Though we've seen it over 700 times in our lifetimes, none of us had never been to Mars Cheese Castle in Kenosha, Wisconsin. So Alan, Mike, my girlfriend Lauren (making her Bitter Tears road debut) and I used it as a pit stop.
It had a lot more to offer than I thought.
In addition to the obligatory cheeses, jerkies, and obnoxiously scatalogical, sexist hot sauces ("Ass In Space," "Fiery Fart," and "The Big Hot One" featuring a cartoon bikini girl with fake tits and collagen lips sucking off a porn-sized pepper), there's a deli, a bar, a long knight's table, maces, and suits of armor. And best of all, a gift shop!
The Circle A is a tiny bar owned by a pair of quirky adults who live upstairs. It's what a childless couple's child could look like if they had a good jukebox. And they do! 45's of James Brown, Strawberry Alarm Clock, and Kitty Wells played while friends (including Yale Delay and Mr. Alarm from ifihadahifi) filled the one-room bar to capacity.
Wereworm began the night with truly enjoyable instrumental rock of the Thinking Fellers variety. Tom Stack (painter, illustrator and creator of many gig posters) bashed many a flam on an early 60's jazz kit that resembled a delicious honeycomb. One of the guitarists had a Stu Sutcliffe stage presence, his back to the crowd the whole time. We were in for a good night.
This was a rare Bitter Tears show as a trio, just Alan on guitar, Mike on bass, on me on drums. The room was packed and tight. The neck of Mike's bass crashed into my ride, and the body of Alan's guitar rode my crash. We kept the tempo mostly up with "Fire Messiah," "Moline" and "Rough & Ready." The guys from hifi added a round of whiskey into the show and things got kooky. One of those fruit shakers (apple) found its way onto my floor tom, so I beat a hole into it. All of its beads leaked onto the drum, and when I pounded the drum they flew into the happy mass like confetti bullets. They returned the favor with flying beer cans, which pissed off the living ghost of Rollins. Too bad, Hank.
Yale Delay tried to tackle me during "The Companion," which ended with nasty cymbal washes, ringing everyone's ears into tomorrow. Reluctantly the 10pm DJ allowed us an encore, and we dusted off "Murdered" for the messy mass.
Afterward Yale thrust another 16oz Bitburger into my hand and bear hugged me into the ceiling and onto a blue collar regular. The guy told me to watch out, but he liked the show. It took a long time for me to get out of make up and figure this one out: You have to work in the morning and Lauren's driving your drunk ass home.
Circle A is tops!
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