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.

September 23 - DAY OFF, Paris

It was our first day off from the van life.  We all split up to get some time to ourselves in Paris.

I visited the Pere-Lachaise cemetery.  It’s set up like a putt-putt village of death, with little street signs that organize the grandfather clock tombs into wards. Locals come to the cemetery to hang out and read.  It’s really quite something.  Follow the dirt bags and you will find the grave of Jim Morrison.  I heard my first southern accent in months.  “71, huh?”  It was like Heavy Metal Parking Lot.  A few blocks down from Morrison is the grave of Chopin, clustered with blue hairs figuring out their digital cameras.  It was like Neil Diamond Parking Lot.

The grave of the journalist Noir depicts the man lying down with a bulge of arousal trying to escape his unzipped pants.  It is said to be good luck to rub the bulge, and it remains discolored there from decades of lucky people.  A trio of German college girls giggled as one of them rubbed Noir’s eternal hard-on.  I miss my girlfriend.

Paris is saturated in romance.  On a Wednesday afternoon couples were everywhere: holding hands, kissing, making out.  Along the river, women rested their heads and legs on their man’s lap.  People made out while they walked.  The women wore clothes that flattered and revealed their natural curves.  I really miss my girlfriend.

I walked a lot.  From the cemetery to Bastille, to Notre Dame, to the Louvre, to the Eiffel Tower, to the Arc de Triumph.  I heard lots of American accents.  “Where’s the tunnel where Princess Leia was killed?  Where’s the Palace of Justice?  I wanna get Batman’s autograph.  There’s four of us, let’s get our picture taken crossing Jim Morrison’s grave.  Who’s gonna take off their shoes?”

You win, Paris.  You’re beautiful.  You really are.  I was here last year for all of four hours on Bastille Day.  Everything was closed and it was a cramped, choking experience.  I skulked around with a baguette and a bad attitude.  To me it seemed like Paris was the hot girl in school who dated all the jocks and wouldn’t give me the time of day.  But today I got to sit next to her at a mandatory pep rally.  I saw her cheer and laugh.  And move.  She seemed like fun.  I still may not understand her or get invited to her crappy parties, but she is beautiful to look at.

The hotel was just a few blocks down from the Moulin Rouge.  Next to Sexorama, The Sexy Shop, and across the street from Pussy’s.  I wanted to get a beer somewhere and rest my aching feet.  All the bars that looked interesting ended up being brothels.  I walked into a bar playing dance music.  So I walked out.  I thought I would get a helmet and try some virtual reality cybersex.  But all the shops were out of this.  A woman grabbed my arm and wanted me to come with her.  Her tug turned into a pull and I had to use a yank to remove myself from her clutches. 

I miss my girlfriend.

September 22 - Travel day, Toulouse to Paris

Just lots of driving.  We’ve mostly been eating rest stop food.  Please don’t put a sandwich in one of those burnt presses that turns it into an antique football.  It makes me grumpy.  We did magically run into Cowtown at said rest stop.  They had come from an evening of camping and seemed chipper.

We were not chipper.  By the time we reached suburban Paris it was 9 o’clock.  The van handled the Parisian traffic like a tilt-a-whirl.  Mike was burnt out on Glen Campbell, Esther read The Golden Compass in the dark, Alan and Justyna were burnt out on Tetris, Greg sang endless pop choruses, I had to pee-iss, and we had nowhere to stay.

Electrical Audio’s reputation came to the rescue once again in La Frette.  Lionel, a former engineering intern happened to work at La Frette, a recording studio housed in a 3-story, 20-room mansion, once owned by Professor Plum.  What started as a visit while Lionel mixed Plants and Animals’ new album soon turned into an invitation to a sleepover.  We gladly accepted.

Mike cooked dinner for us, and did his best with gas station vegetables and gas station cus cus.  Luckily the studio was equipped with lots of old powdering spices and curries.  It would be the healthiest thing we would eat all tour.  While dinner simmered, Alan and Esther played original compositions on a Bosendorfer piano.  It felt like playing a piano made of dominoes.

After dinner we retired like zombies to our rooms in the mansion.  The ghosts of bands past sung us to sleep.  To think that just last night we were in dirty Toulouse, doubling up in bunk beds shared with spiders.  Spiders, ghosts, and zombies.

September 21 - Pavillons Sauvages, Toulouse France

I asked my friend from 1985, Henry Rollins, to translate today’s experience through his eyes.  Here is what Henry had to say:

A rooster woke me up.  Just like in the fucking cartoons.  Cock-a-doodle-doo!  It only made me stronger.  The others woke up because of the rotten smells of skinhead feet and skinhead sneezes on the pillows.  We loaded the gear and got the hell out of there.  See ya, Spain.

I didn’t get any sleep.  I never do.  I guess that’s just how I am.  So I drove the whole way to France.  Alone.  In the dark.   In the afternoon.  I saw Alan sleeping during my drive.  He looked so sleepy and peaceful.  I wanted to punch his throat off.

