10/13/09
The dictionary.com word of the day today was the word that means “fear of the number 13.” If there was anything to be feared today it was the 700 km drive between Vienna and Frankfurt. I’m going to go on record again and say that I would rather do 700 km in a van during the day than 700 km in a bus overnight unable to sleep and covered in filth. I’ll probably say this a lot in my yet-to-be-written account of our last tour, but touring on a bus for a band our size without a crew is the equivalent (in my opinion) of spending hundreds of more dollars per day to be less comfortable, less clean, and more cramped all the time. Of course, the ideal is that sleep comes easy and you wake up and enjoy the city. For me this was impossible. I’m sure some of the other guys loved it. Not only was it annoying to me, but all that money we could have saved by traveling the way we are this tour would have been nice to come home with. And it’s a lot of money. A lot. This may not be true in America. My friends Cryptacize are currently on a bus with Sufjan Stevens and the band – that makes sense. Why use three vans and a trailer when you can use one bus? But what we did was a waste. All that said, I was looking forward to the drive, however long. I don’t think Jan was, since he had to do the driving and because we had to leave at 8:00 a.m. after going to sleep around 1:00 a.m.
The Furstenhof breakfast was in full swing when I made it downstairs at 7:20. I put together two hard-boiled egg, butter, and cheese sandwiches, wrapped them tightly in napkins, shoved them in my coat, and proceeded to drink glass after glass of juice, glass after glass of water, and coffee. When one tours on a bus one does not get free hotel breakfast. One can clear the dressing room the night before of the meat, cheese, and food that has been sitting around for hours and touched by multiple, grimy hands, and then put it in the bus fridge and hope that at no point does the bus power turn off. And then, in the morning, when it’s all you’ve been eating, you want nothing to do with it. As many have said, this is very much a first-world problem. But the point, again, is that for far less money we could have been afforded these luxurious comforts that come along with touring in a van. One just has to put up with sitting/sleeping/hanging out in a van for a few hours a day. I think the trade-off is an obvious one.
We got in the van and started a little after 8:00 a.m. I rode shotgun. The van’s a big white Mercedes sprinter, a nine-seater with a full sized loft. It has a DVD player in it. It’s straightforward and just fine, more comfortable, for sure, than our (my) van in the States. Problems, though – it has a weird transmission noise; it ran out of oil when Jan drove it from the rental place; it looks like a band trashed it before. Luckily those Germans know how to deep clean, so it’s absolutely fine.
Jan said we would have to wait and only take, maybe, one half hour break down the road. An hour in I felt like I was in high school again; ie, my stomach began cramping terribly and I realized that maybe the pizza right before bed, all that juice, and all that coffee was the wrong cocktail to take before a van ride that was not supposed to stop. But when I explained the urgency of the situation, Jan reluctantly stopped. The prison toilet was welcoming – stainless steel, with paper towel like toilet paper. No toilet seat. It didn’t matter. And then I was a new man and we were back on the road.
Castles? Check. Medieval bridges? Well, I don’t know, but they looked like it. Nuclear power plants? I think. Also, wonderful Austrian radio. We listened to the station Jason was supposed to have been interviewed on the day before and it was awesome. So much for that. At least we got to listen to it on the way out of the country. The playlist went from Jay-Z to Nina to Flaming Lips to Austrian and German acts we’ll never hear of in the States.
I spent most of the day filling out postcards, playing Mike Tyson’s Punch Out, hearing weird Eddie Rabbitt songs on German radio, eating those sandwiches, eating peanut butter flavored puffy snacks, and chocolate. I drank water and sour cherry nectar. The drive took a long time and we started to feel the “winter blast” the Weather Channel had been telling me about in Prague. All of the magazines at our rest stop had naked people in them. All of the strudel looked good. I could not find pre-mixed Campari and soda. We drove and drove and then we arrived at Brotfabrik almost two hours late.
In 2007, at an undisclosed German club, the promoter thought that our request for black socks was actually a request for hashish, and so that’s what was waiting for us at the club. When we told him we actually wanted socks he went out and got those, too. The socks and the hashish were split amongst some of the band members. I forgot about mine and, on the trip from wherever we were to Frankfurt, I realized I still had it and should probably get rid of it. In Spain a few years earlier a friend of mine told me he ate it to help with his stomach problems. I know that marijuana is used for such medicinal purposes, and, having been experiencing similar problems on that particular tour, I decided to injest the tiny bit that I had, thinking the most that would happen would be a slight euphoria not unlike that experienced with far-worse-for-you pharmaceuticals. For a couple of hours everything was fine. I played cards, I read, I listened to music… and then, all at once, it happened. I felt like I had entered that ride at old fashioned amusement parks where you’re in a cylinder against the wall which turns into a gyroscope and the floor drops out and you’re pressed against the wall and, fuck, you wish you hadn’t ridden that ride (and, in my case, your parents laugh at you for screaming bloody murder – fun!). Mark noticed the change and may have even caught some pictures of it. I was so out of my mind that I thought it was over for me, I was going to die, and I was going to die in a van, in traffic, in Germany. Of course I didn’t, but I have a very hard time remembering anything about that particular show. I do know we got yelled at for not playing long enough, which was probably valid. As we approached Brotfabrik my missing memory was filled in a little.
Brotfabrik means “bread factory,” so I assume that’s what it used to be. It’s a complex in a Frankfurt suburb which is far nicer than the weird, steel dance clubs we have played in Frankfurt in the past. The pre-show was somewhat unremarkable. We were late so we had to rush through soundcheck. Chris Brokaw played. We played. We played an encore. We ate a delicious creamy pasta dish after dinner that, somehow, tasted like Thai food. It must have had a little bit of chili sauce in it and it was full of basil. Mikey and I worked on booking a hotel room for a day off in Italy. Unremarkable, really. The show was pretty good, though.
Because of the “world’s largest book fair” or some shit there were no affordable hotel rooms in Frankfurt, so, despite already having driven all day, we had another hour and a half to drive to Wurzburg to an Etap. Etap, an Accor hotel (the owners of Motel 6 up through Sofitel), is a fully-automated, very plastic, and cheap place. They’re usually clean and the parking’s easy because they exist, it seems, only in and around car dealerships, Burger Kings, industrial parks, or nothing at all. We arrived around 1:30 a.m., found our rooms, and were pleasantly surprised that the Etap chain now features free wifi. A bunch of German music videos tucked us in and we slept.
