March 19 - 2720 Cherokee Art Gallery, St. Louis MO

After pancakes, we hit the road. I decided to forget my cellphone in Champaign. This is the fourth time this year I have left my cellphone somewhere else. It means that I love having a cellphone and that I cannot imagine life without it. My cellphone is who I am. My cellphone is what I will always be.

Alan forgot his jacket there, too. Mike forgot his inflatable bed. To fit in, John left his social security card, birth certificate and voter registration in the Mississippi River.

The caravan arrived in Missouri, at the doorstep of Alan’s parents. Alan’s mom prepared a spread of feta and smoked gouda. While we each took a much needed shower, St. Louis white chili cooked and fresh corn muffins baked. It was all very delicious.

For some reason load in was at 6pm. At 6:30 we showed up to 2320 Cherokee, a huge art space decorated with out of tune pianos and out of time technology in the Historic Cherokee Shopping District of St. Louis. We were early. The soundman wouldn’t arrive for another hour. So we used the time to rehearse some new songs that we had played only once before at Coach House Sounds.

Thanks to Carlin, the wonderfully quaffed and chopped man who put this show together, our friends The Columbines were on the bill. This is the fourth show I’ve played with them in the last six months. Before I joined, The Bitter Tears were my favorite Chicago band. Now the title must go to The Columbines. John scratches out reverberated Bo Didley breaks on a JC Penney guitar, Kayte goofs off in shades and instigates Danzig impression contests (she sings nice, too), and Julia smirks like a minxy Alice Cramden as she pounds out some tom-heavy cave beats. They closed with “Bullet” but not the one by The Misfits. Fuck yes, please.

Speaking of fuck yes, the taco stand down the street fed us all to complete satisfaction for a fraction of the price. I wolfed down two lengua tacos for $3.

Before our set, John Leonard carted us to the bar where we ordered more drinks, and then wheeled us around the space and to the stage. I was a bit in the bag for this show. But I felt it went well, despite breaking two sticks, missing the big entrance in “Grieving” for the second night in a row, and having a few drum fills truncated by my new, big mink coat. Alan’s parents were in attendance, and several people from their careers showed up, too. Alan brought up abortion. We debuted one of his new songs, “Things The Boys Love,” a happy sing-along about a group of American cowboys who decide to ambush some Indians, only to have the tables turned. It’s told from the perspective of a rabid halfwit who enjoys watching his buddies getting slaughtered.

John and Eliza from Chicago traveled down just to see the show. Hardcore!

Afterward the upstairs art gallery was opened for all to see. It was a gallery filled with art. I noticed two guys exit a door that I thought led to the roof, so I followed. The door did not lead to the roof, but as soon as I opened it a man began yelling and barking and yelling at me. I put my hands in the air and left the art gallery.

With the entire downstairs space to myself I ordered another beer. I had another one while loading out, too. I was feeling good. I was talking a lot. And laughing. I was being an idiot or a rabid halfwit. On the ride home it took me twenty minutes to roll a borrowed cigarette while revealing my internet porn site of choice. I stumbled to a guest room in Alan’s parents’ house, theoretically ending a night of buffoonery.

March 18 - Independent Media Center, Urbana IL

We tried to fit five in the van sans U-Haul. The equipment was packed tight like Tetris or Jenga or "Truth Or Dare" Tetris and "Spin The Butthole" Jenga. When Mike and John squeezed in, a backpack popped out and onto the ground.

"Careful!" John exclaimed.

"John, is that a glass Pyrex measuring cup in your bag?"

"I like to make tea."

So Alan and Justyna would enjoy a second honeymoon in their car, while Mike, John and I followed in the van. Everyone got excited about doubling our gas expenses for this brief tour of the midwest.

The Urbana-Champaign Independent Media Center is a converted post office in the center of town. In its basement lurks an art gallery, a bike co-op, a Books For Prisoners facility, and a costume shop.

We arrived while a humble guitar picker and a fiddler tastefully soundchecked. Their pickup truck had Pennsylvania plates. The small gathering of aging NPR subscribers bobbed their heads and tapped their hands to their knees.

It was all very polite. I found myself crossing my legs and folding my hands. After their set, they vanished. I never got their names.

A drunk local trio followed with heavy, almost-math rockriffs to the growing and thinning crowd. The frontman got drunk because his hamster had died that day, and he was bummed out. He thanked “Jan and Dean” for playing before them. I was happy that he mentioned their names so I could give them credit on the blog. The bass player ended the set by throwing his bass on the ground while keeping his backwards baseball cap on. It was all very impolite. I never get their names.

