Putting the G A Y in GAY PAREE

Paris is awesome. And when I say awesome, I mean AWESOME. Even the bums have it pretty good in Paris. I mean, I actually saw a group of homeless people hanging out in tents, and they even had a couch set up in front! Ok, so maybe you can't really judge a city based on the quality of homeless life, but we had an awesome time in this city. I'm now typing from the promoter's office in Tourcoing (i have no idea how to say that), trying to remember how the evening ended up last night. I'm getting little flashes of memory, but since I let my proverbial hair down and partied it up last night the picture is fairly foggy.

When we actually arrived after the 5 + hour drive from Grenoble, we were greeted at La Maroquinerie by Clemence, our beautiful and extremely French promoter. The news was not good. Apparently a 16 year-old girl had been found drunk as a skunk in the venue one week prior, and the Parisian police had handed down a stiff sentence of a 1 week shutdown. Unfortunately, they let the promoters know this on the day of our arrival and subsequent performance. After a swift check of email and myspace and facebook (G A Y), we packed up and headed off for the new venue. This place, Le Pont Ephemere, was sweeeeet. It was right on the bank of La Seine, and looked to be a sort of half art-space half venue type of deal. The crew was super pro, and the spread was extensive in the backstage. We even had a bottle of jack daniel's this time, a fact which I will address a little later. The band that opened for us was a kickass band called "The Rodeo," who played a mixture of old school country/bluegrass stuff, and had a very pretty asian looking french girl as a singer. Unfortunately, she sang in silly English, and all I wanted was for her to shut up and sing in French. Regardless of this qualm, the band was really cool. They utilized a lap steel guitar player, violinist, and used a lot of really nice percussion stuff as well. They probably have a myspace page or something like that if you're interested.

Our sound check went swimmingly, as per usual, and was made extra super by the addition of a trombonist named Ben on our cover of Nina Simone's "feelin good" (i'm not sure if that's the actual title or not). Ben was awesome. His usual gig is playing in Sufjian Stevens' band, hence his connection to Shara, who is also a tenured SS veteran. Ben also knew and went to school with Marla Hansen, another MBD and SS and INLETS veteran. Actually, Marla will be playing a solo show on Wednesday at Union Hall in Park Slope. You should check her out because her music is awesome. Sebastian, of Inlets fame, and I played on her record which will be forthcoming, and are total Marla groupies.

Dinner was served upstairs and included a delicious cucumber salad, huge shank of lamb, and dessert which I couldn't bring myself to finish. I don't like eating too much before playing, unless it's candy. I love candy all the time. By the time "The Rodeo" finished their set, Le Pont Ephemere was absolutely packed. It's funny, but I think the combined Frenchness of the audience contributed to an odd cheese-like odor in the air. Of course, I may have been imagining that....but who knows? I think the total number of heads in the door was about 350, including two of my friends from the states, Sarah and Samantha. The performance itself was superlative. Everything was tight, everything was intense, and everything brought huge responses from the crowd. I think there was even a supermodel right in the front, totally distracting me from my bass-ing. Every time I looked over I did a little double take. Come to think of it, I think her boyfriend even knew most of the lyrics to the songs. We finished with the song Freak Out, and I took it upon myself to execute a backwards somersault at the very end. I think I bruised my knee, but it was worth it. As we took our bow and walked off, I had a moment of introspection. The Parisians genuinely appreciate, respect, and enjoy this music; and they wholeheartedly ADORE Shara. Seriously. They asked for 4 encores. 4!

After the show, we hung out in the backstage for a bit with Sarah and her friends, and Sam and her boyfriend Matt. Everyone enjoyed the show, and we drank and were merry until the crowd cleared and it came time to change gears. Riding the high from the show, Brian and I destroyed most of the bottle of jack D's provided by the venue. I believe Brian's words were, "duuuude I am L.I.T." (he spelled it out just in case I didn't get the message). Shara and James and Nuno went back to the hotel, but Brian and I took it upon ourselves to get embarrassing. And that we did. We made two more stops before heading back to the hotel, one at La Flesch D'Or, and another at a bar with all red lights inside and dancing and madness. Here we met up with Sarah again, who proved to be an outstanding host to us - even though it was a school night for her. We continued our consumption, and as we exited the bar a man passed us who I was absolutely SURE was my friend Rishi, but actually turned out to be Gerard Depardieu....... ok i totally made that one up. I loved him in "Green Card," though. Brian and I got in a cab and headed home, drunk on rock and booze and Paris. It felt good to really do it up last night, even though it proved to be somewhat detrimental the next day. Luckily, I have extremely brief hangovers. I cannot say the same for my rhythm section partner-in-crime. Brian woke up making out with the toilet bowl as I scrambled to make sure I had my wallet, phone, passport, and both shoes. During the drive to Tourcoing, he even executed an extremely impressive out-the-side-of-the-van-while-going 60-on-the-highway hurl about ten minutes outside of Lille. I was very impressed. It's now 7:26, and I'm late for dinner, but Brian is still hurting badly. I think he is suffering from what experts call an UBERhangover.