Showing posts with label Magnolia Electric Co. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Magnolia Electric Co. Show all posts
Friday, January 15, 2010
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
"Which way is North?": Magnolia Electric Co. Fall Tour Diary Chapter 7: Vienna, Austria
10/12/09
I woke up later than I wanted to but still before breakfast had ended. The plan was as follows: Light breakfast, quick jog down to the historical/museum area of Vienna, back for a shower, two hours of work, and then meet with the band to head to WUK, the club we were playing in Vienna that night, for soundcheck/gear check/etc.
Breakfast consisted of a roll with butter, hard-boiled egg, and cheese – a breakfast sandwich! Also, glasses of juice, water, and coffee. I made another sandwich and saved it for later. I got up to the room, changed into my running clothes, strapped on my iPod touch, enabled my Nike+iPod thing, set my goal as the burning of 400 calories, stepped outside, and started to run.
And I ran. When I reached the halfway point I had not even seen any of the museums – bonus! I would burn more calories this way. Ah, there they were – beautiful old buildings lining the streets, full of art, and natural history, and books. I might as well follow this line and see it all, right? I reached 400 calories and knew that I would at least double my goal. Ooh, parliamentary gardens! Parliament! Beautiful gothic cathedral! I might as well, go back on the parallel street. 800 calories! But where am I? And why have I already run five miles? Does that mean I have five miles to run to get back? Better keep running. Oh shit, it’s already been an hour, and where am I? There’s an animal-rights protest. And there’s the Corso Palace. Maybe this biker can tell me where I am, but if I stop running I’ll never make it back, and, oh shit, I don’t have any money with me. "Excuse me, sir, do you speak English? Can you tell me where I am? And which way North is?" Better keep running. Ah! There’s the National Library… and there’s the street I need! And here I am at the hotel. And here’s the iPod Touch telling me that I just ran 9.16 miles and burned 1,700 calories. I really didn’t mean to do that.
I gave myself time to stop sweating, told Mikey about my running error, started to feel the ache, and took a long shower – a shower I could have only dreamt about on the bus tour. It involved shampoo, conditioner, soap. It involved a full-size towel. It wasn’t in a bar or a truck stop. It involved shaving, moisturizing, taking time. It was excellent. Now it was time to work.
I went downstairs and attempted to connect to the internet. Success! I employed Microsoft Excel to help sort out some 2010 OAH Annual Meeting scheduling issues. Yes! Oh, it’s time to gather my suit and pedals and guitar because it’s time to go to the club! Awesome. This is going well today, surprise after surprise. Who is this gorgeous woman asking me if I’m Jason? Oh, she’s looking for Molina, and she’s from Vienna’s coolest radio station, Radio 4. He has an interview and live performance at 3:30 p.m. Great! She and I converse, tell jokes, talk about the weather in detail, and Jan arrives. He starts working out the details. Wait a minute, there’s something wrong – he seems concerned that she’s going to just put Jason in a cab and send him to the club. She explains that Vienna is small and cab drivers know everywhere. His concern, however, is something beyond the cab driver knowing. She explains that she will, well, explain very clearly the situation to the cab driver. No, he says, it’s more complicated than that.
I’ve already mentioned that one terrible show in Vienna. Well, once you’ve had one terrible show in the town, you never forget, and, surprisingly, it repeats. Athens, GA. Berlin. Montreal. These places scare me. Oh, here’s Jason! Oh shit. Yes, I see why they’re concerned. Traveling has gotten the best of him. I know that he’s been sick but I also know that he (and I) have, more than once, drank ourselves silly on international flights because of nervousness. And this poor, beautiful woman has to shuttle him to the radio station where he will do a live performance on the coolest radio station in Vienna. Uh oh. After minutes of trying to explain what’s happening Jan finally gets us all to move out and we leave Jason in the hands of Nina. He mumbles “I’m sad” while we walk out. I say, “don’t be sad, we’ll see you soon!” and we’re out of there. Poor, poor Nina.
Jan explains that Jason was in that state when he got off the plane. Visions of a ruined show dancing in my head, all I could do was laugh. Then he gets a call that Jason has canceled the interview (it really would not have been much of one, or, perhaps, it would have been the funniest YouTube moment ever for Magnolia). Poor, poor Nina. She wasn’t even supposed to do the interview, but her colleague got sick. Poor, poor Nina. But what about us? What were we going to do? An incapacitated singer was just left at the hotel. We hoped that he would sleep it off and that, in four hours, we could put on a good show. The odds, and the history of shows in Vienna, were against us.
We got to the club; we unloaded; we unpacked; we found out that multiple things were fucked up. The keyboard amp was without castors; my power transformer was outfitted with a tile case around the plugs, disallowing my pedals to be plugged into it, completely eradicating it’s necessity or usefulness; and, the worst, Sal’s bass cab, an Ampeg, which has fuses built into it, had burned out fuses. No problem. Wait, the fuses are siliconed in there. Oh shit. All this on top of the fact that, if we had to play right now, it would have to be all instrumental and would feature our singer laying on stage, asleep. Ok, time for some catering.
The catering was nice, and fairly standard, but definitely fresh and delicious. The water was there. Everything we needed except for equipment that works and a full band. Things started to work out; I discovered a duct tape solution; Sal would go direct and monitor through the sidefill; Mikey’s amp wasn’t a big deal, really, but it was still fucked up.
We went through merchandise, of which we have a ton… except for Josephine LPs, which keep getting lost by UPS and redirected improperly. No biggie. Now Jan leaves to pick up Jason. All of us are worried, I think, although none says anything. He shows up. He’s coherent, albeit still a little ... incapacitated. I don’t see him for twenty minutes and then, when I do again, he’s even more coherent and says his “medicine is wearing off.” He explains what he’s on and it sounds like nothing you should be taking along with alcohol, which he also smells like. Either way, the show is in a state of save.
Chris Brokaw, on tour with us, plays, and he’s great. We play and it’s clear that we haven’t practiced, but we cover it up by jamming wildly and taking chances. The show turns out well. People like it. And then we sell a lot of shit.
We pack up, clear the catering, clear the stage, load, meet people, drink an open bottle of wine in the van. Then, on the way to the hotel, we get stopped by police as a drunk driving checkpoint. Luckily, Jan has not been drinking. I still freak out about the open bottle of wine but he assures me that they only care about him. He passes and we get home. We take the guitars. I get some train station pizza and slather it with garlic oil and hot pepper flakes that are actually hot and it’s delicious. I call Nicole and she’s busy administering an exam so it’s off to bed… but not before I meet Dominic from Kilians, a band from near Cologne in Germany. We trade names and promise to check out each other’s bands on YouTube.
