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.