Toulouse is a dog shit town.  It’s covered in dog shit.  We showed up at the dog shit venue and some butt-faced hippie gets in our face about load in and shit.  If I have to talk to one more fucked up hippie that claims that an abandoned warehouse with a couple of car seats and some vegan idiot drooling on the floor is a venue I’m going to rip out his dreadlocks and use them to jump rope.  I could build a club with what’s left of his face.

It was laundry day.  In France all the laundromats are in French or some shit.  We had to ask this girl doing her laundry how to operate the machines.  She never even looked at me.  In my mind I saw myself folding laundry with her.  I pictured her pushing me away.  I saw her walk further and further away.  I saw myself alone.  In darkness.  Forever.  I wonder what a woman would ever see in me anyway.  Never trust anyone.

We wanted to get some steak tartar but in France if it’s 5 o’clock, you’re fucked.  We ended up eating sandwiches and pizza.  This country should be napalmed.

We had to do an interview for French radio.  Interviews are such bullshit.  It’s nothing but pointless masturbation of the ego.  I don’t need anyone to know anything about me or The Bitter Tears.  If you want to hear our music you should be in the fucking band.  The DJ was this blind skinhead who got in our face about America.  We told him America was about abortion.  It was great.  It figures that skinhead DJ was blind.  You have to be blind to be a skinhead.  Blind to the truth.

Les Koboi du Bitum laid waste to the stage.  They were amazing.  Two French guys with shower-head microphones drilled to their guitars singing, “Shit!  Thank you!  Good night!”  Their drummer was a shitty Casio keyboard.  It was the most amazing set that I have ever seen.  After the set I told them how great they were.  They offered me a beer.  I told them that beer was a crutch and crutches are for the weak.  I threw a cup of black coffee in their face and walked away.  Nobody seemed to understand.  That’s okay.  I’m used to it.

We were next.  We launched into “Rough n’ Ready” like a bomb and the place exploded.  The Tears were on fire.  We played our asses off.  No show in the history of this dog shit country will ever compare to this show.  Greg’s cheeks were so intense from playing trombone he had to ice them on some homo’s keg of beer.  Esther’s keyboard was covered in hot blood from her own broken fingers.  She played the ass off that keyboard.  Justyna was bouncing off the walls freaking out the skinheads.  Mike and I jammed out on these amazing rests in “Vanilla Bean” while Alan lashed around in the crowd.  In the lights he looked like an ancient Aztec warrior performing a spiritual erotic forest fire dance.  When it was all over the crowd just stood there.  So we just stood there, too.  Then we played a silent version of “Cairo” that kicked in at full volume in the chorus.  Toulouse was ours and they knew it.  Fuck ‘em.  At the end of the day it’s just the same set of assholes.

After the show we waited three hours for the guy who was putting us up to finish cleaning the venue.  It was fucked.  But it was discipline.  You have to respect that.

While loading out all the gear myself I stepped in some dog shit.  The dog shit was on the concrete.  I felt like I was the dog shit.  And the concrete.  A stinking pile of waste strangulated by cold, hard truth.  You can try to walk around it but that’s just a lie.  Some way or another that dog shit is going to find its way into your soul.  I sat in the darkness and inhaled the dog shit.  In darkness I can do no wrong.

Get In The Van by Henry Rollins is available from 2.13.61.

September 20 - Bonberenea, Tolosa Spain

A Spanish breakfast of eggs & zucchini, mushrooms, toast with tomato spread & olive oil, coffee, and orange juice was served family style with Cowtown.  We took our time.  I usually equate breakfast with huge American or English cavalcades of fat eaten fast, but I could certainly get used to a lighter longer ritual.  Muchas gracias to Danny and the Arrebato in Zaragoza.

In the green foggy hills of the Basque country lies Tolosa, a small town at the bottom of a long and winding road.  After some directions from a quiet mountain boy, it leads to the door of the garish wonderland known as Bonberenea.  A former factory, it has been converted into a rock venue-skate park-recording studio.  It is decorated as meticulously as it is organized.  

There was a bizarro element to the afternoon.  When the sun came out it started to rain.  So the clouds came back and chased it away.  I took a walk and stumbled upon live chickens and a rooster milling about a swing set.  Cowtown arrived and immediately took advantage of the soccer field.  On the other side of the fence was a pyramid of dead cars.  Mike played basketball while Esther and Justyna found ponies to feed and berries to eat.  We were starving.

Our soundman was maybe 14.  The videographer girl was 12.  The boy who took our picture for historical purposes was pushing 11.  It felt like we were playing Pee Wee's Playhouse.  I think the doorman was a talking chair.

In the lounging rooms it felt great to relax and catch up with life back home.  We were right next to the kitchen and its strong garlic aromas.  Alan distracted our hunger with some piano.  It was too cold for a dip in the pool and no one was in the mood for foosball.  While Mike and Alan did a radio interview in the press room I listened to men with power saws constructing gigantes.

I guess we were playing then eating.  Good thing the show started an hour late.  It was a Sunday and the turnout would be small.  Cowtown slammed through their set.  I could swear I saw a thought balloon filled with fresh greens float above Hillary's head.