Tonight's venue is awesome, and we will rock in spite of the dark and ominous skies above. We begun our tour crescendo last night, and we will continue it tonight and finish at Bush Hall in London tomorrow night. I will be home soon.

Goodbye, Grenoble

Grenoble is a wonderful city. Having had two days off here, I got quite a sense of what kind of a place this is. First of all, it is a mountain town for all intents and purposes, nestled in between huge peaks of the French Alps. It has been extremely gray here, with dark brooding clouds blanketing the tops of the surrounding mountains. After our wonderful Thai feast on Friday night, we boys in the group had all of Saturday to get into trouble. After waking up around 12:30 and totally skipping breakfast, the four of us set out in our mighty van for a little tiny town called Chamrousse, about an hour’s drive into the mountains.

Cynthia guided us surely through the curves and switchbacks of the steep ascent, and we were all extremely happy to have her back on board. It’s funny, but I figure that all of the GPS and navigation systems in the cars of today choose probably the same handful of female voices to give directions. It’s a voice which is robotic, gentle, unassuming, and altogether completely annoying – to me at least. My parents have a navigation system in their car in LA, and I always end up yelling at the voice and frantically scrambling to mute it. Anyways, Cynthia did her job well on this day.

The drive itself was totally majestic. Usually I would reserve this word for times when magical beings or wizardry is involved, but the landscape of this day trip totally merits its use. It had been raining for most of the morning, but had cleared up enough that the sun was shining bright outside. We passed these tiny little villas and mini-towns on our way up the mountain, all of them looking timeless and extremely French in character. One town had a little park with a beautiful old merry-go-round in the middle that almost brought our expedition to a temporary halt, but we had to press on. James had been the biggest proponent of our Saturday adventure, urging us to escape the friendly confines of Hotel Splendid and try and do something. He was looking to discover some sort of motor-powered entertainment, like renting some 4-wheelers, or even mopeds, and figured it would be easiest to achieve in a less urban center. I, being a lover of going fast, was certainly on board. As we got higher and higher up the mountain, the drive became frightening. I rode shotgun, and was therefore face to face with a drop of about 5,000 feet directly out my window. Luckily, Nuno again proved himself a capable pilot and steered clear of danger the entire way.

The peaks which we had seen from a distance in Grenoble proper now became much more visible and much greater in scale. They weren’t like your average mountains; not like the Rockies, not like the Sierra Nevadas, not like the Cascades. These were clearly ALPS. Our ears started to pop, and Brian even became a little woozy on account of the altitude. But, after many perilous turns, we made it to Chamrousse. To our great surprise, Chamrousse was nothing more than a ski resort, plain and simple. People were walking around in silly one-piece ski suits that looked like they were straight out of the costume department of the movie “Ski Patrol.” French kids ran around awkwardly in ski boots, with parents chasing behind them shouting warnings in disgruntled pursuit. Apparently, this was no ordinary Saturday…It was a holiday.

