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”?
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