July 11 - Circle A, Milwaukee WI

We woke up surrounded by first generation hippies swing dancing to zydeco at a Cajun festival. Egad!

Where are we?

Madison.

While Mike went book browsing, Alan, Justyna and I stumbled around looking for World Cup action, only to find it in a SRO sports bar.

A lot of the college kids rooted for the pot team.

A girl jumping for Spain got her college hair in my mouth.

It was 0-0 after all that standing so I went to heavy metal/punk record store and read new information about Danzig. I guess he has a few cats and doesn't vote. He has some conspiracy theories about the Bilderbergs and...

Then I realized I had outlasted the kid in the giant mohawk, and could read about Danzig anytime.

So I went back to the sports bar and watched Spain score a goal.

Then the satellite went out.

Alan and Justyna headed for Milwaukee while Mike and I walked through a rain storm.

A parade of five drunk wet people smeared in red and yellow sang Spanish victory slogans to White Stripes riffs.

World Cup fever.

Circle A is the best.

Tiny, fun, beer, jukebox, grouchy soundman, real people.

More folks from Chicago and as far as St. Louis travelled out for the show, including our keyboardist John!

Also on board was Liz from Bully Pulpit, who later audio taped us in the men's room getting into character. Wow, it's like she won a radio contest or something.

We were reunited with our friends The Itinerant Locals, who were winding down their US tour by train. Yes, starting from Hot Springs, Arkansas, the duo and their children have embarked on a 50-some day, 20-some city jaunt across Texas, the southwest, the northwest, and the midwest. They lead impossible lives!

Their accordion and a tuba combo resurrected scratchy gems from the past and the unknown.

"Squeezin' oil out of oliiiives!"

A grand time indeed. I hope to play with them again someday.

Our set, the last Bitter Tears set for a while, was described by Mike as wily. His upright bass poked patrons and Alan and got unplugged by dancers. I dropped sticks I wasn't supposed to and stunk up the slide whistle solo and drum fill pick up on "Inbred Kings".

Shit happens.

During "Moline" Mike's baritone guitar became unstrapped.

Then shouting people wanted to be a part of Alan's monologue.

"You guys are weird!" was ultimately observed out loud.

The soundman begrudgingly gave us an encore, and we played "Things The Boys Love" quietly sans microphones.

We arrived home around 3am.

I didn't get to bed until 5, ruining any chance of catching up on sleep until next weekend.

ROCK AND ROLL!!!

I mean, shitty day job!

July 10 - The Project Lodge, Madison WI

The drive proved nice and short.

Short enough for Mike and I to wax poetic about life and ideas.

And short enough for Chicago friends from the Columbines and the Electrical Audio board to join us for the festivities.

The Project Lodge seems to be a general performance space, catering to wall art weirdos, theater geeks, improv nerds and music jerks.

On its stoop, we drank Supper Club canned microbeer, while Julia introduced Mike to brandy.

A bag of No Salt brand potato chips sat on a stool, lonely and unpopular for all of the night.

The Bitter Tears were a three piece tonight.

In the van, Mike and I made a decision to wait for me to catch my aerial drumstick during the break in "Stumper" before jumping back in. I had been dropping it about 86% of the time, because I was trying to bounce the stick off the floor tom, catch it, and hit the beat, all in one quarter note rest. You can't rush gravity. It's like trying to throw a ground ball to first before it gets to your glove. The ball goes through your legs.

So now we are bringing the song to grinding halt, all for one lame bit of flash that I clearly stole from 1966 Keith Moon.

I think the show was fun. It was a bit sloppier than last night.

We played "Things A Boy Loves On TV" for the first time in a while.

Mike Behrends and The Gentlemen Trailblazers headlined with suitable music that sounded good. Hooks, y'know. Those things work.

Around 11pm we were suddenly kicked out of the space because one of the owners had a tummy ache. So our friend Reem ended up hosting an after show party on her deck.

Of the ten people there, she knew four.

More brandy was consumed and stories were told.

I learned that the guy from Anthrax invented a watch that operates in speed-metal time.

Then a local man told us his tale: He smoked a bowl to prepare for the washing of his dog, when suddenly his parents showed up unannounced. He kept them busy outside with his dog and his children while he ran around those spraying solvents. Every time his dad comes over to the house he has to take a poop. Luckily, on that occasion he chose not to.

Somewhere around here someone fell out of their chair from brandy.

The evening was telling us that it was going home.

July 9 - Quencher's, Chicago

What a delight to play first.

Get the show out of the way, and spend the rest of the evening with remnants of gunk smears on the face and glops of stage white in the hair.

While getting dressed in the men's room, we were heckled by some guys while they urinated.

It seemed we had hit a new low.

"Hey, flush!" Mike commanded to one of the departing urinal hecklers.

To his credit, the heckler complied.

It felt good to play again.

We didn't rehearse.

Hadn't played since the PRF BBQ about a month ago.

Mike resurrected his upright bass, and strapped it on like an electric.

An old friend of the band made dolphin coos from the audience.

Then she lifted her shirt to expose her braziered boobs.

That was my first time meeting her.

Alan's "Moline" monologues have been getting funnier and funnier.

I almost choked on the popcorn I was method-acting eating.

IfIHadAHiFi curated this show, and acted as the bougher between us and the headliners. They filled the room with gorgeous down-stroked noise shenanigans. I love seeing that Firebird get tossed around. It's my pornography. Mr. Alarm played a fender bass, in that he played his bass with a car fender.

The reunited Fuckface had a polydemonic setup: Four drum kits sans snares and cymbals in front of the stage, two guitars, a bass stack taller than the bass player, and a guy on his knees banging away at barbells and things that go ding in the night. The frontman, a greying acid casualty with a T-shirt tucked into a braided leather belt mumbling through a shitty PA, could not compete with the ferocious drum moat. All eyes were on the four drummers, pounding and pounding the toms. It was hypnotizing, though their cover of "Wave of Mutilation (UK Surf)" broke the spell. If they added some horns and some cheerleaders they could become Fucka Face-a.

We all went home separately and slept in separate properties because we live here.