October 30 - The Magic Skull, saki Chicago

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

The Bitter Tears

in

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

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

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

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

"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

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

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

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

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

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

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.