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