September 1 - Travel Day, Hamburg to Calais

Hamburg is surrounded by water.  A glass of it would have been nice in the morning hangover of The Jolly Roger, a punk rock pirate themed hostel.  Post-show schedules with Magnolia and Bitter Tears had finally intersected the night before at a quiet bar named Mutter.  They make their own brandy there, and soon our smoky room became quite unquiet as Jason Groth and I sang obscure Doors songs like Viking sea shanties.

Free fall flow river flow,

On and on it goes,

Breathe underwater 'til the end...

We bought some drum supplies at the defunct Nazi bunker, glanced at boobs, Beatles, and boner kabobs in the sunny Reeperbahn, and prepared for a full, four-country day with Gorm the Old.  

I was enlisted to burn a thick CD of music, and the first request was Body Count. 

Who gave those niggas those rock guitars?

Don't they know rock's just for WHITES?!...

It went on from there.

Germany looms long and green like a stinkier version of Pennsylvania.  It seemed like every 26 seconds we’d drive into some cow’s manure nightmare.  Also we’ve been inundated with the word “fart.”  Signs everywhere have declared: Gut fart,  Unfart,  Middlefart,  Ne’rfart, Fart hinder, and of course Fart Kontrol.  Maybe all these goddamn fart signs have just put that smell in our heads.

We crossed into The Netherlands to see how their rest stops combined meat, bread and cheese.  No difference.  

With 8 hours and no real food under our belts, the Bitter Tears sputtered into Belgium for dinner, specifically beautiful, touristy Bruge.  Wonderful Bruge! Historic (?) Bruge!  Okay, so lots of Bruge has been refurbished to look old, but have you seen the Chicago condo of today?

Tales were told and bits were performed over Flemish stew, creamy cheese croquets and Belgian beer.  It felt great to be a mark.  But we had to say goodbye so we could go to the coastal town of Calais, France and stay in a cute hotel room overlooking the English Channel. The town forced us to drink a bottle of red wine on the balcony as the cool autumnal breeze put a lilt in the cadence of the French girls riding bicycles to all their rendezvouses.

Thankfully I still had Body Count in my head.

She took the doll,

Cut off all its fingers,

AAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

My fingers!

Bitch!

August 31 - Knust, Hamburg

I can't get this tooth rot off my face.

Hamburg is proof that a fun live show trumps an off day on the road.  Morning came a bit early at the Malmo hostel.  Due to a 7 Euro breakfast of fucking cereal and toast, and an inability to Skype my girlfriend, I was a pissy meatball.  We crossed the thirtysomething Euro bridge again and like a bitchy vampire I put a hoodie over the passenger window.  No beauty sleep?  Then no beauty lucidity!

I do like ferries.  It reminds me of when I lived on cruise ship doing silly comedy.  Freestyle cruisin'!  Unfortunately on this ferry ride to Germany, the grumpy man at the duty free shop wanted me to produce a ticket to purchase cigarettes; a ticket I didn't have and a ticket the long line behind me did not want me to produce.

I used the f-word in his general direction.  Like a catty Americanish dumkoff.  

So I got some ghoulash stew and a Tuborg and stared at the Baltic Sea.  When the ferry docked in Germany, I remained spaced out in a cranky stupor.  The corridor led to the auto lot, which was a blur of cars leaving for Germany, including our van!  So I ran in traffic after it and a man in a yellow vest stopped me, yelling and gesturing.  I was stuck on the ferry bound back for Denmark.  Panicked, I ran around the boat for what seemed an eternity until I found another staircase leading to the cargo area and escaped that way.

The Bitter Tears were all waiting for me on the side of road, except for Greg who was also still on the ferry.  I later learned that he had gone back on the boat to look for me.

I am the world's greatest drummer.

We arrived in Hamburg hungry and a bit beat only to get lost looking for the club.  

Knust is located just across the street from an old Nazi bunker that now holds outdoor performances on its roof.  Eventually it was found and I got to Skype my girlfriend, take a nap on a mic stand chest, and eat steak and potatoes with the band and Norbert, the gracious club owner.

The show went very well.  

Based on advice given to us by the Jasons in Magnolia, we duct-taped our passports to our bodies.  The crowd was fun, receptive, and with some prodding talked back.  Greg closed "The Companion" by pronouncing "Hamburg" through his trombone.  The Hamburgers have been kind, and thanks to a T-shirt purchased for Esther by Magnolia(!), they purchased merch.  Based on our set, Norbert decided to pick up our hostel for the night.  Norbert is the best!

We are curious about the Reeperbahn but heard it is a boring and full of Deutsch-bags 

and Americanish dumkoffs.  Sounds like I'll be going there!

August 30 - Debaser, Malmo Sweden

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August 29 - Vox Hall, Aarhus Denmark

An early rise in Berlin meant foregoing breakfast for the road.  We found a lumber-themed rest stop off the Autobahn that featured sausages, potatoes, and a hateful, cute woman behind the counter.  She scowled at us with specific contempt and created passive aggressive games about having to make more potatoes.  She even scowled at us after her cigarette break.