Between sets they played mostly AC/DC and an extended remix of Filter's "Hey Man Nice Shot."  The Bitter Tears played a sloppy set to the stoic Basques, but mostly talked to them.  I had a bum drum fill during "Stumper," and thought I could recover by doing it again in the next measure.  I ended up flubbing the flub and sounded downright incompetent.  The silent boy playing banjo with us in the corner stopped left through the set.  No one seemed to mind though.  It was that kind of a show.  Perhaps if we had eaten...

Around 11 we ate.  It was delicious.  Now time for bed.

The bedroom was filled with mattresses and bunks.  In theory both bands would sleep on the beds Fleetwood Mac-style.  But I snore.  Especially with a belly full of chorizo, pasta and potatoes.  So I slept Chickenfoot-style with a rooster.

September 19 - Arrebato XV Aniversario Fest, Zaragoza Spain

Signs along the jagged, peach terrain between Madrid and Zaragoza showed mountains crying.  The jet engine roar of outdoor hardcore led us to the Arrebato 15^th year anniversary festival.  Fifteen years is a long time for anything, but it’s especially impressive for a collective of musicians that receive constant scorn and legal stress from the normales.  In the midst of the 120 bpm maelstrom an elderly woman slowly approached, struggling to walk but having no trouble voicing her anger about the racket.  I apologized in English.

Mike, Greg, Esther and I walked to the Basilica de Pilar, a Catholic equivalent to the Mall of America.  An awe-inspiring palace showcased several functioning altars, priests reading the Bible in penance booths, their lights gleaming like blue light specials, and as many crucified Jesus feet as there are pursed lips.  I got a postcard for my Mom.  On the way back to the festival I purchased a set of Mary Merche paper dolls from a street vendor.  I thought this could be a gift for my girlfriend, but then I realized it was for me.  I think I’m getting weird.

Javier and Maria drove in from Madrid to catch the show.  They are the most lovely people, somehow familiar with my old band Let’s Get Out of This Terrible Sandwich Shop.  In Spain it seems that the Roydale record label "es el rey."  It was nice to see that wonderful couple in the audience singing and dancing.

It was also nice to see Alan in the audience for “Vanilla Bean,” with a cordless microphone for the first time.  As he muttered his way past the crowd and into an isolated part of the park, a few dogs ran in front of the stage.  Justyna took pictures and helped with merch, though we had to compete with anarchist literature.  Perhaps we should transcribe Alan’s rants and sell them in baggies.

Danny from the festival took care of us, and after a quick spin in Cowtown’s kooky LDV, we met on the 11^th floor roof of a loft filled with a cello, a Rhodes, an electric sitar, and much more.  Lately I’ve been drinking too much and doing or saying stupid things.  Last night I claimed that Dick Cheney’s favorite band was King Crimson.  This was met with silence and in it I went to bed.

September 18 - La Faena, Madrid Spain

Waiting for us in the morning was a sack of bocadillos courtesy of Yiye.  With a full evening of sleep and the simple combination of jamon iberico and queso I gave Greg and Mike the day off from driving.  The continuous downpour gave central Spain the look of a wet mutt.  I adopted the mutt and named it Empenada Empapada.

La Faena is a dodgy-looking collective space divided into sculpture and music. Maria, a Spanish pixie, welcomed us with homemade pizza-like empanadas while Carmello, a bearded cyclist, delivered his homemade Spanish omelette.  Intoxicated by Spain's warm food and hospitality, Mike and I found our broken Spanish slowly mending itself, albeit with Mexican glue.

Alan's wife Justyna arrived, much to Alan's delight.  Before she left for Spain, she and Mike's girlfriend Holli had drinks with John.  John used words like "miserable" and "minefield" to describe what Justyna was in for.  Turns out John is more Rollins than me.

The evening opened with Ameba, my favorite Madrid band.  Three energetic ladies, including Maria, singing heartache harmonies in simple English with vintage gear.  The male rhythm section was led by Carmello's inventive drumming.  A bespectacled Mo Tucker danced when she wasn't playing violin.  Ameba!  Seek them out.

It was the first of three shows with Leeds' Cowtown, who play fun progressive Nintendo rock in colorful resale sweaters.

Madrid was singing our songs while we were singing them.  It was amazing.  Javier from Brazil Recording Studios made it sound great, actually making a live mix as the show happened.

A wonderful man named Manolo showed us around Madrid.  I had been here before when I was ten.  All I wanted to do then was buy a sword and listen to Run-DMC.  Not much has changed.  Too bad we weren't dressed properly or patiently enough to get into the Fabulous Fucker Club.  We ended up at a bar down the street that played classic rock.  I think too much beer happened.  At the end of The Doors' "Alabama Song" I tossed my bottle in the air, and ended up showering the woman next to me in beer.  Outside I saw that the bar was called the American Asshole Club.

With Justyna in the minefield with us, Mike and I are now the only remaining Bitter Tears without companionship.  We were supposed to share a pull-out couch that night, but chose not to explore the off-the-blog possibilities.