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.

May 24 - Desafinado, Zaragoza Spain

We woke up because it was time to go. Take a look at this list of things we didn't do while in Barcelona:

* Visit Parc Guell

* Relax, swim, and enjoy the beach

* Take a tour of Gaudi architecture

* Give Euros to a human toilet on Las Ramblas

* Flirt with Spanish disco chicks at a tapas bar

* Murder a fan of the wrong team at a soccer match

* Make meaningless love to a vampira under the bleachers of a bullfight

* Cure cancer at an absinthe bar

* Discover the newest fatal disease at a wax museum

* Deliver a stranger's baby while trapped in a cable car being held hostage by sky pirates, who we defeated when we taught the baby judo when they weren't looking

* Anything

Mike suggested we grab a cup of coffee and a light breakfast in town before heading out again. That sounded like a good idea. Oh, but then we’d have to find parking. And there’s nothing in this neighborhood. So where would we go? Downtown would take too long. Our worthless GPS would just get us lost for hours. Let’s just get on the road and get something on the way to Zaragoza.

And that’s what we did. Everyone ate paella above the tollway traffic in the Spanish version of a Howard Johnson’s. Everyone drank coffee, except I substituted coffee for beer.

Our GPS is a Garmin Nuvi 250. I can’t tell yet if it is a complete piece of fucking shit. Here is a recent consumer review I found on this computer:

How would you rate the following?

Usefulness: It has been severely useful in turning us around over 2,454 times.

Helpfulness: It helped in getting in and out of cities in the most stressful, aggravating, and time-consuming ways possible.

Pleasantness: It is as pleasant as a stubbornly clueless, vaginaless wooden robot with intermittent, untrustworthy authority. She sounds like a stupid, white trash American family hired an intervention leader “cuz she’s got one of them Inglish accents” for a loved one who is addicted to logic, peace, and quality of life.

Any aggravating qualities? None, unless you count the Garmin Nuvi 250 Global Positioning System.

What words do you associate with the Garmin Nuvi 250? Fuck. Fucking. Piece of shit. This sucks. Fuck you. Why!? You stupid fucking piece of shit. What?? Shut up!! I pray for the British woman that sounds anything like you. (Various growls, sighs and grunts). What the fuck? Jesus fucking Christ. Goddammit. WHAT DO YOU WANT US TO DO!?! Where are we going?!! Why are we going here? She wants us to go down there?? No. Oh no. She’s saying I should- but the screen is pointing that way. Fucken. All that just to turn around?? WHAT!?! (Forehead on steering wheel). Fuck. You.

If the Garmin Nuvi 250 were a person, who would it remind you of? A mutilated, tortured, dismembered victim of deserved murder.

If you saw the Garmin Nuvi 250 on the street, how would you greet it? Have you ever seen the movie Funny Games? What about Marathon Man? Oh yeah, The Last House On The Left. Some Cannibal Corpse lyrics come to mind. Have you ever heard of Jeffrey Dahmer? Faces of Death? Faces of Death II? How about Faces of Death III? What are they doing these days along the Gaza Strip? I guess some of that stuff.

Let’s say the Garmin Nuvi 250 was your high school guidance counselor. Would you heed its advice? Does “heed” mean “to burn alive with a flamethrower”? Also, is “advice” another word for “entire body”?

Any other comments? What is the address of your headquarters?

Yeah, so there’s that. We managed to find Desafinado, a café in Zaragoza. The speakers played a jump blues mix that soothingly looped. If they had chosen to play loud boring punk or Chicago post rock I would’ve punched myself in the face. I hit the touring wall today. Even the relaxing wooden labyrinth game at the bar was enough to frustrate me into near tantrums. You know, like when you try to sit on a chair, and you miss it? And then your foot slips off of a barstool? And you lost your camera, but it doesn’t matter because you’re not seeing any of the fucking towns anyway? And you don’t know it yet, but you’re about to lose your second pair of sunglasses, the ones that cost 15 Euros at the rest stop? And your Spanish still shamefully sucks, even though your father was a fun, respected Spanish teacher every day until the day he died. And you’re just a pouting, unshowered, chubbying American shithead sputtering clumsy Spanish 1 Tourette’s while rewearing the same American or bought-at-the-club clothes with no laundry day in sight for the next twelve reruns of this exhausting programme.