It was a seven hour drive and we got lost around Hamburg due to a closed road.  At a Burger Reich, Alan considered having a Draculaburger while Mike got a bottled water at a pastry shop.  Here was his exchange with the pastry girl:

PASTRY GIRL:  Would you like that to go?

MIKE:  Yes, please.

PASTRY GIRL hands MIKE a bottle of water.  MIKE pays and begins to leave.

PASTRY GIRL:  Oh, but I must get the bottle back from you before you leave.

MIKE goes to the van to retrieve an empty water bottle to pour the new water into.

We named the van Gorm the Old, in honor of the first King of Denmark, though we still don't have a name for this vacation.  A big yellow sign on the road read FARTKONTROL.  Yeah, but probably not a good name for the tour...you know...because of Esther classing this whole thing up.

The weather pouted like a bi-polar cat, raining one minute and sunning the next.  A terrific hail storm beat down on Gorm the Old, so loud we had to scream over it.  Meanwhile Mike slept.

We pulled into Aarhus (a very, very, very fine hus) and located Vox Hall.  Under construction, this 750-capacity room uses oil barrels to hold candles, and has great sound.  With an hour to kill we found a street festival that proves once again that bad cover bands are a universal language.

  

"Riiide Sallyyy Riiide!"  

People were dressed as anything, mostly black, bright green, fringed or furred and vested.  The black metal youth sang "Lo-lo-lo" songs down the canals of Aarhus (in the middle of the street).

Believe it or don't, chili con carne is one of the dishes of choice in Denmark.  So for 40 kroners I fuckin' ate some, man.  

Our show was better tonight.  The energy was higher, and we had some memory fun with the structure of "The Companion." 

 When some of the kids started dancing to "The Love Letter" Alan joined them for "Vanilla Bean," which put a smile on Jan the terrific soundman.

We don't know where we are staying tonight.  We might have to drive to Copenhagen or something.  Either way I'm sure Mustang Sally will be joining us in our heads.

***Update***

After the show we were told we could not sleep at the club (imagine that).  With that goofy festival going on, nothing was available in Aarhus.  Gorm the Old set out to find us a hotel on the highway.  After an hour we came upon the town of Horsens, which sounds like a combination of "horse" and "worsens."  This small town was in the process of drunkenly tearing itself down, with dudes in Viking face paint wooping, and women in red 10th century dresses hooting, and drinking and singing and kissing discreetly.  What GPS, Greg, and an iPhone could not find, Mike did:  The Horsens Best Western, located on a brown hay street.

Greg and I walked in to find a beautiful chandeliered lobby, a bunch of towels on the floor, and two older men drunkenly ringing the front desk bell.  Eventually they became impatient and walked behind the desk, grabbed their room key and went to their room.  Very medieval!  Inspired, Greg took the key for Room 208 and we marched to the room.

Oops, there was someone in there.

Undeterred, we returned to the front desk and grabbed the key for Room 212.

Woops, someone in there, too.  With nice shoes.

Back at the front desk a very tired, pleasant woman told us there were no vacancies.

So much for the free room.

Another hour later we found a motel that was located in a closed mall.  I asked the possibly drunk woman behind the counter about the happening in Horsens.  She said there was no English word for it.  

We fit 6 in a room for two, sleeping like caterpillars in a submarine.  I just learned they have an annual crime festival in Horsens.  Maybe we should have just raped and pillaged that town for a room.  It woulda saved us a buncha fucken kroners, man.

August 27 & 28 - Lido, Berlin

It’s a European vacation financed by The Bitter Tears.  Myself, Alan, Mike, Greg and eventually John will hit many countries in as many days.  Also joining us for this vacation is Greg’s new wife Esther, whose presence will add a touch of class to our behavior- but won’t!  She will take over on keyboards after we kick John out of the band in Switzerland (but don’t tell John this yet, please).  Where is John, by the way?

Berlin was not the grey, cold stereotype we wanted it to be.  It is a quiet, polite, successfully recycling town.  If anything we were the greyest thing there, skulking around looking for a goddamn drinking fountain while the sun melted the jet lag into our pours.

We stayed with Al Burian, a writer, cartoonist, and musician, who made us go to the Berlin Wall, drink great beer, smoke cigarettes, and enjoy each other’s company on our first day in Europe.  Check out Al’s piece in a new anthology from Found Magazine.

The next day we did more sightseeing while wondering if John’s plane had crashed.  Dem dere Deutscher Capitol Volke, The (Bitter) Tiergarden, Kaiser Wilheim’s smashed out church.  I kept wanting to use the term “Deutsch-bag,” but again, everyone was very nice to us.