In the hotel room Mikey and I debrief and then I beat Bald Bull 2 in Mike Tyson’s punch out, then being leveled by Don Flamenco 2. Fuck Don Flamenco. The bed feels strangely like that horrible bus bed and I have trouble falling asleep. But, as always, it happens eventually.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Glory Days: Magnolia Electric Co Tour Diary, Chapter 4: Prague, Day 3
10/9/09
I felt obligated to wake up early so I could finally have a run around the neighborhood and still get some work done before Jim and I headed to the Prague Castle (the number one tourist attraction in the Czech Republic – not just Prague!). So, four hours after laying down, I was woken up. And that fucking Black Eyed Peas song was in my head. I bought a Nike + iPod sensor to work with my iPod Touch, knowing that a new toy might motivate me to get running in Europe. I spent a long time figuring it out, figured it out, and started my run. Jim and Vivian live across the street from two high schools, and the students were just getting in when I got out to run. They, no doubt, made fun of me. I mean,
I was wearing white socks and all. They’re neighborhood is cobblestone and four star hotels and beautiful, unexpected views. At one point I came across a roundabout and then, like a vision, it appeared – The Pink Floyd café. This, I thought, must be what Jim had let on to the previous day. This, I thought, is what I had dreamed about as an eighth grader – a place devoted to my then-favorite band, a band which I still know too much about, and a band which I, much to the chagrin of my wife, will talk about endlessly with anyone willing to talk about them with me – and now I can drink beer and think about all these things with my friends, especially Jim, who, as part of Cadmium Orange, was involved with covers of “The Nile Song,” “Apples and Oranges,” and “Fearless,” and maybe even “Echoes,” although I can’t remember. But, of course, it was 8:00 a.m. and it wasn’t open. I continued on.
“Plush” by Stone Temple Pilots, on my iPod primarily because it’s part of the Deep Tan and the Frosted Tips setlist, but also because I like the song, finally erased the fucking Black Eyed Peas from my mind. I got home, showered, headed to the organic coffee shop, and had dawdled enough that I had only been there a few minutes when Jim showed up to take me to the castle. I told him I needed some work time, ate some of my croissant, and then went home to wait for me to finish. Work “done” an hour later, Jim and I headed to the castle.
I had never been to a castle, and this one did not disappoint. Lots of statues of people beating other people up, spectacular views of the city, motes (dried up now, but still, motes) and a very expensive audio guide. WARNING: If you go to Prague Castle do NOT let them talk you into the audio guide if you don’t want it. They lied to us – they told us we would wait for two hours to get into the cathedral in the middle of the castle without it. It did not. In fact, there was no line. There probably are lines, but unless you want the (admittedly helpful) audio guide weighing you down, you DON’T NEED IT TO SKIP THE LINE.
We saw the picture gallery, which featured a beautiful Rubens and work by the guy named Flamenngo(Can someone help me here? I can't remember, and the Frog People painting was amazing) that sort of blew my mind. We listened to the audio guide tell us that the Queen of Sweden really wanted the art that was in the castle but, when they sacked the castle, weren’t interested in any of it. She was right about some of it but terribly, terribly wrong about the rest of it.
We headed towards the Cathedral, found out there was no line, got angry, and then enjoyed the cathedral. It’s overwhelming. It’s really big. It has the remains of Good King Wenceslaus in it. It has a huge statue of St. John of Nepamook. It also has painting that must depict St. John of Nepamuk time traveling. If he knew his fate you’d think he would have avoided it. Oh well. It seems like the Czechs in the past did terrible things in order to sanctify people. John of Nepamuk, for example, and Good King Wenceslaus were both victims – or were they the perpetrators? – of this.
We were both starving, and it was stupid, because we’re adults and we can eat whenever we want. Also, we’re smarter than to get caught in a castle in a country that’s famous for cheap food and have to buy the castle priced food. We beat the system by buying one ciabatta sandwich and two desserts and no beer. The sandwich was chicken and blue cheese. It was delicious, except for the chicken part. And that part was covered in cheese, so I put it out of my mind. I could go the rest of my life never eating chicken again. Chicken is disgusting. I will even forego Gus’s Fried Chicken in Memphis, despite it being the only chicken anyone should eat. Gross. This, of course, on the heels of wild boar and cow and pig entering my body in rotted, then cooked, states. Life is confusing sometimes, people. Like right now. But, anyway…
We saw the Window of Defenestration.
Defenestration is the act of throwing someone out of a window. That particular window saw two Germans thrown from it. That action started the Thirty Years' War. That’s an important window, responsible for the deaths of 7,500,000 people in the 17th Century. That must be one of the top five most famous windows in the world. Good for you, Window of Defenestration! We saw the great hall and images of Grendel destroying Beowulf’s men filled my mind (I being a fan of the monster more than the men). We ascended spiral staircases and looked at things we didn’t necessarily care about, but which made us go “oooh, that’s cool.”
We saw the basilica, which may be the oldest built thing I’ve ever been in. This is when I noticed that there are statues and images of cherubs all over Prague, and all of them are terrifying. Particularly in the 10th century basilica, where they hover above nicely arranged bones in a box in a shrine and prove, once again, children, even angelic ones, are actually quite evil. They are, perhaps the most pure form of evil, aside from certain Republicans. Good for them.
Out of the Golden Lane, into the dungeon; various torture devices delighted us and we, probably as a subconscious “fuck you” to our ultimate fate, and as a subliminal resistance to the idea that humans could treat other humans so badly, took pictures next to and in front of and around terrifying and inhumane torture devices. We laughed, even, said things like “I could live inside this body cage,” or “this cell of solitude looks pretty cozy!” I think the most apt comment, though, was from Jim, who said something like, “I love how this dungeon and these torture devices are the last thing you see after five hours of touring this beautiful castle.” It certainly left a good taste in my mouth.
We traversed the gardens, saw the Window of Defenestration from below, and stood next to a bunch of Americans while a British guy gave a nice, concise history of the window, the castle, and sarcasm (sort of). He, at least, was sarcastic. He invited us all to a pub crawl later, which would start underneath the Astronomical Clock at 9:15 p.m. We weren’t invited, though, because we didn’t pay for the tour. Sorry, Nick.
After six hours of castle-looking, we headed home where Vivian was making stuffed pork tenderloin. And, damn, that rotted and then cured pig was tender. Jim and I stopped at their Non-Stop to pick up wine for the evening. We picked up two tall boys of Czech something or other beer and chugged most of it before we got to the apartment. Vivian had bought two bottles of dark beer, which she poured. I opened the wine. We finished our other beers. It would be one of those nights.