But look on the bright side: this experience is only costing you over $3000 in airfare and time off from work.

I probably shouldn’t have a beer in the afternoon anymore.

Tonight’s café set was to be a quiet one. Reid kicked things off by mingling through the packed café in his riches-to-rags Reggae heavy breather character, Ronald. Alan and Mike sang off mic, directly to the intimacy of the room. People listened. Alan’s elbow was just inches from my one piece drum set, occasionally augmented with a hi hat perched Harlem Globetrotters-style on my pointer finger.

The vocal-shearing chorus of “The Companion” was reduced to a gentle a capella, and “Cairo” was played the whole way through without miming. Mike’s pre-song stories have gotten more and more fanciful and entertaining. He’s become Spain’s Buffalo Bill. Zaragoza seems to favor the double encore. This time, the well sucked almost completely dry, we played “Mandaria”, a personal favorite that I had never played with the band.

Afterward Dani took us out for delicious falafel. We came up with a high-velocity musical interrogation game, where a mafioso names a musical artist and the interrogated must immediately declare what it means to him. Dani was in the hot seat.

TONY "THE PALL BEARER" MENDOZI: Paul McCartney solo.

DANI "POLVO" PICORI: Hamburger.

Tonight I shared an air mattress with Reid. I was woken up every ten minutes by Alan, because of my snoring. Eventually he just moved to another room. Hey Alan, why even bother trying to sleep? You're just gonna have to get up again anyway, right?

ZZZZZZZ!!!!

May 23 - Kasal de Roquetes, Barcelona Spain

I love touring! Touring sucks. Why do we do it?

Today while transferring personal belongings from the back of the van I heard something drop. I looked around for two to three seconds, didn’t see anything, and thought nothing of it. 200km later I realized I didn’t have my camera anymore. No big deal, it was just a gift from my girlfriend that cost her a couple of hundred dollars. It’s just money. It’s just a relationship.

I can have fun on the blog and wax thesaurusly about the romance of touring life, and I do. But when you wake up and someone has vandalized your rented gear, or the sexual dream you're having- the only sex you’ll have on the tour- gets interrupted due to your snoring, or you don’t wake up because someone’s snoring never let you sleep in the first place, you type “sucks” into the thesaurus.

Kasal de Roquetes is located up in the hills of Barcelona, where narrow streets drape the mountains like dropped spaghetti. Mike and Reid looked for parking while Alan and I talked about girls over beers and tapas. Barcelona is a thriving city with a rich nightlife and an endless list of things to see and do. We were near none of these things. Since daylight still shone, I asked the bartender if we were near Parc Guell, the beautiful public park conceived by Antoni Gaudi. We were so far from it she had never heard of it. But the anchovies out-of-a-jar tapas were truly amazing!

I love touring! Touring sucks. Why do we do it?

The venue, a youth center of sorts, filled up with young kids for soundcheck. Poor Reid has been plagued with keyboard and amplifier issues. Today Mike acted as sound man while Reid tried to just get a sound out of his equipment. I lied down behind the drums and took a nap.

Parmesano played an energetic set of deconstructive rock that propelled the youth center to the front of the stage. Fun 5ive Style guitar tones, hints of Unwound, and 90’s discipline rock. Their youth made me feel old.

I thought we had a decent set, though I couldn’t wait for it to be over. I’m trying new theatrical things behind the kit, some of them fun, some of them to mask failure. It was a good set. Who gives a fuck.

It took 75 minutes for everyone to say goodbye to one another, only to meet up again at the flat where we were staying. Before leaving the youth center, Mike handed me a laptop he had found. “Is this yours?” And it was.

At the flat, the discussion scraped music, politics, weather and selling shoes made with shit already on them. All the while two beautiful Catalanian girls sat obediently in the corner, cruel reminders of our continued loneliness. At 3am someone turned on the radio, which was playing all 60’s American vocal surf music. To the horror of my bandmates “Hot Rod High”, “Hot Rod City” and “Wax Board and Woody” gave me a second wind. My explanation of the humorous double entendre of woodies was met with universal silence. This went on for much longer but I’m too bored to write about it.

