travel Day, Faenza Italy to Nice France

2009-09-18T12:15:00.007-05:00

Italy’s wonderful Autogrille will be missed. The rest stop that offers caprese paninis, buffalini pitas, espressos, cappucinos, americanos, and the constant maniacal laugh of a motion-sensing stuffed toy. If you have more time you can have a whole roast pig.

Driving into France was like landing an airplane. It was decided to visit Nice on one of its 45 rainy days, making for not-so-nice conditions on the narrow, winding mountain roads. The van had to make three-point turns to navigate the hairpins. On one particularly steep incline an impatient woman behind us attempted to pass. She failed. Her failure occurred when the gravity of the van kissed her passenger door. It was an unrequited french kiss. A faux pas if you will.

The tired tires of the van slickly squealed to a rendezvous point to settle the bullshit. She was a Brit and her kids were late for Judo. She also had to make dinner. We gave her 300 Euros. Sounds like a KFC night to me.

With a dent in our morale Nice seemed like it could be renamed Sucks. But it’s funny what spirits, good company, and delicious food can do. The lovely duo of Stella Peel welcomed us into their wonderful home with liquid-licorice Pastis and tasty white port wine.

A walk along the calm, calming Mediterranean Sea led to the old town and its slender, intoxicating walkways. I had been here last year with Lauren (my girlfriend) a couple of times (when not performing comedy on a cruise ship) and little forgotten activities were remembered (like eating ice cream).

We met Stella Peel’s pal Laurent at a restaurant specializing in French and Italian fare, with a well humored staff that was helpful and patient with Americans. Degustacion, a large lovely platter of traditional French entrees, was ordered for eight and devoured by 8:00.

Mike, Alan and I enjoyed carpaccio with parmesian and corn frites. The house wine sported a Spy vs. Spy bomb on its label, and the event was topped with a round of basil liqueur shots.

Sylvain from Stella Peel suggested Fenocchio Maitre Glacier, the same ice cream parlor where Lauren and I had spent our last afternoon in Nice. The more unique flavors included cactus, tomato and basil, and thyme, which tasted like a large mouthful of cold, creamy…thyme.

Our stomachs were full of pasta, cow sushi, liquor, and ice cream. So we decided to go swimming in the Mediterranean. The warm, salty waters provided a tranquil thrill, a use of water displacement to relieve stress.

"Gresther" and Alan stayed at Chateau Stella Peel while Mike and I crashed at Laurent’s. While parallel parking his Peugot, a rear sensor indicated how far he was from the car behind. Mike and I marveled at the idea. It might have prevented our afternoon fender bender.

"We could have used one of those today!"

"Oh, they're only 300 Euros."

September 14 - Clan Destino, Faenza Italy

2009-09-18T11:02:00.005-05:00

The leaves of Faenza had turned brown, and the rain had pulled many of them to the ground. Determined to avoid the previous night’s costly follies we arrived in the small city around noon. Mixed in with the leaves were a couple of used syringes. This would be a strange day.

Morena greeted us at Clan Destino, a spacious bar attached to Angusto, a posh restaurant. A striking woman, beautifully tattered in Converse lo-tops and a lo-cut housedress, she gave us keys to her apartment. We could “stay lazy” but told us to come back for lunch.

While laundry laundered at the laundromat we hunkered down at the apartment, where we were introduced to David. A young man from Kentucky who described himself as “lost,” David spoke mostly in broken proverbs about the hopelessness of humanity and wolves. He plays sax with a blind pianist and is considering communism. David would join us for the remainder of the day.

Between laundry cycles Morena came by the apartment knocking and calling out “Hey!”

“Come on!” she scolded. “Food is ready! It will get cold soon!” Yes, Morena!

While the rain stayed steady the kitchen cooked up a simple and delicious vegetable pasta dish. Morena apologized for the Spartan meal. Somehow her dress seemed more low cut than before. I asked her if we should load in the instruments.

“Life is already a disease. Why go looking for another one?”

Mike and I had found ourselves becoming smitten with her. She didn’t notice and went right back to work.

Back at the apartment I tried to use the bidet. I still don’t get it. I hovered above the horizontal stream but couldn’t figure out how to get there without touching the basin or the drain or anything that might have been touched by previous anuses. So I stayed lazy and took a nap instead. Yeah, I still don’t get it.

Before our set, the inexhaustible Morena fed us at Angusto. Eggplant antipasti, mushroom and anchovy gnocci, and homemade peach sorbet. She also threw in two bottles of red wine. Her matronly generosity and jigglingly low cut dress were doing a real Oedipal number on Mike and I.

She gave us another bottle of wine before the show. A quick glance at the clientele revealed clean, affluent fortysomethings out for an evening of quality. We went into a Lewis Carroll bathroom with an open window facing the toilet (?) and spackled our faces clown white and burnt cork. Where are we!?

The set was strange. We were the only act. Mike broke the language barrier by speaking in Spanish, but another intangible barrier seemed to remain. While they applauded after songs the Faenzains seemed icy otherwise. Even the knackered guy in a prom dress with duct tape seemed baffled by us. He kept calling us “bitch.”

We closed the set with “Oiling Up,” its debut on this tour. Feeling unfulfilled, Alan remained onstage long after the set was over. Morena kept the stage lights on for a full twenty minutes while Alan performed slow motion mimicry of a has-been stage performer failing miserably during a comeback show.