Our first order of business was food, so we stopped in at a place called “La Cantina” to satisfy our hunger. As we sat down, I looked over at Brian to see a look of extreme chagrin on his face. I asked him if he was alright, and after a pause, he told me what was afflicting him so. He pointed up, and gestured to me to listen to the music playing on the stereo. It was your typical, run-of-the-mill American wanker blues guitar playing, complete with shuffle drum pattern and cheesy vocals. I’d heard music like this hundreds of times before but never paid any mind to it. Apparently, this was the sound of a dude named “Poppa Chubby,” whom Brian had played for during the Summer of 2002 and into 2003. Aside from the egregious and vulgar pun behind the man’s stage name (his real name is Ted Horowitz), this music was genuinely bad. Apparently he had been a reoccurring character on the downtown NYC blues scene, running jam sessions at cheesy clubs like “terra blues” and “bleecker street blues bar” and being an all around blues nazi to all parties involved. Brian proceeded to launch into a series of horror stories about this madman, each one complete with mentions of thrown chairs, physical altercations, scare tactics, passive aggression, and utter disregard for the well-being of fellow members in the band. Nuno, James, and I listened with our jaws agape as Brian continued. The waiter overheard us talking about “Poppa Chubby,” and brought over the CD, thinking we would actually want to check it out. “You like Poppa Chubby?” He asked us in his thick, smoky French accent. Brian laughed and told him he had once been Mr. Chubby’s official drummer. On the cover of the CD was a picture of this dude. He was fat, completely bald, and covered in tattoos. He looked like a man you might want to make friends with if you were in jail and hadn’t found someone to make you his bitch yet. Brian wrapped up his vignettes and we ordered our food. Nuno and Brian again ordered pizzas – Nuno’s with only mushroom and tomato sauce, Brian’s with just plain cheese – while James and I went all out and ordered double cheeseburgers.

After quickly consuming our lunch, we asked our waiter where we would be able to find some motor-centric entertainment around the resort. We had already ruled out skiing on account of our lack of proper gear and funds, but were determined to prolong our stay in Chamrousse nonetheless. The waiter went into the back and returned with a brochure for a snowmobile course right around the corner. He said that when there is snow, it is a snowmobile course, and when there is no snow they run 4-wheelers around. This news was extremely good news, and our enthusiasm was beyond obvious. This waiter, I believe his name was Marcel but I could be completely making that up, proved extremely helpful in our search for speed and gasoline-powered excitement. He called up the snowmobile place for us, and made the necessary inquiries. I overheard him in French saying that “there are four Americans here who would like to do use the snowmobiles?” and then something about the schedule being full, and then stuff I couldn’t understand. He got off the phone and told us that indeed the schedule for the afternoon was all booked up, but that the snowmobile wranglers were willing to pull four extra machines out if we could get there by 4pm. Seeing as it was 3:30 at that point, we were in business. We paid the check, but some extra Winter gear, and headed over to the snowmobile course. As we waited, we threw snowballs, made loud jokes, and gave high fives. Somehow the snow and the prospect of speed had transformed us back into little ten year olds.

After some paperwork, it became time for us to mount up. We were to follow a guide in a neon vest around this course, keep 5 meters behind the nearest machine, and avoid being totally irresponsible. Those were the rules. I was behind James, followed by Brian and Nuno in the respective third and fourth spots. For a half an hour, we booked around this course, revving the engines and cutting in and out of trees, happily zooming over bumps and little jumps. Every so often we’d have to stop and wait for Nuno, whose caution kept him a little further back. Every time we looked back at each other there was a flicker of youthful exuberance in our eyes, and a dumb smile across our faces. It was beautiful.

Once the half-hour was up, we returned to the snowmobile home base, cheering and laughing and congratulating ourselves on a job well done. As we piled back into the van, Nuno commented that this was “the best day-off on tour EVER.” And even though my touring tenure is not so advanced, I agreed. We made our way back down the mountain as dusk grew near, recovering and coming down from the fun of the day. We got back to the hotel around 7, and decided on seeing a movie around the corner. Nuno stayed home as we watched “The Good German,”a Steven Soderbergh movie with George Clooney and Cate Blanchett. It was good, and I found myself desperately trying to follow along with the French subtitles accompanying the original English dialogue. Needless to say, that activity was exhausting and made my brain hurt. Afterwards, we ate lamb kebab sandwiches and French fries. Even Brian caved in on his vegetarian leanings to dine on the sweet meat. Having stuffed ourselves properly, we walked around for a bit and headed home around 11pm. I left Brian and James and went to have one drink right around the corner from Hotel Splendid, thinking it would be an easy nightcap without any real mentionable aspects. But when I arrived at the bar, called “JS Café,” I was stopped at the door by a dude who muttered something in French which I couldn’t quite make out. I responded that I was only there for a drink, to which he replied, “GAY CLUB….” All of a sudden the bad dance music and somewhat odd vibe made more sense. But still, this dude was totally discriminating against me. And how was he to know that I’m not gay? I was even dressed halfway decently! Regardless, I had a whiskey somewhere else and went home.

