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?
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