The Bitter Tears’ wardrobe was provided by the costume shop. I found the most wonderful white mink pea coat. Alan found a blouse emblazoned with kisses. John scored some terrible tourist or golf wear. Mike looked like he had found some kind of Jesus in a cavern.

The set went alright considering…we hadn’t practiced in a while. Oh, and the sound man left before we even played because his sister had locked herself out of the house. He had to go rescue her. College!

We stretched out a little in the solo section of “Moline.” At one point in the set Alan began uttering. Just uttering. His words were all broken, spilling onto the floor like freshly loosened teeth. It was The Bitter Tears I remembered seeing from the audience years ago, where the show could and would fall apart at any moment for no reason.

Afterward we convened at a house owned by Art, a childhood friend of Alan, Mike and John. Art is quick and funny, and could do stand up if he wanted. He donated a trumpet and a trombone to the band! Some more folks from the area arrived to join in the popcorn, beer, and laughter. We signed an LP for a woman in jail. I didn’t know they had phonographs in prison.

November 13 - The Inferno, Madison WI

The Bitter Tears arrived in Madison LA-style, in three separate cars. We split into two pairs of spouses and one pair of “tour spouses”: Greg and Esther, Alan and Justyna, and Mike and I.

The Inferno sits on the outskirts of town in a house next to a set of railroad tracks. A small nylon poster with the words THE INFERNO hovered above the front door. It reeked of a DIY spot. Their locked door gave Mike and I time to find a barbeque restaurant and laugh at a bookstore called The Frugal Muse. It was like our second honeymoon.

Once The Inferno opened we were surprised by its actual club status. It had a stage, monitors, two bars, leathery furniture, clean bathrooms, and a roped-off VIP room housing a very important glitter ball. There was even a humorless doorman with a shitty attitude who listened to earbuds while playing Memory on his laptop. Pretty legit!

Mike Behrends began the evening with life-battered guitar tales and shanties. I inadvertently added percussion near the VIP ropes by clanging together giant 3-foot earrings that decoratively dangled from the walls.

Butte, a 2 and a half piece band, followed with the world’s best alternative to a drum machine: a DVD projector projecting a drummer playing the drum parts to their songs. So a man replaced himself directly with a machine. The projector also provided the between songs banter in a girly voice. So the cute girl who is learning the bass was also replaced by a machine.

Madison’s AV Club gave the show some lovely press, including an interview and a half-page picture of The Bitter Tears for their Agenda. It officially brought 11 people to the show.

Esther joined the boys in the men’s room for the dress-up ritual while Mike combed the parking lot for more costumes. He entered the bathroom with a handful of what he called brambles, and what Wisconsinites and most other people call branches.

Alan opened the set solo on stage with “Grieving.” His arm performed the strumming of his guitar, no small feat after he broke it wiping out on a bicycle in Berlin. The rest of us emerged from the bathroom one by one with brambles poking in all directions from our clothes. In the lights it looked like a scene found on the cutting room floor of Where The Wild Things Aren’t.

During the show we played songs, but mostly provoked the small crowd into heckling us about Illinois/Wisconsin rivalry nonsense. The word “fib” (fuckin’ Illinois bastard) was used at us. Greg retaliated by referring to the Wisconsin audience as "SIDS." Alan used the microphone to berate Mike’s new character Brambleman, who seemed more like Rambleman. Esther’s playing was offered up for scrutiny during “The Love Letter.” Greg ended "Vanilla Bean" and the night with a crying trumpet note from the hostile but friendly audience.

Big thanks to Reem from This Is How I Will Get Famous for putting us up, feeding us dates, and recommending breakfast at Mickey’s Tavern. As I get older I’m beginning to appreciate towns like Madison that contain less anger, violence, and stress than fucking bastard Chicago. You have a great state, ya SIDS!

September 27 - West Germany, Berlin

Driving on the Autobahn is surprisingly relaxing. Simply put the pedal down as far as it goes and stay out of the way. Meanwhile you have forests of tall trees smacking of skewered broccoli to enjoy. I got the van up to 155 kilometers per hour. That’s as fast it can go. It drives behind the beat.

While Greg took the final leg of the tour, I drank all the leftover beer that had been in the van for weeks. It made for an especially grueling load-in at West Berlin, located on the fourth floor of a pisserific squat. The soundman was checking the reverberated mics with “Pryzbylweskiii,” “Jimmy McNultyyy,” and “Ooommaaaarrr,” proving that, like love and horrible cover bands, The Wire is a universal language.

It was the last show of the tour. Our friend Al Burien was there, and a few other people. It was a Sunday. Germany had elected a conservative knob into office on this day and Berlin was bummed. Most of them stayed home and obeyed their sadness. One of them went out and ate the leftover Lebanese food that Mark the promoter was gracious enough to provide.