I love touring! Touring sucks. Why do we do it?

May 22 - La Late de Bombillas, Zaragoza Spain

We rubbed our eyes open to the smiles of Eli and Helena, our wonderful hosts in Madrid. They provided coffee, breakfast, and discussion of common interests. Everyone we have encountered in Spain has an earnest passion for their loves. And the warmth from their embraces could power a small village for weeks.

Javier picked us up downtown and gave us a tour of his architecturally sound sound studio, Estudio Brazil. Alan geeked out on microphones while Reid and Mike dusted off old and new numbers on a Fender Jazzmaster and a Gibson hollow body bass. I think it would be fun to record here and tour this big hearted country as a way of warming up.

Maria had made cocido for lunch, a delicious traditional Spanish dish of pork with garbanzo beans that reminded me very much of my Cuban grandmother’s cooking. I relaxed reading about The Fall and Scritti Politti in their sunny garden, and the boys tickled Maria’s beautiful, bouncing baby grand.

How do you thank these fine people of Madrid? Lots of times we sign little visitor log books that our hosts have on hand. I feel like I should cut off one of my fingers and put it in there. You know?

John Leonard’s weird gift mixes inspired us to create a game. Make a mix of 22 random horribly compiled songs. If someone in the van skips a track, you get one point. On the drive back to Zaragoza we listened to Reid’s shit mix of new Metallica, old Scorpions, Spandau Ballet, 14 minute Floyd throwaways, and home demo wonkery. He scored five points. Alan declared that he would easily win this game. Mike challenged, “Put your shit where your mouth is.”

La Lata de Bombillas means “a can of lightbulbs”. Above the stage hovered a giant sardine can twisted open, uncovering a field of little bulbs. At soundcheck the rental Nord keyboard died, leaving Reid with nothing to do during the set except giggle like an Adams Family pedophile. The ever-working Dani from Picore made a few calls and within moments a pretty woman arrived with a Moogy Roland. While he tinkered with the spacey moon sounds, it felt like we were in a 70’s filmstrip about proper hygiene.

Back on today’s planet earth, Spanish tortillas, bacon-wrapped sausage and plates and plates of traditional food were served outdoors. I toothpicked a savory pastry that proved a bit orgasmic for me. Our bellies were filled but our eyes were hungry with eternally gorgeous Spanish women. I’m sorry. We tried to control the beauty of Spain’s fairer sex, but it cannot be done.

Since it was Dani’s and everyone else’s birthday, the can of lightbulbs was festively decorated with balloons. We had a really fun show. How could you not? The two-steps kept the room swinging. Mike’s mischievous mistranslations of subject matter created baffled chuckles. When a balloons popped, women screamed. I presume they looked amazing. Reid’s new galactic Mummenschanz keyboard parts gave some songs new identities (“Inbred Kings”, “The Love Letter”). Alan unleashed a trumpet on “Vanilla Bean”, prompting “Too Tall” Jones endzone dancing from a goofy but outrageously alluring girl (jesus christ alright already we get it spanish women are pretty you haven’t fucked your girlfriend in forever awesome just shut up and go jack off somewhere) . After our second encore (!) a bearded boy shook my hand and told me we were his new religion. I gave him one of our tracts.

The can of light bulbs became a beer soaked dance hall, as a generation got nutty to obscure Spanish garage hangovers, ironic tacky Spanish disco, and Spanish versions of mop-top Beatles and “Sweet Home Alabama”. Or was it “Werewolves of London”?

May 21 - La Faena, Madrid Spain

After a wonderful lunchtime feast of eggs, breads, meats, salads, beer and wine (!), we made the short trek from Salamanca to Madrid.

Ah, temporary relief from long drives.

But no relief from hellish ones.

Mike absorbed the task of driving during Madrid's Friday rush hour.

Our worthless piece of shit GPS took us through a tunnel that rendered her clueless and useless.

We were perpetually 10 minutes away, but never 10 minutes away.

30 of those ten minutes were spent squeezing between Madrid's closet-sized side streets.

50 of those ten minutes were spent sitting in traffic that made NYC look like Dodge City.

90 of these minutes were spent looking at ham museums, more annoyingly beautiful women, and the Puerta de Toledo through a windshield that was more bugs than glass.

