Greg was in dumpster diving heaven. He fished a complete double-bacon wrapped cheesy bread from a discarded tray, plus yogurt, mayo and a picnic’s worth of fruits and veggies. Not only that, but he scored a duffel bag, a child’s knapsack, plus Lyon-Barcelona September 12, 2001 soccer scarves for the whole band. Sometimes he encountered snafus. Greg took a sip of a found container of chocolate milk.
“Ooo- don’t drink that. I think it’s salad dressing.”
Our GPS is a British woman who seems a bit daffy at times. Today she took us on a jogging trail that led to a photogenic forest. I would have gotten some better pictures, too, if it weren’t for all those glaring joggers. For having such a high quality of life, most people in Zurich seemed glum. Maybe it’s that detached Ferris Bueller ennui that comes from never experiencing anything of low quality.
On our own we found the Fluntern Cemetary, atop a peak overlooking greater Zurich. Inside laid the remains of James Joyce and an author named Canetti, who I believe wrote novels about pizza.
The kooky GPS then navigated through the cobblestone pedestrian walkways of the old town. We locked her in the van with the windows rolled up and took a walk along Lake Zurich. At the Cabaret Voltaire Alan and Greg spotted a poster for our show. Mike, Reid and I grabbed a beer and watched the rain continue to follow us. At an English pub I chatted with a couple from Tulsa in their 50’s. While I ate a sausage buttie, a cowboy in a yellow slicker barged in and hijacked the room with what thought was good cheer.
“You guys don’t play that black crap do ya?”
He was a salesman from Colorado who sold racist horse trail rides to Europeans. He talked big and sat large and rattled off names, places, and slurs. The Oklahomans weren’t into his schtick so much, which manifested into a cordial quarrel over the meaning and value of the word “couple”. He kept apologizing about not being able to make the show, though we never told him when or where it would be.
The show was at Boschbar, newly relocated to Section 4, a strip of Zurich where prostitution is tolerated. Last night we were enticed with random flashes of Swiss cleavage while we searched for a hostel.
Doomentels, a Swiss gent by the name of Dominick, opened the night with a solo set of nylon string guitar in reed organ musings in English. He covered Tom Waits with what looked like a Speak’n’Spell football.
I couldn’t believe the turnout for a rainy Monday night. The place was packed, insulated our set, our loud set, but not louder than the foosball fanatics who contributed fooscussion to “Grieving”.
After the set Mike took a head-clearing walk down Section 4 in full make-up, threatening the street competition, and amusing a passing squad car. Alan asked a local woman what her hobbies were, and she pulled out a sheet of paper that listed them beside easy-to-understand illustrations.
The DJ spun Chicago jump blues and unironic classic rock. Occasionally he plays “Worthless Sleaze” off of our Jam Tarts LP, and was completely unaware that we were that band. The DJ saved everyone’s life tonight, including a wobbly young man who proudly paraded down Section 4 with his pants and underpants around his knees.
No comments:
Post a Comment