He silently sang “Lightning Hitting You In the Face,” also making its debut on this tour. The audience watched with attention and periodically applauded and whistled. It was the perfect bow on a damp, crushed gift of a day.

The streets got quiet very quickly in Faenza. David had disappeared, along with any sign of drinking water in Italy. Woozy on pasta, wine and beer, we made our way back to Morena’s. She said it was the first cold night of the year. Mike and I put blankets on our cots, said “Buena Notto” and plucked our own eyes out.

September 13 - Zuni, Ferrara Italy

2009-09-18T10:37:00.006-05:00

When in Rome see Rome. Eat bruschetta with lardo, spaghetti with truffles, fusilli with calamari. See the ancient, medieval, Renaissance, Baroque and even fascist architecture. Have some gelato, drink a cappuccino, and run through the ruins.

The Bitter Tears have two more shows in Italy: Ferrara and Faenza. It’s easy to confuse these towns with Firenze (or Florence). We were told the drive to Ferrara would be about two hours. We were also told it would be closer to five hours.

It took two hours to get near Firenze. It was 6 o’clock. We were not playing Firenze. We were playing Ferrara. The show would begin at 8. If we hurried we could---traffic. Big traffic. Hot, wet, sexy Italian traffic. I got very horny about the traffic.

There was a strict 10 o’clock curfew. It was Sunday. Zuni said if we made it by 9 we would be okay. Mike drove like Atari through the mountains, avoiding loose-laned smartcars and semis. Prepare to qualify.

The Bitter Tears and their Kool-aid Van smashed through the 16th century walls surrounding Ferrara. Oh yeah! All we had to do was get the guitars, put on the make-up, and play the hits. It was 9:30. Oh shit! Where is the club anyway?

It was opening night at Zuni, an art space situated on a pedestrian alley off the main pedestrian pedway. A crowd of kids and dogs hung around sipping wine, drinking beer, and smoking cigarettes. They seemed to understand that we were late and these things happen. We seemed to understand that we weren’t playing or getting paid and missed dinner. Also the hotel had already been booked and could we pay for some of that, too.

I got a bit bummed out and started to fall into my antisocial, anti-party, anti-people act, until Alan and I talked music, and Mike reminded me that we were in Italy. So I chose wine over whine.

Greg and Esther took us to the Castello Estense, one of the few castles in Europe surrounded by a moat. It was a Sunday night and people were everywhere, making out, sweethearting on bikes, dropping beer bottles, cheering. We sat at an outdoor patio with beer and wine, and had conversation for dinner.

The hotel was not to be believed. Fifteen-foot wooden ceilings, a kitchen with a 5-piece knife set and olive oil, a bidet, six-foot windows with a view of the cobbled street below, boobs on the TV.

Greg, Esther and I walked to the park for a beer. The kids made merry on a monument. The high-frequency chirps of bats were followed by a rolling roar of thunder. We learned a lot today. About 200 Euros. Italian tuition.

September 12 - Sinister Noise, Rome Italy

2009-09-14T12:45:00.007-05:00

Over croissants we bid farewell to John, who would embark on a nausea-filled hell ride back home. Mike wasn’t feeling too great either. He had spent the wee hours trying to retrieve his lost sweater, weaving through a myriad of drunken, disco douche bags. I think he slept somewhere weird again but couldn’t sleep.

The morning started with a lovely drive through The Alps. In the crisp, healthy air everything looked like a model train set. Alan snapped photos while Greg regaled us in old job anecdotes. Mike put on a sleeping bag, a neck cushion, and sunglasses before slipping into a Joan Crawford coma.

The drive to Rome took thirteen hours. We stopped for gas and rest stop food, which in Italy means fresh mozzarella, prosciutto, crudo, and arugula(!) We also saw vineyards, almost-castles, more mountains, tunnels, road signs with cappuccinos, the inside of the van, each other, yawning, Scrabble, and an hour of standstill traffic due to a bridge aspiring for ruin status.

Sinister Noise is in the part of Rome with all the graffiti. Har har. The backstage spread featured tuna mostaccioli, fresh mozzarella, tomato, arugula, plus beer and wine. Onstage a hairdresser was styling the first band’s hairdoos.

The Litchous (pronouced "leeches") opened the evening in a big way. Four women, all dressed in black evening wear, playing tight, playful, theatrical rock. The singer would stare into the eye of the guitarist, who would stare back in awe like a Catholic statue in a Vixen video. With textbook rock moves, spaghetti noodle bass lines, slinky uninhibited dancing, perfect hair, and an ambidextrous drummer, The Litchous put a big smile on my face.

Unfortunately they didn’t have any records for sale, but they were selling hair accessories. Afterward the singer let Greg and I sample some of her pizza-in-a-bag. Verdict: Delicioso!

Viva Santa Claus followed. Before the first note, the dating guitarists kissed each other affectionately before stepping to their separate spots on stage. They ripped through a song called “I Fuck At The First Date.” Anotherule was next and soon the fashion-savvy Italians were making out wherever there was a stairwell or door to block.

Alan, Mike and Greg corralled the Romans with brass fanfare to the basement. Our first full show with Esther was a return to the grimy familiar.