Persistence and dumb luck got us to the venue as people began buzzing to get into the show.

The dressing room came equipped with an acoustic guitar, a drum set, a vibraphone, and a vibraslap, so The Bitter Tears recorded a one rehearsal/one take birthday song for our friend Gillian with a G.

Last year we played one of our best sets at La Faena, an art space that looks more like a storage space at first. We were happy to share the bill once more with Tostadas and their soundtracks to unreleased David Lynch films.

I tried a new outfit tonight courtesy of Reid: a tight green girl's shirt about shoes, bright yellow early 90's rain paints, a brown doo rag and sleeping nightshades. During "Grieving" my slide whistle got caught in my underwear, so I played it. It looked like that thing that every teenage boy has tried but few have succeeded in doing. The nightshade played a role in my new bit for "Moline", where I slowly fall asleep while playing the gradually disappearing beat. The Bitter Tears and Madrid both had fun, so it worked out.

Afterward, our hosts Eli and Helena whipped up some delicious magro con arroz, and everyone gabbed about Star Trek Next Generation into the whee hours. Around 2, our suitcases rolled through Madrid's Mardi Gras of club goofs and futbol hooligans. They wore all that style stuff and chanted drunken sports dirges until "San Tropez".

May 20 - Ralo, Salamanca Spain

7:30am! It was Greg’s last day with us, and he had to be at the Madrid airport by noon. He will be missed as a human as well as a laborer. Greg always helped load in, load out and sold merch. His tips and tricks on how to get by in life without spending a cent were priceless. His presence perked things up as he snacked on expired yogurt from a Swiss trash can or regaled us with tales of Alaskan hitchhiking and Canadian bear killing (self defense). His ability to adapt and his spirit are to be envied. He must have thought we were a bunch of soft jello pansies when we paid for things like food and shelter. Hats off to Greg! May our paths cross again.

Reid drove our bug-caked beast through the endless blur of untouched Spanish countryside. On roadsides we explored spooky stone shacks in the red rocks, relaxed on the steps of an abandoned hotel restaurant, and played in its hot, rusted playground.

Salamanca is a college town, home to the oldest continuously active university in Spain. It’s been around since the 13^th century, which is older than America…and Dick Clark (BOI-YOI-YOI-YOING! Applause! Fanfare! Confetti! Standing ovation! Champagne! Human cannonball! Parade! Obama! World peace! Explosion of Mars! Sudden inclimate weather! Cannibalism! Destruction of any evidence of life as we know it! Deep century’s long freeze. New life forms! Evolution! Language! Technology! Dick Clark’s New Civilization’s Rockin’ Eve! BOI-YOI-YOI-YOING! Applause!...).

We spread out today, checking out them jumbo churches, serene rivers, and the constant flux of well-bottomed college girls. It was torture and stupid. I haven’t "seen" my girlfriend in over a month. Haven’t showered since Zurich. White make-up clings to the locks of my itchy, itchy scalp. The elastic band on my three-days-in-a-row swimming trunks can’t contain my ever-expanding beer-then-pasta-then-beer tour gut. Ugh.

Blech.

ANYWAY, Ralo is a garage in an industrial block of Salamanca. When we first tried to find it we ended up in the locker room of a factory, where men and women were changing into their work coveralls. A man chomping on the final moments of a cigar shooed us away.

We reunited with Anteojos friends Javier, Maria and Carlos, who were so kind to us on our last visit. Tostadas, the pretty duo with the funny name, played sweet & sad instrumentals on delayed guitar and Rhodes. Maria’s Italian Jen-Moog circled around the songs like a sleepy bee making moon honey (I'm auditioning for Pitchfork in 2005). Someone passed around green foam squares and Salamanca’s bookish drop-outs relaxed their bountiful asses after a long week of exams.

Reid opened the set with a molester’s guffaw into the mic. Mike translated our songs in Mexican. I ate a banana during Alan’s monologue in “Moline”. “Things The Boys Love” made its European debut. One of these days I’ll catch that bounced stick during the one-beat break in “Stumper”.

After the show Jose from Ralo treated us to a 2am breakfast that would stave off substituting my hand for a relationship. For a little while. What I am is an amazing human.