September 17 - Due, Don Benito Spain

6am happened.  Crabby lobsters were lowered into the boiling water of dawn.  It would be a twelve hour drive to Don Benito.

The pate I had devoured had transformed back into a pig, and the pig was pissed off.  My stomach was squealing.  My heart choked with vengeful oinks.  It did not feel awesome.

I opted for the back of the van with the gear and luggage.  It was like laying on top of a giant, broken Rubik's Magic Snake.  But I could remain somewhat horizontal and the darkness of dawn could continue.

Somewhere in France it happened.  I rooted blindly through my luggage for some sandwich bags.  I dumped my toiletries from the sandwich bags into the uncomfortable below.  I then placed the vomit I'd been storing in my mouth into the sandwich bags.  I put more newer vomit in the bags until they were full.  Because the sandwich bags had several tiny holes, the fresh, new contents were now dripping onto my sleeping bag.

"Can we pull over?"

We crossed into Spain.  In the front seat now, the nausea daymare continued.  The van passed signs for the town of Mendoza, my surname.  I lifted my glassesless head in time to see a blurry version of the sign whiff by like a strike.

At the next rest stop I could feel lots of eyes on me.  With last night's make-up etched in my neck and a pained, hobbling gait, I looked and felt homeless.  I found a secluded spot behind the rest stop where I could get on all fours and really focus on proper vomiting.  A bicyclist rode past and I gave him or her a wave.  Wouldn't want to make a bad impression.

I revisited dark horizontal anti-pleasures in the back of the van with a plastic bag and a bottle of knock off Gatorade that Mike had graciously bought for me.  Meanwhile Greg and Mike successfully navigated the long haul through the mountains and rain and clouds that refuse to evaporate.

I heard the voice of Yiye greet us in Don Benito.  From the back of the van it sounded like a quaint, generous village in the south of Spain.  After the grueling quest for Don Benito, we sat at a cafe that only served chocolate-glazed pancakes with whipped cream tufts.  I had green tea.

Yiye really took care of us.  He went to the farmacia and got me a bottle of Primperan.  He moved the show from his smaller club to a fancier disco with a larger capacity.  At 9pm he took us out for the first real food we would have that day, a tapas spot owned by his friend.  We were served a special parade of shrimp, croquetas, chorizo iberico, and shaved jamon from the cured pig's leg at the bar.  There was even a chicken and zucchini dish with fresh soft queso made especially for my empty, sobbing stomach.  Everywhere we went people said hello to Yiye, who in turn promoted the Bitter Tears.  He was like an Anarchist Jesus.

The show went incredibly well.  Due's shallow stage obliged us to play side-by-side, like a Bitter Tears shooting gallery.  Mike spoke mostly in Spanish, even translating Alan's "Moline" monologue, to the mysteriously large crowd.  Greg's kooky guitar solo on "Stumper" looked more like a bidet solo on the monitors.  I had to cover my ears with the pigtails of my wig during the audience's piercing whistles, which eventually brought us back for an encore.

After the show a beautiful girl named Maria asked me to sign one of my broken drumsticks.  I had spent the day barfing from both ends.  Greg wanted to feel worse about the van so he drove it into an unseen two-foot pole that damaged the turning signal light.

With two coats of make-up, my Harry Caray glasses, and a pair of cut-offs unwilling to button, I followed the gang to Yiye's bar, Rincon Pio Sound.  With his friend Alejandro a spirited discussion of music and politics and freedom occurred over beers (and water).  Esther read our Berlin friend Al Burian's comic while Greg enjoyed talking about all the damage he has done to the van.

Around 3am more beautiful girls arrived and began molesting Greg's head and Mike's kidneys.  I read an old Mojo article regarding Yoko Ono.  It was time to go.

Yiye guided us to a gated university, where we slept in classrooms outfitted with bunk beds.  It was a soft end to a wonderfully hard day.  Viva Yiye!

September 16 - Localypso, Lons France

French rest stops offer fun challenges.  Here's my tip to those looking to win the challenge:  Use the handle of the lockless door to balance your hover over the seatless toilet.  This allows your one free hand to do all the other work.  Afterward treat yourself to a delicious croissant at the quality bakery.

Lons has a one-sentence Wikipedia page.  What I can tell you about Lons is that it resembles Ohio, down to the large barn-sized roadhouse bar erected hastily this week to honor Patrick Swayze.  But since "The Swayz" never liked the Bitter Tears we did not play the roadhouse.  Instead we played the storage unit off of the gravel alley surrounded by mattresses and pallets.  Localypso II.

The backstage area reminded me of the back cover of Who's Next (more Who references!).  But what it lacked in aesthetics it made up for in hospitality.  Home-cooked chicken and lentil curry with coconut milk, a baguette, and some frightening-looking homemade pig pate.  What the pate lacked in aesthetics it more than made up for in flavor.  I ate half the jar.