They were a great crowd, cheering the cymbal washes on “Grieving,” counting along with our count-ins, and forming an actual conga line for the chorus of “The Companion” (which is the word “hate” shouted at full volume for four measures). Taking a cue from Viva Santa Claus, Greg and Esther kissed between songs. Our first day without the warm security blanket of Mom (Magnolia Electric Co.) and Dad (John) proved that we would be okay out there in the big, bad world. Though they are indeed missed!

After the oddly refreshing exercise of load out, Paolo the soundman drove us past the Colosseum to an apartment where we each had somewhere soft to sleep.

Thank you, Rome!

September 11 - Le Romandie, Lausanne Switzerland

2009-09-14T11:39:00.008-05:00

Lausanne is where the Olympic committee likes to be. Our corrupt ham sandwich-faced mayor wants the 2016 Olympics in Chicago. It will leave a moon-sized crater of crime and garbage in the city while lining the pockets of his waddling, bloody-eyed pals. It would be a shame if Chicago’s image were to get tarnished.

It was a night of farewells. Our last European show with John and our last with Magnolia Electric Co. Goodbye friendly faces in strange places, goodbye built-in designated driver, goodbye endless supply of surprise snacks, goodbye dressing rooms, goodbye 500+ capacity venues, goodbye unique, childlike perspective, goodbye humorous tour manager and sound man.

Le Romandie is built into a bridge. It is in Lausanne. It is a hilly town. There is a lake. You do not have time to walk to the lake before soundcheck. But you can try. You will likely end up jogging around a park near the lake. It may feel good to run. The walk back up the hill will make you sweat. This is all you will see of the city.

On stage the Olympics and our dangerously worthless mayor were mentioned but it seems the kids just wanted to dance and talk. Someone asked John why we dress the way we do.

“Is it for the girls?”

“Vanilla Bean” closed the set like this:

First verse: John – piano Tony – drums

Second verse: Esther – piano Tony – drums John – dancing on stage

Third verse: Esther – piano John - drums Alan, Tony – dancing in crowd

The end of the song washed into a sloppy Magnolia Electric Co-ver.

For the Magnolia set, Jason Molina applied burnt cork to his face as a farewell to us. Again, I can’t express how wonderful this band was to us. Jason Molina, Jason Evans Groth, Michael Kapinnus, Peter Schreiner, Racebannon Sal, Ben Schreiner, and Jan Veltman will be missed.

I’m sure they will miss us raiding the fridge, staining the dressing room with make-up, borrowing guitar equipment, bumming smokes, being absent for load-in and load-out, selling their T-shirts as ours, and beating the shit out of the snare drum. But most of all they will miss our smell.

Hopefully that smell wafted over to the Olympic committee.

September 10 - El Lokal, Zurich Switzerland

2009-09-11T03:50:00.006-05:00

A couple of German police woke Mike up from his overnight sleep in a public park.

"What are you doing here?" They wanted to know.

"Resting," replied Mike.

A couple of days ago we had entertained the royal grounds of Great Britain. Now we were feebly sleeping in a van or in the public park of some German village.

Sun pried open our eyes, and the piercing squall of the van door was my alarm. Over the course of four hours I had found a way to stretch my body across tote bags, amps, and garbage bags. It was like sleeping on a hammock of marshmallows, if the marshmallows were filled with severed limbs and pocket combs, and the hammock had been stolen.

The men poked burnt eggs into burnt heads while Esther laid out for some more of that van sun. At a rest stop German highway patrol pulled in front of us, and asked to see our passports. When I got out my camera a female officer made a cowboy stance.

“Do you have a license to take pictures?”

The officers admired each other’s handcuffs while we squinted, yawned, and slouched.

“Do you have any drugs in the van? Are you sure?”

At the Swiss border bands must declare merchandise and pay a deposit. During this delay, the horn section for Mighty Sam McClain pulled up and bonded with us. Here are my memories of the sax player:

“Yeah, I know you. Do you play drums? Let me see your eyes.”

“They take your fuckin’ gig money, then they take your fuckin’ merch money. Fuck Switzerland with my bladder!”

“I got my own religious shit. I used to be a Menonite.”

“Those are some great fuckin’ moccasins.”

After some zigging and zagging and directional zaggravation, we made it to Zurich. At the venue I discovered that I was a few hundred dollars overdrawn on my bank account. I had been feeling drained, achy, girlfriend-sick, fat, and hungry. Now I could add stressed and broke. For me, Zurich was indeed stained. And it was my fault. Sha la la la.

Luckily the folks at El Lokal came to the rescue. After sound check they fed us sandwiches, helped us find a hotel, enabling showers and cat naps, and provided a decent hot dinner. Suddenly the canal looked good enough to wade through, the women looked lovely and well-coiffed, and the Monti Circus looked good enough to join.

The set was ragged but ended up being well received. Esther made her costumed debut and joined us for three songs. It was very tight on stage. John could touch the cymbals, I could touch the piano, and the frontmen could touch the audience. The audience could rest their beers on top of the amps so we could accidentally knock them over onto our pedals during songs. It was a packed house with people draped on the stairs and tiptoeing in general. The view from the merch table provided lavish amounts of grooving Swiss butt. John grooved, too. During “Slay” it looked like his Make-A-Wish dream was to dance on stage with a fledgling rock band. Alan got some more applause after his “Moline”

monologue. “Vanilla Bean” sounded like a trumpet lesson from a soapbox vagrant trying to figure out a drum machine. Thankfully the set was recorded from the sound board.

