March 20 - The Valley of the Vapors Independent Music Festival, Hot Springs, AR

At 6am I felt the urge to vomit. The bathroom upstairs was occupied. I didn’t know the location of the bathroom downstairs, but I went down there in my underwear anyway. I hovered above the kitchen sink and drank a glass of water in Alan’s parents' house. I drank another and lied down on the cool floor of the kitchen in my underwear. I woke up at 7:30 in my underwear and found a bathroom. TOURING!!!

In Blytheville, Arkansas we found The Dixie Pig, a barbeque spot in the middle of yet another dying small town in Main Street America. The service was nice (the waitress gave us each two glasses of water to drink from), and the meat spoke for itself without too much input from the sauce. In the Memphis area, meat is to man as sauce is to Stepford wife.

We returned to The Valley Of The Vapors Festival in Hot Springs, this time in the rain. A steady stream leaked from the hills down to the valley, muddying the dirt parking lot where a car echoed “Sympathy For The Devil” against the rocks.

A speedy bluegrass outfit named Cletus Got Shot growled Jim Crow songs with an upright bass made out of an industrial plastic tank.

Next was Projexorcism, a visual “Revolution #9” made up of old instructional film reels, their projectors manipulated by an entertaining man in bunny ears. It lasted forty minutes?

The kids in Hot Springs wanted loud and fast, some of them wanted it hateful. They yelled, they danced, they questioned, they hugged, they tossed out “we love you”s, they tattooed the word HATE on their inner lips. We played a loud set. We played a good set, too. The HATE-tattooed went bananas for "The Companion." It took three shows to get tight, just in time for the end of the tour. A-one, a-two, a-thrreee! Crunch! A-thrreee!

Closing the evening was Frown Pow’r, a quintet form the Little Rock area. They borrowed Alan’s guitar amp. They should have borrowed his tuner, too. They were a sloppy fun mess. The bass player looked like Brian Wilson with a Jonas Brothers haircut: a dumber angel. The singer looked like Rod Blagojevich, the perfect front man. The mandolin player had 5 pedals, adding a high-pitched drone to the clumsy party rock. After several false starts, they inexplicably closed with “Shout,” the Isley Brothers song, the one heard at weddings. They even left a gap for the crowd to sing “shout,” but no one did. “You know you make me wanna (silence)…” It sounded like the song was being edited for television. People danced and had fun, myself included. Except for the dancing part.

Zac and Cheryl from Itinerant Locals put us up once again. This summer they are going on tour by train, performing in spots like Tucson, Minneapolis, Klamath Falls, Minot, San Francisco, and more. It sounds pretty amazing. Look for an Itinerant Locals show with these Bitter Tears in Chicago this July.

March 19 - 2720 Cherokee Art Gallery, St. Louis MO

After pancakes, we hit the road. I decided to forget my cellphone in Champaign. This is the fourth time this year I have left my cellphone somewhere else. It means that I love having a cellphone and that I cannot imagine life without it. My cellphone is who I am. My cellphone is what I will always be.

Alan forgot his jacket there, too. Mike forgot his inflatable bed. To fit in, John left his social security card, birth certificate and voter registration in the Mississippi River.

The caravan arrived in Missouri, at the doorstep of Alan’s parents. Alan’s mom prepared a spread of feta and smoked gouda. While we each took a much needed shower, St. Louis white chili cooked and fresh corn muffins baked. It was all very delicious.

For some reason load in was at 6pm. At 6:30 we showed up to 2320 Cherokee, a huge art space decorated with out of tune pianos and out of time technology in the Historic Cherokee Shopping District of St. Louis. We were early. The soundman wouldn’t arrive for another hour. So we used the time to rehearse some new songs that we had played only once before at Coach House Sounds.

Thanks to Carlin, the wonderfully quaffed and chopped man who put this show together, our friends The Columbines were on the bill. This is the fourth show I’ve played with them in the last six months. Before I joined, The Bitter Tears were my favorite Chicago band. Now the title must go to The Columbines. John scratches out reverberated Bo Didley breaks on a JC Penney guitar, Kayte goofs off in shades and instigates Danzig impression contests (she sings nice, too), and Julia smirks like a minxy Alice Cramden as she pounds out some tom-heavy cave beats. They closed with “Bullet” but not the one by The Misfits. Fuck yes, please.