Because there’s no Halloween to get in the way of it, Christmas is being sold right now in Prague. The real Christmas tradition can be read here: http://www.expats.cz/prague/article/czech-culture/prague-mikulas/ . However, here’s what I was told. St. Nicholas travels with an angel and the devil on December 5th to every house in the Czech Republic. There, he judges the children – have they been good or bad this year? If it’s up in the air, the children have a chance to prove themselves. In the modern world they need to learn a little song or dance routine. The angel is there to encourage the children to do well, and also as the angel on the left shoulder, devil on the right thing for Nicholas. If the children are deemed to have been bad or don’t do their little performance, they are stuffed in the devil’s bag and taken to hell. Yet, if they’re good, all they get is a little piece of candy. Seems somewhat unbalanced to me, but who am I to judge?
Jim and Vivian told me that their students have stories of being told “Just wait until December when the devil TAKES YOU TO HELL,” while they were growing up. Apparently, just like we have multiple Santa Clauses roaming around near Christmas time, Nicholas, the devil, and the angel all appear as real-live beings (ie, adults who like to scare children dressing up as these characters), and they can be hired to come to your house and SCARE THE SHIT OUT OF YOUR KIDS. Apparently, one of Vivian’s students was actually stuffed in the devil’s bag and, on the way to hell, was rescued by his father. But it didn’t happen right away. Take that, children. We should have more shit like that in the United States.
Anyway, Vivian bought me the chocolate versions of these characters. We ate the angel. She tasted salty and milky, but it definitely wasn’t chocolate worthy of an angel. Good, though… damn good. We finished our three-drinks-apiece and suited up to go to… the Pink Floyd Café.
What can I say about the Pink Floyd Café other than, well, if I had owned a café when I was fourteen, I would have decorated it the exact same way. My adult dream of a black-lit, Quadrophonic-version-of-Dark-Side-of-the-Moon blasting, menu-featuring-an-array-of-Pink-Floyd-inspired-drinks having café did not come true. It was brightly lit, full of good and rare pictures of the Floyd at various stages, but all hung on the wall somewhat randomly. It featured a banner that informed me that the Czech Republic’s Pink Floyd fan club was headquartered there. And it had a color painting of the famous, 1968 four-piece-picture (or maybe 1969) of which I neglected to take a picture. And, to complete the disappointment, they were blasting Steve Miller. Perhaps “Classic Rock Place That Features Pink Floyd Pictures Café” would have been a more appropriate title, but, nevertheless, I was overwhelmed by the mere idea of the place, and I had a great (too great?) of a time drinking beer after beer with Jim and Vivian. And cheaply!
The smoke in the place began to bother Vivian, as she is allergic. Oh, and everyone smokes everywhere in the Czech Republic. I felt like I was five years old again. Anyway, the plan was to walk towards home and Jim and I would stop at Meduza, a bar on the way. We would have one drink and then meet Vivian at home to drink more with her. It was a solid plan that could only fail if more alcohol was involved. And it was. Jim and I got two big beers and two slivovitzas. The particular slivovitsa we chose was, apparently, homemade Moravian. Moonshine. We sat and, much like the characters in the second verse of “Glory Days,” “we just [sat] around talkin’ about the old times.” How we admired one another’s musical ability; how the rhythm section of our band was the best part and really differentiated us from other bands; how, if we had had our shit together, we could have been part of the first wave of popular garage rock bands. I’m not sure about the validity of the third point, but that came about after we had finished our beers and slivovitsa.
At this point, I was unclear about the plan – even before we got as drunk as we got after round one at Meduza I just assumed Vivian was going to bed, I guess… or did I? Did I forget? Was I caught in the moment? Yes… and no. I was drunk. Either way, at this point I had forgotten and I ordered another round of both of the poisons that got us into this situation. To my credit, Jim didn’t try to stop me. He had, evidently, forgotten as well. Sorry, Vivian! After round two we were quickly becoming blind, and luckily not because of the moonshine, which the Czechs warn will make you blind if you drink the wrong stuff (I suppose it’s true). At one point I was in the bathroom which had tall walls but was open on the top so you could hear, clearly, what was happening in the women’s room. And what was happening sounded like a big, drunk man, taking a very, very loud piss. I returned to the table and said, loudly, “There must have been a man in the women’s room, because if it was a woman, she either had a penis or one huge urethra.” I then noticed that a table to our right which featured two German women was missing one of them. Making such claims about urethras and such stereotypes about the sexes proved one thing – time to go!
We made it back to the apartment. Jim, who needed to make nice with Vivian, did. I wolfed down the end of the angel chocolate, I think. I opened the “trail mix” I bought at Target before the trip (peanuts, raisins, M&Ms, chocolate chips, peanut butter chips – healthy!), had some water, an Emergen-C, etc. We wound up running up and down the stairs, pressing all of the buttons on the lift, jumping flights of stairs, laughing for no reason, etc. We were, once again, 21 and 22, respectively, and living in a big, shitty college house in Bloomington, IN. The only thing missing was the filth. We ended the night by watching a live performance of “I Really Want to See You Tonight” by England Dan and John Ford Coley, and then a weird, karaoke version of “Whenever I Call You Friend” by Kenny Loggins (featuring Stevie Nicks). But there was one thing we had forgotten, on top of the rest – we were to get on a train at 9:55 a.m. in order to make it to the thing that I only knew of as the “Bone Church” tomorrow – and I really didn’t want to miss that. Jim and I agreed to see one another in three, four, or five hours… I can’t remember.
I felt obligated to wake up early so I could finally have a run around the neighborhood and still get some work done before Jim and I headed to the Prague Castle (the number one tourist attraction in the Czech Republic – not just Prague!). So, four hours after laying down, I was woken up. And that fucking Black Eyed Peas song was in my head. I bought a Nike + iPod sensor to work with my iPod Touch, knowing that a new toy might motivate me to get running in Europe. I spent a long time figuring it out, figured it out, and started my run. Jim and Vivian live across the street from two high schools, and the students were just getting in when I got out to run. They, no doubt, made fun of me. I mean,
I was wearing white socks and all. They’re neighborhood is cobblestone and four star hotels and beautiful, unexpected views. At one point I came across a roundabout and then, like a vision, it appeared – The Pink Floyd café. This, I thought, must be what Jim had let on to the previous day. This, I thought, is what I had dreamed about as an eighth grader – a place devoted to my then-favorite band, a band which I still know too much about, and a band which I, much to the chagrin of my wife, will talk about endlessly with anyone willing to talk about them with me – and now I can drink beer and think about all these things with my friends, especially Jim, who, as part of Cadmium Orange, was involved with covers of “The Nile Song,” “Apples and Oranges,” and “Fearless,” and maybe even “Echoes,” although I can’t remember. But, of course, it was 8:00 a.m. and it wasn’t open. I continued on.
