May 31 - Cardigan Arms, Leeds England

"LAST DAY OF THE TOUR."

I would have used an exclamation point but I needed to conserve my energy for the show and drinking pints.The morning began with a gift-o-gram from Electrical Audio's Greg Norman. Presented during breakfast croissants, our former brassman, slide guitarist, danswer, and slide whistlist showered us with two bottles of champagne and an assortment of ethnic and mammary-specific pornography publications. Distracted, I mistook a picture of a hag resembling a Steven Tyler blow-up doll for a platter of bangers and mash. Thank you, Greg!!

Moments later, the six of us embarked on a voyage through the English countryside in search of an abandoned manor. Nestled in the small village of Sutton cum Duckmanton, Derbyshire (where teenage boys perform handstands for the passing motorists), sat the Sutton Scarsdale Hall, a once-tony, now-bony estate. It overlooked a green and yellow meadow, popular with dog walkers and couples reading the newspaper in peace or aborted argument. The information plaque mentioned that William Randolph Hearst had once had his hands in this palace at one time. I suppose the SLA got to it later.

Ten miles down the road was a functioning castle, The Bolsover Castle, which is politely pronounced "balls-over-castle". Upon our arrival it was discovered that The Castle charged an admission fee of seven pounds. I suggested we go "balls-over-fence" instead of paying. This was not a good idea, so we went to a roadside pub on the way to Leeds for coffee, pints and crisps. There's something about the British pub that I find comforting. The stenchy carpets, the semi-surly service, the dark wood. I understand why many men choose to live in them.

The Cardigan Arms is a traditional British pub with a squatty venue upstairs, torn of all its traditional charm. I had my fourth pint of the day during soundcheck, and then we all went to Daniel's flat for dinner. Daniel put us up last year after our Brudenell Social Club show, and made us the UK's best coffee. His girlfriend, a culinary wizardress, had been preparing our meal all day, and it showed. The lamb was tenderer than Alan Alda, while the tofu with peppers punched me in the taste. Plus we got to eat more of these green items named vegetables. I required seconds. Thank you, Leeds, for one of the best meals on the tour.

Gareth S. Brown performed movies and music, sampling live instruments with old short films. We had a reunion with Cowtown, with whom we played the Spanish leg of last year's tour. They were in fine form and fine sweaters, debuting a new heavy number that took Mike's fancy. If I hadn't done all my drinking in the afternoon I would've caught more than the end of their set. Instead, Alan had to wake me up in the van, just in time for me to misremember Dave, their excellent drummer, by calling him Nick. Embarrassed, I apologized and told him my name.
"Right. Tony. I remember."

Ugh.

I decided against quitting drumming forever and played the show, THE LAST SHOW OF THE TOUR .It was a decent set, I suppose, despite the soundman insisting on keeping Now I Got Worry up at full volume during Ronald's awkward spectacle. Mike teased the Brits about the doughy qualities of their skin. We berated them for cheering the mention of George Jones, after berating them for the previous silence to the mention of George Jones. Simmo said my drumming had energy, and seemed genuinely enthused about the performance. We closed THE LAST SHOW OF THE TOUR (!) with "The Fire Messiah" and cleaned the scum off our faces in a public water closet for the last time.

On the drive back to Nottingham, we subjected Simmo and Helene to Henry Rollins reading Get In The Van. Thanks to Hank, our ride home "was the most direct line to what the fuck it was all about."

This European tour was easier in some ways (the van has seatbelts and less than 200,000k on it!), and harder in other ways (no time to skype, no time for laundry). There were some constants: Alan's perpetually intermittent sneezes, Reid's hemorrhaging geyser snoring and somnambulent mutterings, Mike's insomnia-influenced darkness, my effeminate giggles and sighs and bad punnery.

Sometimes we had excitements: like the surprise of a bright flash-bulb explosion from a French speeding camera, that parking ticket on our first day, discovering overnight dents. One night someone used one of my drumming brushes as a flirtation device.Tolls, ferry fares, gas. Side of the road lunches. Gas station lunches. Lunches behind the wheel.

Laying down for five minutes while everyone else gets out at the rest stop. Naps in the van. Naps in the park. Naps behind the drums. I slept on two cots, three beds, and 17 floors. Some of them were cushioned, the punishment for bringing a sleeping bag.

