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.
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