The van is a big blue Sprinter with 500,000 kilometers on it and no seatbelts for the back passengers.  I write this just to ease the spirits of our wives and girlfriends back home.  On the way to the club Greg thought it would be of interest to drive on the tracks of an oncoming streetcar.  And it was very interesting.

Lido is a great club because that’s where John was.  And they provide beer, food, and showers (with towels).

On the first half of this vacation we are the support for Magnolia Electric Co.  They are wonderful guys who are letting us use their back line.  And they’re also just good guys, albeit very busy.  A lovely conversation we were having about Glenn Danzig had to be cut short due to an interview and performance for German public radio, which I hear is run by Deutsch-bags…no, no.  They’re good people.

The show was a decent first show for us. We didn’t have to wear make-up because we were still pretty jet-lagged. Surprisingly, people applauded as we walked onto the stage.  A first!  It was a short half hour set that featured Alan’s new guitar and Alan’s brand new German guitar strap.  

I learned there was no wall behind the stage curtain when I went to lean on it and fell completely off the drumstool and onto my asshole.  Luckily it was during “Grieving” and Alan eventually ended up on the floor as well, screaming in the audience.

Afterward, we listened to Magnolia’s set, took turns at the merch table, ate delicious Indian food (the Mutton Josh was dumb yummy), accidentally sold a Magnolia shirt as ours, took turns in the shower, and hung out with friends and family that had come to say hi.

I'm glad to be hanging out in Europe with these Deutsch-bags.

June 28 - Black Cat, Washington D.C.

Entering IHOP with a belly full of Utz, Knob Creek, street crabcakes, Camden Yards spicy Italian sausage, Yuengling, beef jerky, and scrapple, I realized I left my girlfriend’s pillow back at the motel.  

The last day of the tour was spent in our nation's capital, where the museums are free.  Each Bitter Tour lone wolfed it for the day.  I went to the Air and Space Museum and The Smithsonian Castle.  Behind glass I saw a Wright Brother’s bicycle, Mean Joe Greene’s football helmet, as well as an astronaut’s fecal bag and shark repellent.  Plus, at no extra cost, the American Idol desk and chairs.

Greg found me napping at The Washington Monument, where he invented a funny, funny, original but funny idea for a photograph.  Check it out!

We hit the Lincoln Memorial, and The White House, and the old death war memorial, and the new death war memorial, and the other death war memorial, and the zzzzzzzzzz… Naw, but it was cool and we all learned a lot.

With a staff to help you unload, a dressing room, a fridge full of bottled water and Yuengling, a shower, and a full menu of free food, The Black Cat knows how to take care of a band.

Our set was met with icy resistance, with but just one lone heckler.  Alan challenged him to list things he liked about Chicago.

Bobby Conn and Barack Obama were mentioned.  Mike said that Obama was their problem now.

After our set, Hideout owner Tim Tuten surprised everyone by being there.  Over some fridge Yeunglings, he caught The Bitter Tears up on his new job with The Department of Education and his adventures with The Cabinet and George Lucas.  It seems Tim Tuten is DC’s problem now. 

We stayed with Geofferey, a former Electrical Audio intern, in his spacious DC funhouse.  I dreamt of a 14-hour drive full of pretty Appalacian curves, Pennsylvania Dutch delis with Amish apple pies and chipped ham hoagies, and then the pointless longevity of Ohio and Indiana.  But then Greg woke me up to let me know that I was snoring, and that I would leave my girlfriend’s towel behind in DC.

The B.Y.O.B.O.B.G.Y.N. tour was the best tour any band will ever have.  In a couple of months we will be in Europe.  Let’s see if it has anything on Akron.

June 27 - Day Off, Baltimore, MD

The floor was littered with slumbering punks, like a Max's Kansas Jonestown.  We thanked Jake and tip-toed into a sunny day off in Baltimore.  Scrapple, an accurately-named shingle of livery sausage, made its way into my body and bloodstream at Jimmy's Restaurant in Fells Point.

Homeless and aimless, we found Edgar Allen Poe's tomb, a record store, and a parking space by Camden Yards.

The Orioles game began at 7 but we got there at 6, just in time for The Washington Nationals' batting practice.  Greg and Mike got an umpire's eye on the starting pitcher's doomed form.

In Baltimore, "The Star-Spangled Banner" goes like this:

...gave proof thro' the night that our flag was still there.

O!  say, does that star-spangled banner...

In the top of the first inning the O's loaded the bases with no outs and then walked in 2 runs, prompting carnivorous boos and shouts of "Inexcusable!"  But they lethargically rallied to hit 3 home runs and win the game 5-3.

Wanting a drink for just a little less than $7 we found The Club Charles, a loungey hipster joint, just in time for the trapeze show.  Immediately followed a horn and drum combo playing minor chord waltzes.  I decided to drink Yuengling with Knob Creek so I could scarf down a bag of Utz chips with beef jerky later near Laurel, Maryland.