When I was 16 I played in an ungoogleable band called The Somaheads. For a brief period a fellow named John Donald was in the band. We played a show in a basement and then he moved on. Before his departure he gave me a cassette full of rare Misfits (including the then-unheard 7” version of “Cough/Cool”) that I still own.

John now lives in Berlin and fronts Human Elephant, the other band on the bill. It was great to see John again after close to twenty years. He looks good and now dons a German accent, which limbos down to a baritone when he sings. Human Elephant played loose, confident art rock. Dark orange music projected against a cute, thick Mustang bass and a tambourine chorus of “Terrorist! Heroin!” Thank you, Human Elephant.

The Bitter Tears played the last show of the tour. It was the anticlimax that it is supposed to be. Kinda like this post. The Berliners were very kind though and more than one described the set as a “fairytale.” Thank you, Berlin.

The tour is over! Despite the fact that we are returning home as paupers, it was a success in many ways. A big thanks to Magnolia Electric Co., Simmo, and all the bookers that made sure we were treated well. Thank you to everyone who fed us and put us up on couches, mattresses, and floors. The kindness of strangers in letting a motley mess of make-up caked Americans into their homes is extraordinary. Also, thanks to everyone who has read this.

I like touring and I like writing this blog. I will continue doing both.

September 26 - Freihaus, Hielbronn Germany

Heilbronn is a town in Southern Germany known for its vineyards, 

and for its punks who think the wine farmers are fat dumkoffs.  We arrived uncharacteristically early and characteristically hungry.  Schnitzel was what we craved so we went to a graveyard.  Next to the graveyard was a sports bar that served traditional German food.  However, since it was Saturday and football trumped lunch in importance, they were only offering chicken foot.  We declined.  From the graveyard you could hear the ghost of Sammy Hagar laughing at us.

After a decent spread of Turkish food, Mike, Justyna and I retired to the graveyard for a nap.  Alan’s limp followed him like a shadow.  In his new Parisian sunglasses he resembled a crippled Elvis.  Greg and Esther perused the city center where a shopping festival would occur until midnight.

I woke up surrounded by a rag tag bunch of camouflaged vagabonds, looking to see if I was dead.  Before they could begin digging, I walked to the Freihaus, which ended up being a photography studio.  A nice man in a Black Sabbath T-shirt, Serge, decorated the room and our senses with spray paint.  Lots of people popped in and out, mostly on skateboards and dressed in black.  The owner of the studio took some individual glamour shots of Mike, Alan and myself.

Serge’s girlfriend, Anka, made us dinner in their home.  She is an artist and a funny one at that.  We asked her if she enjoyed skateboarding.

“I tried it but I failed.  I am a skateboard loser.”

Back at the Freihaus, Liquid Kitty got things off to a nutty fun start.  Part Jan and Dean Ramone, part German drinking music.  These two clean guys danced with each other all night, like a blond version of the sinister Mongoose twins from Rad.  They would win Hellband but not before Mike and I hopped around competitively throughout the entire set.  High knees and kicks with a big beer spilling dosie-d'oh.  It was decided that the night would be wacky.

The set was lots of fun.  The Germans want to dance, and they want to rock.  They have no time for banter.  They will tell you to shut up.  They will tell you to stop.  They will call what you do shit.  They will laugh.  They will want more of your shit.

Anka put applied tooth rot to her smile, which was met with inquisitive horror.  A guy smeared in Bitter Tears make-up came dressed as a Sandwich(!).  It was packed like a Vice Magazine trust fund crud party.  The Do’s and Don’ts danced against the zine covered walls.   During “Murdered At The Bar, “ a flashlight poked through the door.  It was a cop.  He was dressed all in brown, the lederhosen tickling his ribs.  He shone the light on Mike and they made eye contact.  Esther delicately played Chopin.  Curiosity and fear shone on the whiskers of his moustache.

We played some of our silent hits while the cop stood outside googling Reno 911.  The Germans didn’t want any of that silent crap.  They wanted it loud and they wanted it now.  A man backstage (the office of the photography studio) yelled “Red” at me too many times, indicating that he wanted me to put my beer bottle in the red recycling bin.  Then he pointed at the stage and shouted “Play!” just as many times.  I hid.

 

Brushes were used for the first time on a drum kit during “Lightning.”  While “Oiling” played very cautiously, Mike interviewed the chatty audience with a mute microphone.  A guy yelled “Fuck the ‘60’s!”  We said good night to a trashed studio full of sloppy loudmouths.