Speaking of fuck yes, the taco stand down the street fed us all to complete satisfaction for a fraction of the price. I wolfed down two lengua tacos for $3.

Before our set, John Leonard carted us to the bar where we ordered more drinks, and then wheeled us around the space and to the stage. I was a bit in the bag for this show. But I felt it went well, despite breaking two sticks, missing the big entrance in “Grieving” for the second night in a row, and having a few drum fills truncated by my new, big mink coat. Alan’s parents were in attendance, and several people from their careers showed up, too. Alan brought up abortion. We debuted one of his new songs, “Things The Boys Love,” a happy sing-along about a group of American cowboys who decide to ambush some Indians, only to have the tables turned. It’s told from the perspective of a rabid halfwit who enjoys watching his buddies getting slaughtered.

John and Eliza from Chicago traveled down just to see the show. Hardcore!

Afterward the upstairs art gallery was opened for all to see. It was a gallery filled with art. I noticed two guys exit a door that I thought led to the roof, so I followed. The door did not lead to the roof, but as soon as I opened it a man began yelling and barking and yelling at me. I put my hands in the air and left the art gallery.

With the entire downstairs space to myself I ordered another beer. I had another one while loading out, too. I was feeling good. I was talking a lot. And laughing. I was being an idiot or a rabid halfwit. On the ride home it took me twenty minutes to roll a borrowed cigarette while revealing my internet porn site of choice. I stumbled to a guest room in Alan’s parents’ house, theoretically ending a night of buffoonery.

March 18 - Independent Media Center, Urbana IL

We tried to fit five in the van sans U-Haul. The equipment was packed tight like Tetris or Jenga or "Truth Or Dare" Tetris and "Spin The Butthole" Jenga. When Mike and John squeezed in, a backpack popped out and onto the ground.

"Careful!" John exclaimed.

"John, is that a glass Pyrex measuring cup in your bag?"

"I like to make tea."

So Alan and Justyna would enjoy a second honeymoon in their car, while Mike, John and I followed in the van. Everyone got excited about doubling our gas expenses for this brief tour of the midwest.

The Urbana-Champaign Independent Media Center is a converted post office in the center of town. In its basement lurks an art gallery, a bike co-op, a Books For Prisoners facility, and a costume shop.

We arrived while a humble guitar picker and a fiddler tastefully soundchecked. Their pickup truck had Pennsylvania plates. The small gathering of aging NPR subscribers bobbed their heads and tapped their hands to their knees.

It was all very polite. I found myself crossing my legs and folding my hands. After their set, they vanished. I never got their names.

A drunk local trio followed with heavy, almost-math rockriffs to the growing and thinning crowd. The frontman got drunk because his hamster had died that day, and he was bummed out. He thanked “Jan and Dean” for playing before them. I was happy that he mentioned their names so I could give them credit on the blog. The bass player ended the set by throwing his bass on the ground while keeping his backwards baseball cap on. It was all very impolite. I never get their names.

The Bitter Tears’ wardrobe was provided by the costume shop. I found the most wonderful white mink pea coat. Alan found a blouse emblazoned with kisses. John scored some terrible tourist or golf wear. Mike looked like he had found some kind of Jesus in a cavern.

The set went alright considering…we hadn’t practiced in a while. Oh, and the sound man left before we even played because his sister had locked herself out of the house. He had to go rescue her. College!

We stretched out a little in the solo section of “Moline.” At one point in the set Alan began uttering. Just uttering. His words were all broken, spilling onto the floor like freshly loosened teeth. It was The Bitter Tears I remembered seeing from the audience years ago, where the show could and would fall apart at any moment for no reason.

Afterward we convened at a house owned by Art, a childhood friend of Alan, Mike and John. Art is quick and funny, and could do stand up if he wanted. He donated a trumpet and a trombone to the band! Some more folks from the area arrived to join in the popcorn, beer, and laughter. We signed an LP for a woman in jail. I didn’t know they had phonographs in prison.