“Plush” by Stone Temple Pilots, on my iPod primarily because it’s part of the Deep Tan and the Frosted Tips setlist, but also because I like the song, finally erased the fucking Black Eyed Peas from my mind. I got home, showered, headed to the organic coffee shop, and had dawdled enough that I had only been there a few minutes when Jim showed up to take me to the castle. I told him I needed some work time, ate some of my croissant, and then went home to wait for me to finish. Work “done” an hour later, Jim and I headed to the castle.
I had never been to a castle, and this one did not disappoint. Lots of statues of people beating other people up, spectacular views of the city, motes (dried up now, but still, motes) and a very expensive audio guide. WARNING: If you go to Prague Castle do NOT let them talk you into the audio guide if you don’t want it. They lied to us – they told us we would wait for two hours to get into the cathedral in the middle of the castle without it. It did not. In fact, there was no line. There probably are lines, but unless you want the (admittedly helpful) audio guide weighing you down, you DON’T NEED IT TO SKIP THE LINE.
We saw the picture gallery, which featured a beautiful Rubens and work by the guy named Flamenngo(Can someone help me here? I can't remember, and the Frog People painting was amazing) that sort of blew my mind. We listened to the audio guide tell us that the Queen of Sweden really wanted the art that was in the castle but, when they sacked the castle, weren’t interested in any of it. She was right about some of it but terribly, terribly wrong about the rest of it.
We headed towards the Cathedral, found out there was no line, got angry, and then enjoyed the cathedral. It’s overwhelming. It’s really big. It has the remains of Good King Wenceslaus in it. It has a huge statue of St. John of Nepamook. It also has painting that must depict St. John of Nepamuk time traveling. If he knew his fate you’d think he would have avoided it. Oh well. It seems like the Czechs in the past did terrible things in order to sanctify people. John of Nepamuk, for example, and Good King Wenceslaus were both victims – or were they the perpetrators? – of this.
We were both starving, and it was stupid, because we’re adults and we can eat whenever we want. Also, we’re smarter than to get caught in a castle in a country that’s famous for cheap food and have to buy the castle priced food. We beat the system by buying one ciabatta sandwich and two desserts and no beer. The sandwich was chicken and blue cheese. It was delicious, except for the chicken part. And that part was covered in cheese, so I put it out of my mind. I could go the rest of my life never eating chicken again. Chicken is disgusting. I will even forego Gus’s Fried Chicken in Memphis, despite it being the only chicken anyone should eat. Gross. This, of course, on the heels of wild boar and cow and pig entering my body in rotted, then cooked, states. Life is confusing sometimes, people. Like right now. But, anyway…
We saw the Window of Defenestration.
Defenestration is the act of throwing someone out of a window. That particular window saw two Germans thrown from it. That action started the Thirty Years' War. That’s an important window, responsible for the deaths of 7,500,000 people in the 17th Century. That must be one of the top five most famous windows in the world. Good for you, Window of Defenestration! We saw the great hall and images of Grendel destroying Beowulf’s men filled my mind (I being a fan of the monster more than the men). We ascended spiral staircases and looked at things we didn’t necessarily care about, but which made us go “oooh, that’s cool.”
We saw the basilica, which may be the oldest built thing I’ve ever been in. This is when I noticed that there are statues and images of cherubs all over Prague, and all of them are terrifying. Particularly in the 10th century basilica, where they hover above nicely arranged bones in a box in a shrine and prove, once again, children, even angelic ones, are actually quite evil. They are, perhaps the most pure form of evil, aside from certain Republicans. Good for them.
We traveled down the Golden Lane, a former real lane that features no gold. It was full of tourist shops and had a sign that showed where Franz Kafka’s sister was born. In that house, Kafka wrote A Country Doctor. I took a pictures of all the signs I could that illustrated these facts. There were two of them. I bought a bunch of old sheet music and avoided buying Kafka books that I could get, easily, from anywhere else, and cheaper. You see, food and drink and other staples of life are really, really cheap in the Czech Republic. Souvenirs, however, are not. Nor are electronics or other consumer goodies like that. Jim thinks it’s tradition, a holdover, maybe, from Communism. Or maybe these people just know what’s really important in life – those things being food and drink. Have I mentioned Becherovka yet? I think I have, but I couldn’t remember what that Czech herbal drink was called. That’s important, that stuff.
Out of the Golden Lane, into the dungeon; various torture devices delighted us and we, probably as a subconscious “fuck you” to our ultimate fate, and as a subliminal resistance to the idea that humans could treat other humans so badly, took pictures next to and in front of and around terrifying and inhumane torture devices. We laughed, even, said things like “I could live inside this body cage,” or “this cell of solitude looks pretty cozy!” I think the most apt comment, though, was from Jim, who said something like, “I love how this dungeon and these torture devices are the last thing you see after five hours of touring this beautiful castle.” It certainly left a good taste in my mouth.
We traversed the gardens, saw the Window of Defenestration from below, and stood next to a bunch of Americans while a British guy gave a nice, concise history of the window, the castle, and sarcasm (sort of). He, at least, was sarcastic. He invited us all to a pub crawl later, which would start underneath the Astronomical Clock at 9:15 p.m. We weren’t invited, though, because we didn’t pay for the tour. Sorry, Nick.
After six hours of castle-looking, we headed home where Vivian was making stuffed pork tenderloin. And, damn, that rotted and then cured pig was tender. Jim and I stopped at their Non-Stop to pick up wine for the evening. We picked up two tall boys of Czech something or other beer and chugged most of it before we got to the apartment. Vivian had bought two bottles of dark beer, which she poured. I opened the wine. We finished our other beers. It would be one of those nights.
Because there’s no Halloween to get in the way of it, Christmas is being sold right now in Prague. The real Christmas tradition can be read here: http://www.expats.cz/prague/article/czech-culture/prague-mikulas/ . However, here’s what I was told. St. Nicholas travels with an angel and the devil on December 5th to every house in the Czech Republic. There, he judges the children – have they been good or bad this year? If it’s up in the air, the children have a chance to prove themselves. In the modern world they need to learn a little song or dance routine. The angel is there to encourage the children to do well, and also as the angel on the left shoulder, devil on the right thing for Nicholas. If the children are deemed to have been bad or don’t do their little performance, they are stuffed in the devil’s bag and taken to hell. Yet, if they’re good, all they get is a little piece of candy. Seems somewhat unbalanced to me, but who am I to judge?