After our set Victor from El Lokal offered to pay for our hotel, get a guitar strap for Alan, and feed us lunch the next day. On top of that he gave each of us a tin of Swiss chocolates. What!? We told him he had a great club, and we were told that clubs are for DJs and that they should all be hanged. Is it hanged or is hung? I always forget.

What little I saw of Zurich was more than made up for by its gracious people. I don’t know whether to say merci or danka.

September 9 - Schocken, Stuttgart Germany

2009-09-10T09:24:00.009-05:00

Why did it all take so long today?

Was it the accident-related traffic on the Autobahn?

Were we still on "Amsterdam...." time?

Was it the games and the games of iPhone Scrabble?

Did we slow down that much to watch the hot air balloons?

Was it John's endless dance music mix CD?

In Germany passengers are allowed to drink beer. Maybe it was that.

Soundcheck had come and gone when we pulled up to Schocken, a rock club in the middle of a mall in Stuttgart. The van remained parked across from a window dressed with lederhosen-clad mannequins. Instruments were carried in, sandwiches were wolfed, make up was applied.

I like Stuttgarters. They watched and clapped from the balcony. During the a capella portion of "Grieving" we pointed at the man whose cellphone rang. "Vanilla Bean" gave Esther an opportunity to play piano, prompting comments of "I like when the merch girl played piano." Based on the German crowd's request, we closed with a poppy number about suicide.

Magnolia's set sounded great from the balcony. Intimate and packed. You could hear the off-mic banter. Afterward we lingered as Alan sang at some drunk girls looking for free dressing room food.

Magnolia took us to a bar that garnished bowls of potato chips with gummi cows. Mr. Rogers was discussed and the drunk girls from the dressing room were avoided.

Then it was time to find somewhere to stay. Earlier, several internet attempts and calls to local hotels merited nothing. We hit the road hoping for a roadside motel. With John behind the wheel we saw lots of trees, moonlit mountains, stars...but nowhere to stay. At a rest stop we learned that rural Germany speaks only German. It was getting late.

The hotel wasn't answering the bell. Neither was the next one. Or the motel across from that one. We were in a quaint town vaguely near the Swiss border. It was 4am. John was determined to find a bed. He tried three more hotels. It was evident to all that this was hopeless.

With a reluctant sigh, John parked the van next to a park. Greg and Esther laid out across the back benchseat. Alan slept in the front with John, who remained behind the wheel. Mike and I climbed on top of the gear and suitcases in the wooded off rear. After a few minutes, Mike grabbed a camouflage sleeping bag and went to the park.

"Good night," he said before the cold slam of the van door isolated me from the world. My Rollins Get In the Van fantasy had become a reality.

"Scar tissue is stronger than regular tissue. Realize the strength, move on."

September 8 - Travel Day, London to Amsterdam

2009-09-09T16:34:00.012-05:00

Ah, the romance of touring. Four hours of sleep per night, an entire day upright in a van, rummaging rest stops in a phlegmatic daze, waiting for someone in order to continue on, pretending a sleeping bag is your girlfriend, not knowing where you’ll spend the night, wrong turns, waiting in lengthy lines to change currency, daytime back aches from sleeping on floors, ferry clerks insisting you are freight, the piercing stench of fresh manure, the same Body Count song on stereo, scheduling a shower.

Constant contact and close proximity have aligned The Bitter Tears' menstrual cycles, and this morning we all got cramps. Driving across rush hour London is a drag, especially when wearing last night’s face paint, Monday’s contact lenses, and Sunday’s socks.

On the ferry to France we rid ourselves of sterling through prison-quality Cornish pasties. I took the wheel in Calais and we left behind the royal mindfuck of driving in the UK.

The plan was to pick up our gear for the second half of the tour near Amsterdam and play a show in The Hague. The show fell through and with our late start on the day, schedules would not align to pick up the equipment that night. Luckily I know scores of lots of many people in The Amsterdam.

Driving in Amsterdam is particularly confusing (or as described to my girlfriend: fucking crazy). Bicycles are king (!), yeah but so are streetcars. The lanes are narrow and cobbled and look like sidewalks. Everyone is on drugs or horny or American. At 21:30 with only a bowl of oatmeal and half a sandwich in my belly, I drove us along the moonlit canals, uncontrolled intersections, and automobile-prohibited rail tracks of this beautiful city.

Boom Chicago is a comedy club located in the Leidseplein. Many friends, including my girlfriend, have been employed by Boom. We walked in just as the show was letting out, a good sign. The plan was to see if anyone I knew was there, see if they wanted to hang out, and see if they wanted to put up six unshowered musicians for the night. I talked to one of the cast members whom I did not know, and he informed me that the three people I knew were either out of town or moved back to Chicago. I explained to him that I do comedy in Chicago at the Annoyance and he didn’t want to care about this. It turns out he was uninterested in talking to a hungry, incoherent stranger with 24 hours of face paint in his hair. So John and I went upstairs to see a framed poster of my girlfriend on the wall and we left.

