September 21 - Pavillons Sauvages, Toulouse France

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.