The Germans wanted to hang out.  They wanted to talk about music.  We mentioned David Hasselhoff.  Mike got on the ground to perform his YouTube impersonation of the drunk hamburger-eating star of Baywatch.  A pirate in Cure eyeliner began beatboxing and disco-calling the German singing sensation’s surname.  Mike started breakdancing.  Brokedance.

We were offered to play a party for no pay at 2 or 3 or whatever time it was.  Mike offered them his pants.

September 25 - L'Emile Vache, Metz France

We are showing signs of wear.  I have the sniffles.  Greg’s sleep-deprivation driving is depriving the rest of us of sleep.  Mike has the sniffles. The wives remain silent, trapped in the middle seats.  Alan broke his toe on a Dutch bathroom.  He is walking with a limp now. We all look like post-housecleaning Wilma Flintstones.

For some reason, The Netherlands has crazy traffic on its rural bi-ways.  At least there are pretty cows and hot air balloons and car accidents to look at while you wait.  We drove through Luxembourg and it is that.

Metz is a great town.  Its people are warm and kind, and come with a sense of humor.  Across the street from L’Emile Vache is a castle with a river that flows underneath it.  You can walk through the castle.  You can run drunk through the castle in a dress if you’d like.  If you’re really stupid you can invincibly climb over the railings in your dress and realize it’s a 40-foot drop to delicious looking river below.  And you should get back to the club.

Ahhh, a proper club.  With a bar and food and ordinary townsfolk.  It was a free show and the turnout was a Metz mish mash of hipsters, straights, and gays.  We played with an Olympia band from Germany called Blockshot.  The singer was a female Mark Mothersbaugh, her dancing robotic and angular.  Very honest and funny and very German.

“This song is about Metz and how it kills itself.”

“When your heart breaks it creates more surface area.”

The keyboard player pounded his synthesizer in a way that made Mike miss John’s boxing glove flourishes with The Bitter Tears.  John!

We changed in the kitchen.  Tonight was my drunk show.  Both “Inbred Kings” and “The Companion” open without drums.  I used that time to get more beer.  The bartender put some liquor in my beer and I don’t know why I drank it. 

The rest of the night is a blur.  A cute French brunette talked to me while I was still wearing my nightie and we exchanged names on slips of paper.  I forgot that I had blue and yellow make up all over my face when I stumbled into a mellow tapas bar.  The slow dancing couples weren’t into my jaundiced tranny trip and I was told there were no more tapas.  Then some aggressive, happy men helped us load the van and initiated the topic of blow jobs.  They goofed up the windshield wipers and I stage dived into the hood of the van.  Greg thought this was really cool.

Mike and I walked the deserted streets of Metz until we found a late night doner kabob place.  The doner kabob continues its reign as my favorite late night drunk food.  The US needs doner, the enlightened man’s gyro.  Hop to it, Obama.

Hey!  L’Emile Vache put us up in a hotel!  With a bed!  And a shower!  And a bed!  And a shower!  And a bed!!  My broken camera and drunken idiocy cannot erase from my mind the kindness and loveliness of Metz.  Suck it, Toulouse!

September 24 - Havenkwartier, Deventer Holland

Havenkwartier is a community space next to a river.  A weathered work boat rests on its dock.  Truck drivers figure out their routes in the parking lot.  Homesick American men walk around in dresses getting looks from the truck drivers.  The truck drivers leave.

Laorens put this show together at the last minute.  The government would pay for it.  During load-in we found a footprint of dried Toulouse dog shit on a drum case.  We were tired of paying for it.

Boutros Bubba was up first.  They played math rock in English with a Dutch sense of humor.  A song about a friend who got stabbed in the stomach and chest revealed that honestly he was more of an acquaintance than a friend.  Most of the audience preferred taking pictures to dancing.  I wish they would send me some of their pictures.  My camera has taken a beating on this tour.  After I dropped it for the 400^th time, it punished me and I lost two days worth of photos.

Anyway.  We played a set and it worked.  Alan had the chandeliers illuminated.  Esther tried tooth rot for the first and probably last time.

“Oh no!  My smile!”

I bounced a stick off the floor tom during the two-beat rest in “Stumper” and this time I caught it.

We played another silent encore with “Cairo.”  It’s the Pixies-Nirvana quiet verse-loud chorus bit.  But to the extreme.  Like surfing a beef jerky snowboard down a canyon of harsh Mountain Dew.

Afterward, Laorens put us up at his flat.  He had fed us home cooked pasta, provided lots and lots of wine, left eggs and bacon for us to cook in the morning, and gave me The Rolling Stones and the Making of Let It Bleed to read during the boring green drive ahead.  Greg and Esther enjoyed good conversation with Generous Laorens and Boutros Bubba until 4:30 while I slept under a table and Mike slept in the van.  Again.