...but the planes are not made of paper played their first show ever, a wonderful mix of anthemic rock and expressive French vocals.  Everyone in the band had done their homework on us.  Over some pate, Maxime the singer hoped we would play "Murdered At the Bar."  Frederic offered us the use of his bass amp while Mike's continues to take dumpy poops on stage. This combined with a longing for his girlfriend caused him to cut his hair during the set.

We've been getting encores lately.  For some reason.  Europe!  "Murdered" was trotted out for Esther to class up with her schooled brilliance.  We also played "Lightning," one of my personal favorites, and a song I had never played with The Bitter Tears.  Thank you, Lons!

Over some more delicious homemade pate (it looked like a 7-layer entrail dip) Alan and I were interviewed for Le Bal Des Vauriens.  As you can see our French has improved!

Alex, the promoter, took us to his 19th century cottage outside of Pau, where we could look up and see the stars.  I have decided to not make a Patrick Swayze joke here about a star burning out.  Even though he never liked The Bitter Tears.

September 15 - Travel Day, Faenza Italy to Nice France

Italy’s wonderful Autogrille will be missed.  The rest stop that offers caprese paninis, buffalini pitas, espressos, cappucinos, americanos, and the constant maniacal laugh of a motion-sensing stuffed toy.  If you have more time you can have a whole roast pig.

Driving into France was like landing an airplane.  It was decided to visit Nice on one of its 45 rainy days, making for not-so-nice conditions on the narrow, winding mountain roads.  The van had to make three-point turns to navigate the hairpins.  On one particularly steep incline an impatient woman behind us attempted to pass.  She failed.  Her failure occurred when the gravity of the van kissed her passenger door.  It was an unrequited french kiss.  A faux pas if you will.

The tired tires of the van slickly squealed to a rendezvous point to settle the bullshit.  She was a Brit and her kids were late for Judo.  She also had to make dinner.  We gave her 300 Euros.  Sounds like a KFC night to me.

With a dent in our morale Nice seemed like it could be renamed Sucks.  But it’s funny what spirits, good company, and delicious food can do.  The lovely duo of Stella Peel welcomed us into their wonderful home with liquid-licorice Pastis and tasty white port wine.

A walk along the calm, calming Mediterranean Sea led to the old town and its slender, intoxicating walkways.  I had been here last year with Lauren (my girlfriend) a couple of times (when not performing comedy on a cruise ship) and little forgotten activities were remembered (like eating ice cream).

We met Stella Peel’s pal Laurent at a restaurant specializing in French and Italian fare, with a well humored staff that was helpful and patient with Americans.   Degustacion, a large lovely platter of traditional French entrees, was ordered for eight and devoured by 8:00. 

Mike, Alan and I enjoyed carpaccio with parmesian and corn frites.  The house wine sported a Spy vs. Spy bomb on its label, and the event was topped with a round of basil liqueur shots. 

Sylvain from Stella Peel suggested Fenocchio Maitre Glacier, the same ice cream parlor where Lauren and I had spent our last afternoon in Nice.  The more unique flavors included cactus, tomato and basil, and thyme, which tasted like a large mouthful of cold, creamy…thyme.

Our stomachs were full of pasta, cow sushi, liquor, and ice cream.  So we decided to go swimming in the Mediterranean.  The warm, salty waters provided a tranquil thrill, a use of water displacement to relieve stress.

"Gresther" and Alan stayed at Chateau Stella Peel while Mike and I crashed at Laurent’s.  While parallel parking his Peugot, a rear sensor indicated how far he was from the car behind.  Mike and I marveled at the idea.  It might have prevented our afternoon fender bender.

"We could have used one of those today!"

"Oh, they're only 300 Euros."

September 14 - Clan Destino, Faenza Italy

The leaves of Faenza had turned brown, and the rain had pulled many of them to the ground.  Determined to avoid the previous night’s costly follies we arrived in the small city around noon.  Mixed in with the leaves were a couple of used syringes.  This would be a strange day.

Morena greeted us at Clan Destino, a spacious bar attached to Angusto, a posh restaurant.  A striking woman, beautifully tattered in Converse lo-tops and a lo-cut housedress, she gave us keys to her apartment.  We could “stay lazy” but told us to come back for lunch.

While laundry laundered at the laundromat we hunkered down at the apartment, where we were introduced to David.  A young man from Kentucky who described himself as “lost,” David spoke mostly in broken proverbs about the hopelessness of humanity and wolves.  He plays sax with a blind pianist and is considering communism.  David would join us for the remainder of the day.

Between laundry cycles Morena came by the apartment knocking and calling out “Hey!”

“Come on!” she scolded.  “Food is ready!  It will get cold soon!”  Yes, Morena!