We lost a different sleeping bag, as well as a camera, a keepsake cushion, 2 pairs of sunglasses, a piece of equipment, the other drum brush, a sweater, earplugs, and money. Mike tried to lose his blazer, his sweatshirt, and both of his bags, but they kept getting returned to him. Alan broke his glasses.

It could have been a lot worse (see Brainiac, Minutemen, Lynyrd Skynyrd).

Earlier in this thing, I have extolled the virtues of all the rad folks that helped put this together, and made it as smooth as it could be. A lot of these people who put on these tours, put on these shows, put up these bands, work themselves to exhaustion. As do the bands. Everyone is exhausted.

Is it fun?
Yeah, man. I loved seeing The Pyrenees, and the dopey Black Forest, and the big dumb Alps. I loved the home cooked meals we had. I loved when people laughed or danced or felt compelled to enjoy what we do. I love Europe.

Despite these perks, many of the promoters we talked to have mentioned impending retirement. It makes sense. This version of rock and roll or whatever you want to call it is a young man's game, and many of us are getting older and married and having kids and cats and houses and eking out a stable life. Suddenly taking months off from that life for a seemingly endless existence of beer, bad sleep, and sexual frustration appears less appealing.
Would I do this again?
Well, of course.
I wonder if anyone else will want to.

May 30 - Dot to Dot Festival - Trent University, Nottingham England

A late breakfast of croissants, French bread and salami, and chocolate pain was supplemented with Simmo’s sausage sandwiches. Another afternoon performance with The Dot to Dot Festival. We followed Burly Nagasaki, a local coed two-piece that cracked me up. Joey and Tez vogued to a dance track, played scissors on a K-Records sweater ballad, and shambled through a surf instrumental (“Phew!”), before taking audience questions related to Elvis. They closed with a call and response tune about a giant peanut butter sandwich. Nottingham’s Mo Tucker answered with supermarket intercom authority.

JOEY CHICKENSKIN: How much does that sandwich weigh?

TEZ WRIGLEY: That sandwich weighs...four..pounds.

After their set I asked Ms. Wrigley, who reminded me a bit of an old pom-pom flame's haircut, who her favorite member of the Memphis Mafia was.

"Charlie Hodge," she replied without hesitation.

With a feedback soaked soundcheck, we took the stage to another backline of Marshall stacks. Like Robin Hood, we used the equipment of the rich to make music for the poor. Mike’s wisecrack about Margaret Thatcher mistaking a milkshake machine for a bidet, and sitting on a steaming pile of bubble and squeak, resonated with the poor. After the set a gentle security thug paid me a compliment on my drumming. Thanks, mate!

These afternoon sets are funny. What do you do afterward? We chose to hang out at a pub that served honest ales and scrumpies while smoking fags with goofy French birds speaking in cat tongues. Right? We met some new Brits that made fun of my Dunhills (“That’s what my father smokes!”) and told us about a ploughman’s drink that tasted like meat! Of course I wanted to try this chumly or brimbly or brapsworthy or whatever the fuck it’s called, but the pub didn’t serve it. So we went back to the club to cash in our food voucher. Gimmee a fuckin’ bap, man, I’m drunk and hungry!! Right? Every inch of the festival crawled with current British style: gals in black leggings, men in skinny jeans, L.A. pay-to-play hairdoos, Desperately Seeking Susan hats, I even saw a guy sporting a 1987 tight roll around his ankles. I never knew irony could be sexy.

It was decided that the festival was stupid now, so we went back to Simmo and Helene’s for some more spirits and listening to fuckin’ records, man. We busted out Isaac Hayes, Lionel Richie, “Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft,” Heavy Vegetable, Half Man Half Biscuit, obscure thrift store funk finds, and Simmo’s coup de grace, “Don’t Worry Be Happy” at 33 & a third. Don’t knock it til you try it.

Then Simmo, like a librarian, read us jagged children’s satire by Raymond Briggs, and I admired Helene’s twisted Peanuts drawings, demanding that she contribute artwork to my other band.

The evening faded, the turntable spun, my eyelids kissed. My surname, shouted with a British accent, arose me as I grasped a sweating Czech Budweiser, glazed in an armchair.