Rod Ben Zeev saved our night. Out of the blue he arrived, my old roommate, riding a cruiser and wearing a large smile. Rod and I have performed improv on the public transit in Chicago and at the cultural center with a group of elderly women. We also both worked briefly at the Scientology UFO known as Trader Joe’s. He is one of the most gracious men I have ever known and, along with his Greek stand-up friend Lambros, gave us a tour of the town.

Upon our request he took us to a café where we enjoyed clichés of various quality. We laughed at how clichéd we were and laughed a little more. Then Rod and Lambros strolled us down the narrowest of alleyways to the red light district, where they keep the clichés in lingerie behind windows for all the Dutch-bags. After that they took us by the Queen’s Tit and a Febo, where you can purchase fried garbages behind glass. While in Amsterdam John purchased ice cream and coffee.

Rod and his lovely Lieselotte put us up in two fabulous apartments. We left behind what remained of our clichés and slept well for four hours. If you ever find yourself in a fabulous apartment in Holland, turn on the TV. You’re likely to see Rod Ben Zeev.

September 7 - Institute of Contemporary Arts, London

2009-09-09T16:05:00.006-05:00

We pulled the cargo van with cardboard duct tape on its back windows in front of two British guards. They were facing each other and began to march in place like synchronized wind-up toys. People were gawking at them, then us. A policewoman arrived to announce that we were on Imperial Property and must move immediately. So we defused our awesome bomb and carried on. Stuffy old tea bags.

Greg graciously volunteered to shuttle the Magnolia crew and gear from Slough. John and Esther patronized the museums. Alan went to the Karl Marx cemetery. I had a pint at the Bag O’ Nails, saw Daniel Radcliffe immortalized in the National Gallery of Portraits, heard Big Ben strike two o’ clock, and relaxed among the gutter punks in Soho Square. Mike walked in circles around the Piccadilly Circus, lovesick over Margaret Thatcher.

For dinner, Greg, Esther, Mike and I went to St. John, world renown for its appetizing use of the nasty bits. The six o’clock menu offered pigeon, (served cold with wild sorrel and cobnuts) sprats (tasty, headless-less smoked fish), ox heart (deliciously lean – the table favorite), duck neck (a Thanksgiving-flavored rope), puffball (a crepe-like mushroom served with British bacon), cured middlewhite fat (band-aids of pork fat wrapped in a _____ flower), and something called Stinking Bishop (cheese that smells like homeless, gangrenous taint). We ate all of these things and it was incredible and nummy and all that they say.

Meanwhile Jason Molina from Magnolia gave Alan and John a musical mystery tour of London, pointing out Regent Studios (where Black Sabbath’s Paranoid was recorded), the12 Bar Club (an intimate hole George Harrison once played), and a rehearsal hall used by Pink Floyd (to kick Syd Barrett out of the band).

The Institute of Contemporary Arts is located on The Mall just down the way from Buckingham Palace on Imperial Property. I wore earrings made of hummus packaging and Greg painted a religiony cross on his chest. “Black Skin” began the set, though our Dutch soundman Jan prefers “Grieving” as an opener. Alan’s monologue in “Moline” received applause(!) Sometimes during a 32nd note drum fill I would burp up the recent taste of sprats. Overall, we got a fair amount of titters from the notoriously reserved British audience. Some folks from Secretly Canadian and the Jasons from Magnolia were up front to provide the occasional heckle. I must reiterate how great they have been to us during this tour.

While the rest of the group stayed in a grumpy, hand-me-down hotel in Kensington, I opted to sneak a bus to Hackney, home to my friend Lindsay and her +1, Matthew. There we talked politics and comedy and Lieutenant Pigeon while munching ironically on terrible Worcester–flavored crisps. After a can of Lech I hit the couch at 2am and dreamt covetously of the Queen.

September 6 - The Art Organisation, Nottingham UK

2009-09-09T15:44:00.006-05:00

Happy birthday, Esther! To celebrate, Simmo and his lady Helene took us all out to Clumber Park, near the Sherwood Forest. It was healthy to see trees and nature and to be able to touch these things. Families played cricket by a goosy lake inhabited by zombie-like swans. A cricket club was also having a match, and Simmo educated us on the rules. The players take breaks for lunch and tea! Helene and I took a break as well.

This was our first show off of the Magnolia circuit, a DIY show at The Art Organisation. Some great local gents headed by Neil of Nottingham provided gear and sound for the show. I got to play a vintage red sparkle Ludwig kit with antiquated space-age hardware dating from the late 60’s. Mod!

Helene made some delicious soup and even baked Esther a birdie cake. (!) The locals came out to support the deliciously woozy sounds of Prints In The Snow, and the muddy waters of Dusty Bible, remaining curious enough to stick around for us.

We opened with our new sexy number “Black Skin,” during which Alan broke the fourth wall and danced at everyone. I forgot my pretty wig in some bag somewhere and played a much better show without it. Goodbye gorgeousness, hello haircreme! During “Slay” John relayed the keyboard to Esther, allowing him to dance in the audience, cheering with his fists in general cajolery.

Afterwards we sold some merch, including or new Jam Tarts CD & LP. They had actual jam tarts for sale as well. We received no proceeds from the sale of these due to Imperialism.

Back at Simmo’s we listened to music and admired Helene’s doodle book. I fell asleep under a coffee table with an Eightball in my hands. A big thank you again to Simmo and Helene, the prince and princess of hospitality.