While the rain stayed steady the kitchen cooked up a simple and delicious vegetable pasta dish.  Morena apologized for the Spartan meal.  Somehow her dress seemed more low cut than before.  I asked her if we should load in the instruments.

“Life is already a disease.  Why go looking for another one?” 

Mike and I had found ourselves becoming smitten with her.  She didn’t notice and went right back to work.

Back at the apartment I tried to use the bidet.  I still don’t get it.  I hovered above the horizontal stream but couldn’t figure out how to get there without touching the basin or the drain or anything that might have been touched by previous anuses. So I stayed lazy and took a nap instead.  Yeah, I still don’t get it.

Before our set, the inexhaustible Morena fed us at Angusto.  Eggplant antipasti, mushroom and anchovy gnocci, and homemade peach sorbet.  She also threw in two bottles of red wine.  Her matronly generosity and jigglingly low cut dress were doing a real Oedipal number on Mike and I.

She gave us another bottle of wine before the show.  A quick glance at the clientele revealed clean, affluent fortysomethings out for an evening of quality.  We went into a Lewis Carroll bathroom with an open window facing the toilet (?) and spackled our faces clown white and burnt cork.  Where are we!?

The set was strange.  We were the only act.  Mike broke the language barrier by speaking in Spanish, but another intangible barrier seemed to remain.  While they applauded after songs the Faenzains seemed icy otherwise.  Even the knackered guy in a prom dress with duct tape seemed baffled by us.  He kept calling us “bitch.” 

We closed the set with “Oiling Up,” its debut on this tour.  Feeling unfulfilled, Alan remained onstage long after the set was over.  Morena kept the stage lights on for a full twenty minutes while Alan performed slow motion mimicry of a has-been stage performer failing miserably during a comeback show.  

He silently sang “Lightning Hitting You In the Face,” also making its debut on this tour.  The audience watched with attention and periodically applauded and whistled.  It was the perfect bow on a damp, crushed gift of a day.

The streets got quiet very quickly in Faenza.  David had disappeared, along with any sign of drinking water in Italy.  Woozy on pasta, wine and beer, we made our way back to Morena’s.  She said it was the first cold night of the year.  Mike and I put blankets on our cots, said “Buena Notto” and plucked our own eyes out.

September 13 - Zuni, Ferrara Italy

When in Rome see Rome.  Eat bruschetta with lardo, spaghetti with truffles, fusilli with calamari.  See the ancient, medieval, Renaissance, Baroque and even fascist architecture.  Have some gelato, drink a cappuccino, and run through the ruins.

The Bitter Tears have two more shows in Italy: Ferrara and Faenza.  It’s easy to confuse these towns with Firenze (or Florence).  We were told the drive to Ferrara would be about two hours.  We were also told it would be closer to five hours.

It took two hours to get near Firenze.  It was 6 o’clock.  We were not playing Firenze.  We were playing Ferrara.  The show would begin at 8.  If we hurried we could---traffic.  Big traffic.  Hot, wet, sexy Italian traffic.  I got very horny about the traffic.

There was a strict 10 o’clock curfew.  It was Sunday.  Zuni said if we made it by 9 we would be okay.  Mike drove like Atari through the mountains, avoiding loose-laned smartcars and semis.  Prepare to qualify.

The Bitter Tears and their Kool-aid Van smashed through the 16th century walls surrounding Ferrara.  Oh yeah!  All we had to do was get the guitars, put on the make-up, and play the hits.  It was 9:30.  Oh shit!  Where is the club anyway?

It was opening night at Zuni, an art space situated on a pedestrian alley off the main pedestrian pedway.  A crowd of kids and dogs hung around sipping wine, drinking beer, and smoking cigarettes.  They seemed to understand that we were late and these things happen.  We seemed to understand that we weren’t playing or getting paid and missed dinner.  Also the hotel had already been booked and could we pay for some of that, too.

I got a bit bummed out and started to fall into my antisocial, anti-party, anti-people act, until Alan and I talked music, and Mike reminded me that we were in Italy.  So I chose wine over whine.

Greg and Esther took us to the Castello Estense, one of the few castles in Europe surrounded by a moat.  It was a Sunday night and people were everywhere, making out, sweethearting on bikes, dropping beer bottles, cheering.  We sat at an outdoor patio with beer and wine, and had conversation for dinner.

The hotel was not to be believed.  Fifteen-foot wooden ceilings, a kitchen with a 5-piece knife set and olive oil, a bidet, six-foot windows with a view of the cobbled street below, boobs on the TV.

Greg, Esther and I walked to the park for a beer.  The kids made merry on a monument.  The high-frequency chirps of bats were followed by a rolling roar of thunder.  We learned a lot today.  About 200 Euros.  Italian tuition.