Jim and Vivian told me that their students have stories of being told “Just wait until December when the devil TAKES YOU TO HELL,” while they were growing up. Apparently, just like we have multiple Santa Clauses roaming around near Christmas time, Nicholas, the devil, and the angel all appear as real-live beings (ie, adults who like to scare children dressing up as these characters), and they can be hired to come to your house and SCARE THE SHIT OUT OF YOUR KIDS. Apparently, one of Vivian’s students was actually stuffed in the devil’s bag and, on the way to hell, was rescued by his father. But it didn’t happen right away. Take that, children. We should have more shit like that in the United States.
Anyway, Vivian bought me the chocolate versions of these characters. We ate the angel. She tasted salty and milky, but it definitely wasn’t chocolate worthy of an angel. Good, though… damn good. We finished our three-drinks-apiece and suited up to go to… the Pink Floyd Café.
What can I say about the Pink Floyd Café other than, well, if I had owned a café when I was fourteen, I would have decorated it the exact same way. My adult dream of a black-lit, Quadrophonic-version-of-Dark-Side-of-the-Moon blasting, menu-featuring-an-array-of-Pink-Floyd-inspired-drinks having café did not come true. It was brightly lit, full of good and rare pictures of the Floyd at various stages, but all hung on the wall somewhat randomly. It featured a banner that informed me that the Czech Republic’s Pink Floyd fan club was headquartered there. And it had a color painting of the famous, 1968 four-piece-picture (or maybe 1969) of which I neglected to take a picture. And, to complete the disappointment, they were blasting Steve Miller. Perhaps “Classic Rock Place That Features Pink Floyd Pictures Café” would have been a more appropriate title, but, nevertheless, I was overwhelmed by the mere idea of the place, and I had a great (too great?) of a time drinking beer after beer with Jim and Vivian. And cheaply!
The smoke in the place began to bother Vivian, as she is allergic. Oh, and everyone smokes everywhere in the Czech Republic. I felt like I was five years old again. Anyway, the plan was to walk towards home and Jim and I would stop at Meduza, a bar on the way. We would have one drink and then meet Vivian at home to drink more with her. It was a solid plan that could only fail if more alcohol was involved. And it was. Jim and I got two big beers and two slivovitzas. The particular slivovitsa we chose was, apparently, homemade Moravian. Moonshine. We sat and, much like the characters in the second verse of “Glory Days,” “we just [sat] around talkin’ about the old times.” How we admired one another’s musical ability; how the rhythm section of our band was the best part and really differentiated us from other bands; how, if we had had our shit together, we could have been part of the first wave of popular garage rock bands. I’m not sure about the validity of the third point, but that came about after we had finished our beers and slivovitsa.
At this point, I was unclear about the plan – even before we got as drunk as we got after round one at Meduza I just assumed Vivian was going to bed, I guess… or did I? Did I forget? Was I caught in the moment? Yes… and no. I was drunk. Either way, at this point I had forgotten and I ordered another round of both of the poisons that got us into this situation. To my credit, Jim didn’t try to stop me. He had, evidently, forgotten as well. Sorry, Vivian! After round two we were quickly becoming blind, and luckily not because of the moonshine, which the Czechs warn will make you blind if you drink the wrong stuff (I suppose it’s true). At one point I was in the bathroom which had tall walls but was open on the top so you could hear, clearly, what was happening in the women’s room. And what was happening sounded like a big, drunk man, taking a very, very loud piss. I returned to the table and said, loudly, “There must have been a man in the women’s room, because if it was a woman, she either had a penis or one huge urethra.” I then noticed that a table to our right which featured two German women was missing one of them. Making such claims about urethras and such stereotypes about the sexes proved one thing – time to go!
We made it back to the apartment. Jim, who needed to make nice with Vivian, did. I wolfed down the end of the angel chocolate, I think. I opened the “trail mix” I bought at Target before the trip (peanuts, raisins, M&Ms, chocolate chips, peanut butter chips – healthy!), had some water, an Emergen-C, etc. We wound up running up and down the stairs, pressing all of the buttons on the lift, jumping flights of stairs, laughing for no reason, etc. We were, once again, 21 and 22, respectively, and living in a big, shitty college house in Bloomington, IN. The only thing missing was the filth. We ended the night by watching a live performance of “I Really Want to See You Tonight” by England Dan and John Ford Coley, and then a weird, karaoke version of “Whenever I Call You Friend” by Kenny Loggins (featuring Stevie Nicks). But there was one thing we had forgotten, on top of the rest – we were to get on a train at 9:55 a.m. in order to make it to the thing that I only knew of as the “Bone Church” tomorrow – and I really didn’t want to miss that. Jim and I agreed to see one another in three, four, or five hours… I can’t remember.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
"Nazdar!" Magnolia Electric Co Fall Tour Diary, Chapter One: Arrival and Day One in Prague
10/7/09
The plane arrived in Frankfort on time and without any terrible turbulence to speak of. My connection from Frankfort to Prague was on Lufthansa, an airline for which my uncle worked for years. I felt a little nostalgic boarding, as if I had finally realized a childhood dream. The one little difference in the dream being, perhaps, the absence of an Atari 2600 and no six pound pyramids of Toblerone around (like the kind my Aunt and Uncle used to bring back from their trips abroad).
A quick forty-five minutes later and I landed in Prague. The 9:30 a.m. sun slapped me in the face continuously, as I was unable to shut the blinds on my window. Everything smelled like yogurt, and I was starting to get really, really irritated as the German couple in front of me refused to move any faster when getting out of the plane. Finally, free of that coffin-that-flies, the anticipation to see Jim and Vivian was fully realized in the form of an intense urge to urinate. Free of the curse-of-the-man-who-refuses-to-get-up-on-the-flight, I turned my attention to finding my bags. Surprisingly they were waiting for me. The guitar? Fine. My bulbous travelling bag? Bulbous.
I declared nothing on my way out of the luggage area and had a brief, panicked moment when I realized I had no idea where Jim or Vivian lived, and, if something had happened to them on the way to the airport there was no way I would know since I don’t have a European cell phone. Then I remembered that it was 2009 and things like this are no longer a problem thanks to the Internet and the exchange of money for goods and services.