September 5 - Day Off, Great Britain

2009-09-06T05:57:00.009-05:00

On a welcome day off, Daniel spoiled us with his delicious café quality coffee, complete with foam. I ate a bacon buttie for breakfast and hit the second hand charity stores, scoring a 1972 single from a band called Lieutenant Pigeon.

We said farewell to Daniel and hit the Laundromat. Laundry at Leeds. Sometimes the rock and roll dream includes clean clothes. Greg and Esther found some blokes playing some sort of bowling green bocce.

On the way to Nottingham, there was a tremendous poodle at a rest stop. To me it looked like the dog equivalent of fake tits. John disagreed.

“I don’t know. If I were a dog I’d be all over that.”

This created a pause in the conversation followed by gales of laughter. But we have decided to cancel our trip to the zoo tomorrow.

Our friend Simmo from the internet welcomed us in Nottingham. While Magnolia is in Ireland, Simmo has organised a show for us at The Arts Organisation. He also put together the Spanish, French, and Italian portions of our tour. We thanked him and his lady with copious amounts of wine over a wonderful Italian dinner.

More wine continued back at their flat as Simmo spinned delightful 70’s French-in-Japanese pop, gave us a quick lesson on cricket, and played us a legendary 1985 snooker tournament. By the way that Lieutenant Pigeon 45 “Mouldy Old Dough” is a mad song that reached #1 in this country. Its B-side is a minimalist march of growling fuzzbox bass. I marched all the way up to the 3^rd floor and slept on a bed for the first time in almost two weeks.

Not sure where John slept...

September 4 - Brudenell Social Club, Leeds UK

2009-09-05T19:09:00.007-05:00

The traditional English breakfast is growing on us. John and I somehow scored the free hotel breakfast, forcing Greg, Esther, and Alan to get theirs at the unfortunately named Belchers. Mike, still wet from last night's romp in the ocean, pulled a gull out of the air and ate it raw and screaming.

Greg took the wheel for the long, traffic-clogged drive from Brighton to Leeds. Every now and then you’d look out the window and see Atom Heart Mother. Eventually we passed along the Sherwood Forest, a place I had always thought was made up. We didn’t see any klepto archers or fat antagonistic sheriffs, but we have seen many merry men. Rest stop Brits have been very friendly and curious, offering insight into our engine light issues and asking about travels. Our lootings of them have been plentiful!

With a floorpan out of Clue, The Brudenell Social Club is surrounded by red-bricked row houses topped by queues of rook-shaped chimneys. It’s like pigeons have been playing a centuries old game of roof chess.

The live room was cozy like a warm, worn armchair. The lounge room was full of salted biker hippies, football hooligans, and black-legginged punk birds. In the game room friends watched rugby and cricket on the telly, while couples on low pressure dates challenged each other to table tennis, foosball, or snooker. There seems less focus on image and more on the actual experience in Leeds.

The set was fun. During “Vanilla Bean” our obligatory aged gay fan danced with Alan. A heckler took issue when Mike poked fun at Leeds’ own Sisters of Mercy, prompting a man at the other end of the room to shush the heckler. He actually shouted out “Shush!” Another punter shouted that we needed to cheer up, to which Alan replied that we had been smiling all along.

The accent gets pretty thick the further north we get. While washing his face in the bathroom someone told Mike:

"Owl rye a fired shave a boat clean us babies."

Then asked:

"Are two the function off the soften it?"

Afterward, three local goons who missed our set crowded the merch table, inquiring about our shoplifting security. They talked in jokey, diagonal New York accents and challenged my musical tastes, making lots of rape and manslaughter jokes in the process. Kenny, Peter, and Ryan were removing the piss from me and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

We temporarily parted ways with Magnolia, who continue on to Ireland. A local recording engineer, Daniel Skevington, put us up in his amazingly vertical flat, filled to the brim with excellent music, vintage musical instruments, and personally crafted electronics.

Eel lichen a bittle knife a loo and sippy cup ya!

September 3 - Audio, Brighton UK

2009-09-04T17:05:00.010-05:00

My body woke up around 8am. I had volunteered to be the early riser and pay the parking when the meters started. Unfortunately I noticed that a key was needed in order to leave the flat, a key that was not existing for me.

I prowled the premises. At the 3^rd floor staircase a window led to the roof. From the roof overlooking the back gardens of Hammersmith, I noticed a neighbor’s garage I could climb and scale down to the street. But when I got halfway up the garage I noticed a woman staring at me from her window. She was on the phone. I smiled and waved and hopped off the hedges. Meanwhile, Alan and Mike got up and a resident who was waiting for a refrigerator delivery eventually let us out of the living quarters.

Alan ate sausage and mash with onions and onions, while Mike and I had fried egg, bacon, baked beans and black pudding. It was yummy, mate!

John and Greg have done all the driving on the tour. Now it was someone else’s turn. So my first driving experience in Europe was through London in a 5.2 meter long manual transmission cargo van. It really does take some getting used to, especially on those roundabouts. Looking-glass driving.

A programming error in the GPS took us through golden flowing fields to Rottingdean, a quaint seaside town with narrow roads and pouty Wonka brats. We followed the coast to Brighton, unsure of our stance on the mods vs. rockers debate.

This resort town squeaks with seagulls and roars with waves. It was grey and choppy on the Brighton Pier. Half Coney Island, half Quadrophenia, the pier is a sugar crash of crappy amusements, softcore gambling, and punks on holiday.