September 12 - Sinister Noise, Rome Italy

Over croissants we bid farewell to John, who would embark on a nausea-filled hell ride back home.  Mike wasn’t feeling too great either.  He had spent the wee hours trying to retrieve his lost sweater, weaving through a myriad of drunken, disco douche bags.  I think he slept somewhere weird again but couldn’t sleep.

The morning started with a lovely drive through The Alps.  In the crisp, healthy air everything looked like a model train set.  Alan snapped photos while Greg regaled us in old job anecdotes.  Mike put on a sleeping bag, a neck cushion, and sunglasses before slipping into a Joan Crawford coma.

The drive to Rome took thirteen hours.  We stopped for gas and rest stop food, which in Italy means fresh mozzarella, prosciutto, crudo, and arugula(!)  We also saw vineyards, almost-castles, more mountains, tunnels, road signs with cappuccinos, the inside of the van, each other, yawning, Scrabble, and an hour of standstill traffic due to a bridge aspiring for ruin status.

Sinister Noise is in the part of Rome with all the graffiti.  Har har.  The backstage spread featured tuna mostaccioli, fresh mozzarella, tomato, arugula, plus beer and wine.  Onstage a hairdresser was styling the first band’s hairdoos.

The Litchous (pronouced "leeches") opened the evening in a big way.  Four women, all dressed in black evening wear, playing tight, playful, theatrical rock.  The singer would stare into the eye of the guitarist, who would stare back in awe like a Catholic statue in a Vixen video.  With textbook rock moves, spaghetti noodle bass lines, slinky uninhibited dancing, perfect hair, and an ambidextrous drummer, The Litchous  put a big smile on my face.  

Unfortunately they didn’t have any records for sale, but they were selling hair accessories.  Afterward the singer let Greg and I sample some of her pizza-in-a-bag.  Verdict: Delicioso!

Viva Santa Claus followed.  Before the first note, the dating guitarists kissed each other affectionately before stepping to their separate spots on stage.  They ripped through a song called “I Fuck At The First Date.”  Anotherule was next and soon the fashion-savvy Italians were making out wherever there was a stairwell or door to block.

Alan, Mike and Greg corralled the Romans with brass fanfare to the basement.  Our first full show with Esther was a return to the grimy familiar.  

They were a great crowd, cheering the cymbal washes on “Grieving,” counting along with our count-ins, and forming an actual conga line for the chorus of “The Companion” (which is the word “hate” shouted at full volume for four measures).  Taking a cue from Viva Santa Claus, Greg and Esther kissed between songs.  Our first day without the warm security blanket of Mom (Magnolia Electric Co.) and Dad (John) proved that we would be okay out there in the big, bad world.  Though they are indeed missed!

After the oddly refreshing exercise of load out, Paolo the soundman drove us past the Colosseum to an apartment where we each had somewhere soft to sleep.

Thank you, Rome!

September 11 - Le Romandie, Lausanne Switzerland

Lausanne is where the Olympic committee likes to be.  Our corrupt ham sandwich-faced mayor wants the 2016 Olympics in Chicago.  It will leave a moon-sized crater of crime and garbage in the city while lining the pockets of his waddling, bloody-eyed pals.  It would be a shame if Chicago’s image were to get tarnished.

It was a night of farewells.  Our last European show with John and our last with Magnolia Electric Co.  Goodbye friendly faces in strange places, goodbye built-in designated driver, goodbye endless supply of surprise snacks, goodbye dressing rooms, goodbye 500+ capacity venues, goodbye unique, childlike perspective, goodbye humorous tour manager and sound man.

Le Romandie is built into a bridge.  It is in Lausanne.  It is a hilly town.  There is a lake.  You do not have time to walk to the lake before soundcheck.  But you can try.  You will likely end up jogging around a park near the lake.  It may feel good to run.  The walk back up the hill will make you sweat.  This is all you will see of the city.

On stage the Olympics and our dangerously worthless mayor were mentioned but it seems the kids just wanted to dance and talk.  Someone asked John why we dress the way we do.

“Is it for the girls?”

 

“Vanilla Bean” closed the set like this:

 First verse: John – piano Tony – drums

Second verse:  Esther – piano Tony – drums John – dancing on stage

Third verse: Esther – piano John - drums Alan, Tony – dancing in crowd

 The end of the song washed into a sloppy Magnolia Electric Co-ver.

For the Magnolia set, Jason Molina applied burnt cork to his face as a farewell to us.  Again, I can’t express how wonderful this band was to us.  Jason Molina, Jason Evans Groth, Michael Kapinnus, Peter Schreiner, Racebannon Sal, Ben Schreiner, and Jan Veltman will be missed.

I’m sure they will miss us raiding the fridge, staining the dressing room with make-up, borrowing guitar equipment, bumming smokes, being absent for load-in and load-out, selling their T-shirts as ours, and beating the shit out of the snare drum.  But most of all they will miss our smell.

Hopefully that smell wafted over to the Olympic committee.