September 18 - La Faena, Madrid Spain

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.

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