Panic over, I walked out of the international arrivals hall. I fully expected a sign and the signs I saw were, instead, full of Czech symbols and none of them resembled anything in my name (nor did the people holding them look like Jim or Vivian). I wandered up and down with my three bags and guitar and, yeah, no sign. Had it been 1999 (or 1989 for that matter) I would have broken out in hives, started praying to multiple entities, began some sort of bargaining process with fate, etc. Instead I decided to wait. And, boy, did waiting work out for me! Ambling down the hallway was a sign that said “Beach Dawg.” I don’t think The Coke Dares have many Czech fans, so I knew it was Jim. He thought I’d be coming out from the other doorway down the hall. Humorous situations!
I could tell Jim had a plan, and it involved a bus and a subway and then a restaurant. He also had sketched out various activities for us over the next four days and a half. He also demanded to carry my guitar so he could look like the travelling musician. The Metro stopped at Ludmilla, right around the corner from Jim and Vivian’s apartment, and we schlepped all of my crap past Cheers (a popular and mysteriously closed bar), an organic coffee shop which called to me like a sweet siren, and the new organic grocery that, just a week prior, had opened in the basement of their building. Eight flights of stairs stared us down – we took the lift. Vivian greeted us and I realized I hadn’t seen these people for more than two years. They had both been roommates, we had had fun, fights, food, and plenty of tacos togeth
er in the past. Now it was time to catch up.
First order of business? A shower. Yes. Make me human, shower. And then? Lunch. We went back past the abandoned cheer of Cheers and found ourselves in a restaurant that boasted “Typical Czech Cuisine.” I assumed meat and potatoes and I was right, but, damn, those things, when swimming in sauce, are delicious. My first Czech meal was Prague goulash. It featured two familiar flavors, those of brown sauce with some sort of protein (I think it was probably pork) and potato pancakes, and a new sensation: Czech dumplings. When the plate arrived I expected the dumplings to be like the dumplings I had experienced in the past, but no! Four thick slices of something that resembled French toast, or at least small, dense bread, doused in the rich, brown gravy. The Midwesterner that is me rejoiced. Two beers, then, and, all of a sudden, the intense desire to sleep. It was afternoon Prague time and I had a whole day in front of me. If I slept now it would be ruined. I knew what would help: Organic coffee, and wireless internet to satisfy my urge to keep a job at home.
Jim and Vivian are English tutors for intermediate to advanced Czech English speakers, which means their lives are based around appointments, like music teachers or really, really old doctors who don’t have many patients. I was told that some doctors in Prague make less of a living than they do, so they probably chose the right path (that being the one that didn’t involve medical school and did involve moving to Europe and getting flexible jobs). Jim was at an appointment and Vivian was leaving, so I hopped across the street and acquainted myself with my new office. A double espresso was served in the tiniest glass of water I’ve ever seen served, anywhere, even to children. I soon found out that I could have as much of this water as I wanted. Then, an hour into working, I fell asleep sitting at my computer. The young woman who owns the shop woke me up inadvertently by clearing my dishes and then told me that I “didn’t look so good.” I responded by buying a bottle of carrot beet ginger juice and thanking her for waking me up.
Jim showed to pick me up and my memory gets a bit foggy, but here’s what I know we did, absolutely: We found out Vivian was going to make dinner for us, and she’s really good at it and comes from a rich, Southern tradition of liking a lot of butter on things. I was excited. We did have some business to attend to, however: I needed to buy a train ticket to Vienna, and, having never done such a thing, I thought getting it done soon would be the way to go. We were also charged with the task of wine-buying. This allowed some tourism to take place. Jim walked me past the casinos, Einstein Pizzeria, more casinos, KFC, McDonalds, banks, through the scary, scary, dark park outside of the museum, and then up to the museum. The dirty, Gothic structure looms over Wenceslaus square, the Anglo name applied to the greatest ruler Prague ever had (apparently), who was killed (for some reason) by his brother, who then became the greatest ruler Prague ever had (or, at least, a very successful and effective ruler). The thing is amazing. In front of is a memorial to Jan Palach who burned himself to death as a political demonstration in 1969. Jim explained all of this to me and I can’t remember a bit of it, but I’d like to, at least, plead jetlag. It was somewhat overwhelming, to be honest – old beauty, political anguish, filthy, hundreds-of-years-old structures, and a sea of tourists. We embarked upon that sea, admiring the street sausages, the weird, plaid Czech pants, the pantyhose (nude, mostly) on females of all ages (this is a mystery to Jim and Vivian, and something they have never asked their students directly – apparently some Czech women will wear pantyhose beneath their workout pants at the gym, for example. Do they know something the rest of the women of the world doesn’t?), the lavender and bright orange hair of the old women, and the amazing old buildings looming over us in spite of it all.
We found our way to the train station and I purchased my ticket to Vienna for an astonishing $58. Ah, Europe – I’d love to live within your grasp, with your trains and pastries and social liberalism, your beers and herbal liquors and your poop-filled streets, your espresso and chocolate and baristas who know how to make coffee drinks appropriately. But, yeah, I thought it would be a lot more expensive. Hell, it costs $120 to get to Chicago from Indianapolis on a train. My mind blown we walked back to the apartment. Upon entering we remembered that we had forgotten to buy wine. Out the door again and to their local non-stop, where a bottle of Mondavi cabernet and Stonehenge cabernet set us back a whole $10. I like the Czechs for this – they refuse to raise food and drink prices, and the bills at the restaurants we would soon be patronizing almost seemed like jokes to me. Anyway, wine attained and it was back to the apartment. Over the next four hours we ate Vivian’s delicious meal (which included a lettuce I had never had – rabbit ears, I believe it’s called – and an Amaretto soufflé, which featured the perfect mix of sweet and salty), we drank three bottles of wine, we broke out the Czech herbal liquor (Becherovka), and we caught up, excited to spend the next days together. The air mattress was produced, expanded, and made especially for me. Contacts out, teeth brushed, drunk, and delirious, I don’t think I even had a chance to get comfortable in the mattress before the sleep I had been neglecting punched me in the face and told me to shut the fuck up for the next eight hours.
Monday, October 19, 2009
"Did you see Arthur? Did it make you cry?" Magnolia Electric Co Fall Tour Prelude: The Flight to Prague
10/6/09
"So I ride like the wind, ride like the wind." These words, and the image of a doughy, pasty, guitar slaying Christopher Cross next to an ageless, professorial Michael McDonald from the charming episode of Jimmy Fallon last night, accompany me now on this extremely bumpy flight to D.C. where I will connect to Frankfurt where I will connect to Prague where I will connect with my good friend and former bamdmate Jim May and his wife, Vivian.