Greg, Esther, Mike and I got fish and chips at a take out stand and brought them back to Audio, the venue. The security geezer told us we could not eat them there because it would stink up the whole club. We ended up eating on the pebbly rocks of Brighton Beach, and soon were surrounded by flocks of seagulls and a guy with a metal detector. Esther threw a chip into their direction, which led to an aggressive approach for more. She threw another one and we ran away. The metal detector guy didn’t bat a lash.

Audio is outfitted for both DJs and bands, the updated version of mods and rockers. It maintains a sleek but shabby look. The bathroom has a fish tank in it. There was a barricade between the house and the stage. The backstage resembled the inside of a futuristic limo. It felt like we got a gig at the Death Star playing Darth Vader’s birthday party.

We’ve been opening our set with Alan solo, singing “Grieving” until we assemble one at a time on stage for the verse. It’s been working well as an introduction to the Bitter Tears.

I had an off night. If James Brown were in charge of the band I would have been fined $50 for flubbing a measure of “Spark,” $100 for missing a fill and wrongly anticipating an instrumental break in “Moline,” and $500 plus a beating of my girlfriend for all of “The Companion.” I stank up that song so much the promoter called it “The Componion.” Well not really, but he did make Alan fill out some paperwork about what songs we played and who wrote them and how British the songs were.

Thankfully the internet worked at Audio and, covered in cork ashes, I got a chance to Skype my girlfriend before Magnolia took the stage. I have been missing her. Afterward a girl dressed completely in denim came up to us and complimented us on our stagewear.

Greg worked a deal at the hotel for a two-person room located in its labyrinthine basement. To make it work for six we had to Tetris the desks, Jenga the chairs, and un-Lego the bed. But it was steps away from the beach and an old abandoned pier. We layered up, put some beer leftovers in our pockets, and hit the seething rocky shores of Brighton.

Mike and I rolled up our pant legs and waded in the ocean, letting the aftershocks of the waves lick our feet. Greg and John watched from a distance. A full moon shone, creating shadows in the night and exhilarating laughter. After a wave knocked my balance off I joined Greg and John in the spectators section. Mike continued on, creeping closer and closer into the ocean. Soon his jeans were completely wet. Followed by his shirt. Then a huge wave came crashing down and knocked Mike onto the pebbly shore.

“Okay, Mike! That was fun! Let’s go then.”

He did this three more times, crouching so the waves could tackle him and spit him out in his own endzone. When we were out of beer we got more and sat outside our cramped basement room and shared stories. Like mods. Or rockers. Or bubbles. Or squeaks. Or bangers. Or mashes. Or jacket potatoes. Or kippers. Or mushy peas. Or spotted dicks. Or twiglets. Or scrumpies. Or pork scratchings. Or hob nobs. Or jellied eels. Or faggots. Or crumpets. Or bickies. Or HP sauces. Or horlicks. Or...

September 2 - Bush Hall, London

2009-09-04T14:09:00.009-05:00

The horrid, awful, screeching, stenchy horrors of Calais, France awoke us before 8am. There was a ferry and we had to be on it. After close to an hour of paperwork and searches in both English and French, we made it in line for the boat just in time to miss it. So we sat in the rain drinking vending machine coffee and leftover fruit from dressing rooms past. Luckily the Magnolia guys had missed the ferry as well and they kept us company with a tour of their bus. Inspired, we are going to install a Playstation on Gorm the Old in place of the rear view mirrors.

Crossing the English Channel was windy, murky, and listy. Mike ordered English wax sausage and traditional grey, crumpled eggs. When in Rome. After watching sons watch their fathers play Elvis-themed video gambling machines, listening to vomiting in the stall next to me, and spilling coffee all over my hand, the Pride of Dover approached Great Britain and its dramatic white cliffs.

Greg was the first to drive in Good Britain, on the left side of the street (also known as the wrong side). There's a lot of stories and histories and facty reasons about why the Brits drive on the left. The fact that I believe the most states that when King Bangersbubble of Mashburry visited the Isle of Mushysqueak he walked on the left side of the moat where the fish were already dead and easier to catch, fry, and immediately serve.

Dover became "Do Over" when we took the wrong exit on our first turnabout. But we adjusted to driving incorrectly very well. In So-So Britain, they charge tour busses a ridiculous amount of money to park in London. Gorm the Old became the shuttle bus for Magnolia between the club and the notoriously boring Slough. While John drove the shuttle we watched Stroszek, ate peanut butter and nutella half-sandwiches and had somewhere to put our legs.

I got my geek on as we drove into Shepherd's Bush, birthplace of The Who. I couldn't find John Entwistle or Keith Moon though. I heard they were busy forming the New Yardbirds.

Bush Hall is an ornate former billiards hall, decked out in cream and red.

It looks gorgeous, and though the sound was a bit boomy, I loved playing this room. It was refreshing to speak English and almost be understood, just like at home. We played "Rough n' Ready" for the first time since 4th of July at The Taste of Chicago. It was loud. We were loud! Alan smashed a Rickenbacker, Greg swung the microphone like a lasso, I exploded gunpowder in my 9-piece Premier kit, and Mike just looked bored. John wanted to be nicknamed "Rabbit" for some reason.