It is the start of yet another leg of the seemingly neverending Magnolia Electric Co Josephine tour. This tour is nowhere near as exhausting as our 2005 What Comes After the Blues tour, but it certainly feels like it. In my mind it started last October when we first started playing these songs live, and a year promoting the same album makes me feel like a member of Motley Crue, with looser pants and kombucha instead of cocaine.
It's telling, then, that the start of this leg feels so much different than the previous four (!). The first three legs were with the longest standing Magnolia lineup, including Mark Rice on drums. Prior to those first three legs we practiced without Jason Molina, who lives in London while the rest of us live in Bloomington, IN, and then, when he made it over, with him. We had at least a week's worth of some sort of practice all three times.
Mark left for the Rhode Island School of Design before leg four (the first of two European legs) and Pete Schreiner moved from drums to bass. We asked our good friend Sal from the mighty Racebannon to join on bass and he graciously accepted. We, again, practiced without Molina, and then rehearsed for three days in Amsterdam before leg three. We all kept in close touch and discussed setlists, ideas, etc. in decent detail for being overseas.
This time? Despite plans to the contrary, and the size of our town, I have only seen Sal once in the three weeks we were at home. Pete stayed over in Europe for awhile after the last leg and, except for picking him up at the airport and running into him on the street once, no personal contact. Molina and I shared a couple of emails but I haven't heard from him in two weeks. Mikey and I have seen eachother quite a bit as our other band, Whippoorwill, had a show in Bloomington during the break and we also played pool with the members of Cryptacize (I won, he didn't -- although I can't say that for sure... I just like calling Mikey a loser in print since he always beats me at Racquetball -- Hi, Mikey!).
Actually, this is the first time we haven't had a round of practice before a tour since 2005. And it feels weird. I hand a strange tendency to both procrastinate and overprepare at the same time, so being underprepared, despite having played our last show only a month ago, makes me nervous.
Unlike the previous tour, however, I'm confident that the band is good. I knew we were all good musicians before but good musicians doesn't mean good band (see Chickenfoot -- or Coverdale Page -- or Audioslave -- or, if you're smart, don't). It took about ten shows and we were solid. I think we'll find the magic more quickly this time.
Also different this time is our mode of transport. We will, once again, be in a Sprinter. Last tour was on a bus. Please see my yet-to-be-written whiny account of that. The long and short of it is I already feel more comfortable this time. A return to hotels, showers, privacy, and unfamiliar landscapes in daylight. An escape from claustrophobic constant movement with seven men in a recycled air machine overnight.
This is the first time for me traveling to Europe to visit friends, too. Jim was the lead singer of Cadmium Orange, my former band. Despite a few onstage fights -- one, notably, at the Cellar Lounge (which became the Cinemat and, now, The Bishop), where he jumped (by accident) on my pedals and I took out my frustration about him moving to New York and leaving the band on him right there on stage (always a classy move) -- he remains one of my favorite musical collaborators, mostly because he was good, he knew it, and he loved doing it. Now he's in Prague where he dresses like Franz Kafka and daily, in public, pretends to get arrested for unknown reasons. Can't wait to busk with our live version of "In the Penal Colony" soon!
"So I ride like the wind, ride like the wind." These words, and the image of a doughy, pasty, guitar slaying Christopher Cross next to an ageless, professorial Michael McDonald from the charming episode of Jimmy Fallon last night, accompany me now on this extremely bumpy flight to D.C. where I will connect to Frankfurt where I will connect to Prague where I will connect with my good friend and former bamdmate Jim May and his wife, Vivian.
It is the start of yet another leg of the seemingly neverending Magnolia Electric Co Josephine tour. This tour is nowhere near as exhausting as our 2005 What Comes After the Blues tour, but it certainly feels like it. In my mind it started last October when we first started playing these songs live, and a year promoting the same album makes me feel like a member of Motley Crue, with looser pants and kombucha instead of cocaine.
It's telling, then, that the start of this leg feels so much different than the previous four (!). The first three legs were with the longest standing Magnolia lineup, including Mark Rice on drums. Prior to those first three legs we practiced without Jason Molina, who lives in London while the rest of us live in Bloomington, IN, and then, when he made it over, with him. We had at least a week's worth of some sort of practice all three times.
Mark left for the Rhode Island School of Design before leg four (the first of two European legs) and Pete Schreiner moved from drums to bass. We asked our good friend Sal from the mighty Racebannon to join on bass and he graciously accepted. We, again, practiced without Molina, and then rehearsed for three days in Amsterdam before leg three. We all kept in close touch and discussed setlists, ideas, etc. in decent detail for being overseas.
This time? Despite plans to the contrary, and the size of our town, I have only seen Sal once in the three weeks we were at home. Pete stayed over in Europe for awhile after the last leg and, except for picking him up at the airport and running into him on the street once, no personal contact. Molina and I shared a couple of emails but I haven't heard from him in two weeks. Mikey and I have seen eachother quite a bit as our other band, Whippoorwill, had a show in Bloomington during the break and we also played pool with the members of Cryptacize (I won, he didn't -- although I can't say that for sure... I just like calling Mikey a loser in print since he always beats me at Racquetball -- Hi, Mikey!).
Actually, this is the first time we haven't had a round of practice before a tour since 2005. And it feels weird. I hand a strange tendency to both procrastinate and overprepare at the same time, so being underprepared, despite having played our last show only a month ago, makes me nervous.
Unlike the previous tour, however, I'm confident that the band is good. I knew we were all good musicians before but good musicians doesn't mean good band (see Chickenfoot -- or Coverdale Page -- or Audioslave -- or, if you're smart, don't). It took about ten shows and we were solid. I think we'll find the magic more quickly this time.
Also different this time is our mode of transport. We will, once again, be in a Sprinter. Last tour was on a bus. Please see my yet-to-be-written whiny account of that. The long and short of it is I already feel more comfortable this time. A return to hotels, showers, privacy, and unfamiliar landscapes in daylight. An escape from claustrophobic constant movement with seven men in a recycled air machine overnight.
This is the first time for me traveling to Europe to visit friends, too. Jim was the lead singer of Cadmium Orange, my former band. Despite a few onstage fights -- one, notably, at the Cellar Lounge (which became the Cinemat and, now, The Bishop), where he jumped (by accident) on my pedals and I took out my frustration about him moving to New York and leaving the band on him right there on stage (always a classy move) -- he remains one of my favorite musical collaborators, mostly because he was good, he knew it, and he loved doing it. Now he's in Prague where he dresses like Franz Kafka and daily, in public, pretends to get arrested for unknown reasons. Can't wait to busk with our live version of "In the Penal Colony" soon!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)