Afterward, John shuttled Magnolia back to Slough while the rest of us walked around Shepherd's Bush, pissed on Kronenbourg tall boys. In Agravating Britain the bars close at midnight, and if you walk into one just before midnight you are greeted with "get out." This meant I had to find a place to piss, and a dark stairwell in Bush Square was chosen. While John was still shuttling in the pissy London drizzle, we met up with Roddy, a friend from the internet. He and his friends Matthew and Moe were kind enough to give us more beer, including a Czech version of Budweiser that kicks the piss out of America's king of swill. Meanwhile John was having a hard time finding Roddy's flat and texted Greg to say that he was pissed. We weren't sure how to interpret that.

It made for a swell night in Decent Britain.

September 1 - Travel Day, Hamburg to Calais

2009-09-03T12:09:00.009-05:00

Hamburg is surrounded by water. A glass of it would have been nice in the morning hangover of The Jolly Roger, a punk rock pirate themed hostel. Post-show schedules with Magnolia and Bitter Tears had finally intersected the night before at a quiet bar named Mutter. They make their own brandy there, and soon our smoky room became quite unquiet as Jason Groth and I sang obscure Doors songs like Viking sea shanties.

Free fall flow river flow,

On and on it goes,

Breathe underwater 'til the end...

We bought some drum supplies at the defunct Nazi bunker, glanced at boobs, Beatles, and boner kabobs in the sunny Reeperbahn, and prepared for a full, four-country day with Gorm the Old.

I was enlisted to burn a thick CD of music, and the first request was Body Count.

Who gave those niggas those rock guitars?

Don't they know rock's just for WHITES?!...

It went on from there.

Germany looms long and green like a stinkier version of Pennsylvania. It seemed like every 26 seconds we’d drive into some cow’s manure nightmare. Also we’ve been inundated with the word “fart.” Signs everywhere have declared: Gut fart, Unfart, Middlefart, Ne’rfart, Fart hinder, and of course Fart Kontrol. Maybe all these goddamn fart signs have just put that smell in our heads.

We crossed into The Netherlands to see how their rest stops combined meat, bread and cheese. No difference.

With 8 hours and no real food under our belts, the Bitter Tears sputtered into Belgium for dinner, specifically beautiful, touristy Bruge. Wonderful Bruge! Historic (?) Bruge! Okay, so lots of Bruge has been refurbished to look old, but have you seen the Chicago condo of today?

Tales were told and bits were performed over Flemish stew, creamy cheese croquets and Belgian beer. It felt great to be a mark. But we had to say goodbye so we could go to the coastal town of Calais, France and stay in a cute hotel room overlooking the English Channel. The town forced us to drink a bottle of red wine on the balcony as the cool autumnal breeze put a lilt in the cadence of the French girls riding bicycles to all their rendezvouses.

Thankfully I still had Body Count in my head.

She took the doll,

Cut off all its fingers,

AAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

My fingers!

Bitch!

August 31 - Knust, Hamburg

2009-08-31T15:21:00.007-05:00

I can't get this tooth rot off my face.

Hamburg is proof that a fun live show trumps an off day on the road. Morning came a bit early at the Malmo hostel. Due to a 7 Euro breakfast of fucking cereal and toast, and an inability to Skype my girlfriend, I was a pissy meatball. We crossed the thirtysomething Euro bridge again and like a bitchy vampire I put a hoodie over the passenger window. No beauty sleep? Then no beauty lucidity!

I do like ferries. It reminds me of when I lived on cruise ship doing silly comedy. Freestyle cruisin'! Unfortunately on this ferry ride to Germany, the grumpy man at the duty free shop wanted me to produce a ticket to purchase cigarettes; a ticket I didn't have and a ticket the long line behind me did not want me to produce.

I used the f-word in his general direction. Like a catty Americanish dumkoff.

So I got some ghoulash stew and a Tuborg and stared at the Baltic Sea. When the ferry docked in Germany, I remained spaced out in a cranky stupor. The corridor led to the auto lot, which was a blur of cars leaving for Germany, including our van! So I ran in traffic after it and a man in a yellow vest stopped me, yelling and gesturing. I was stuck on the ferry bound back for Denmark. Panicked, I ran around the boat for what seemed an eternity until I found another staircase leading to the cargo area and escaped that way.

The Bitter Tears were all waiting for me on the side of road, except for Greg who was also still on the ferry. I later learned that he had gone back on the boat to look for me.

I am the world's greatest drummer.

We arrived in Hamburg hungry and a bit beat only to get lost looking for the club.

Knust is located just across the street from an old Nazi bunker that now holds outdoor performances on its roof. Eventually it was found and I got to Skype my girlfriend, take a nap on a mic stand chest, and eat steak and potatoes with the band and Norbert, the gracious club owner.

The show went very well.

Based on advice given to us by the Jasons in Magnolia, we duct-taped our passports to our bodies. The crowd was fun, receptive, and with some prodding talked back. Greg closed "The Companion" by pronouncing "Hamburg" through his trombone. The Hamburgers have been kind, and thanks to a T-shirt purchased for Esther by Magnolia(!), they purchased merch. Based on our set, Norbert decided to pick up our hostel for the night. Norbert is the best!

We are curious about the Reeperbahn but heard it is a boring and full of Deutsch-bags

and Americanish dumkoffs. Sounds like I'll be going there!