So, that pretty much wraps up our Saturday off in Grenoble. Sunday was a show day, so it was back to business as usual. Shara arrived from her visit to a friend around noon, and we went to the venue around 3pm. The venue was all seats, and our set was to start at 6 (sort of like a matinee I guess). In the dressing room was a plate of various delicious local cheeses, as well as a nice bottle of wine and some other fixins. This show also proved to be our first stone-cold sellout of the tour, a fact which I found extremely exciting. We rocked, and afterwards ate a wonderful dinner with the crew at a nearby restaurant. And, seeing as our van call would be at 8am for our trip to Paris the next day, I found myself happily, comfortably asleep before midnight. All in all, Grenoble was an extremely pleasant chapter in the “My Brightest Diamond 2007 Winter European Tour” saga. Good times, good times.

Grenoble...NOT to be confused with Chernobyl

Today is our first day off since the drive from Berlin to Milan, about six days ago. I'd hesitate to even call that a day off, really, because it was essentially an 11 hour drive we had to execute. There's not much real "hang-out", "chill-mode" time in that. However, today we awakened at around noon and had absolutely nothing on our schedule. Shara had risen early to catch a train to some small town in southern France to spend a couple days with an old friend, leaving the four dudes to our own devices. After a small perambulation, we settled on a kebab/pizza/crap place for lunch. Nuno and Brian ordered pizza in place of the falafel they had anticipated seeing alongside the other choices on the menu, while James and I opted for lamb kebab meals. I guess we forgot to mention that whole "sandwich" thing, because we essentially got a plate of meat and french fries - very salty, very meaty, and relatively disgusting. The highlight of lunch was when a local interrupted our mediocre meal to ask if Brian and I were the drummer and bassist in My Brightest Diamond. We answered yes, and he complimented us on a good show the night before. It felt sweeeeet to be recognized, and somehow it made the turdmeat seem all of a sudden ten times more delectable. It was a weird thing for me, because I am the spawn of a pretty recognizeable and rather sore-thumbish character. Walking around as a kid and watching people crane their necks in recognition of your dad gets pretty old, because he's always just DAD to you, not "that dude from that movie with Denzel" or something like that. I guess it felt nice to be recognized on my own for once. Anyways, forgive my lugubrious digression.

We left Fribourg around 2:30 after returning to the venue to pickup the backline gear, and to make one last idiot check of the dressing rooms. Having left nothing we hit the road. During the 3-hour jaunt to Grenoble, Brian played the Beatles the entire time. I slept in the back seat, comfortably, happily, thinking about going home and finishing with a bang in France, and finally in London. We did get pulled over on the way, however, right near the border. It wasn't the first time this has happened so far on the tour. During our first day in Germany, we were pulled over by a couple of cops who were suspicious of our tall, scary, black van with Czech license plates (i don't blame them, especially because Nuno looks like somewhat of a shady character with his thick, arabesque beard and dark skin). That was weird though, because they didn't have sirens or anything like that. Their cruiser was shaped like a hatch-back, and had one of those scrolling LCD boards in the back window with the scrolling message of "Please follow us, pull over" in like three different languages. This time, the inspection was carried out by two very gruff looking French policeman. One had slicked back dark hair and a missing front tooth, and the other had barely any hair at all, but had a face like a career boxer and a walk like someone who had spent too many years on top of a horse (think John Wayne). He also had some rad spectacles. The slick-looking one asked if the van belonged to Nuno, and he answered "no, it belongs to a friend." I thought this answer was more than a bit suspicious, but it was delivered in classic Nuno manner and therefore thoroughly diffused any fears of foul-play. After a couple more procedural questions, we were again on our way.

We checked into our hotel at around 6, having battled through traffic in the outskirts of Grenoble. Without our faithful GPS navigation unit, Cynthia, traversing the small and ancient-looking streets of this city proved difficult. Our hotel, however, is great. It's actually called "HOTEL SPLENDID," which is totally splendid indeed. I've included a photo of the view from Brian and my room, which overlooks a quaint little neighborhood and has thus far been pretty hopping with drunken student-types. For dinner, the four of us went down the street to a great little Thai place called Phnom Penh. It was awesome. James and I split a beef-for-two dish which we cooked by hand on a little grill right in front of us. I got so caught up in the actual self-cooking process that I found myself neglecting to actually eat any of the delicious beefyness. It was also somewhat of a food-fascist move, given that Nuno is a vegan, and Brian is a hesitant vegetarian. Both of them were downwind of some serious meat smoke. I say sensitive because he's already "broken veg" once twice on this trip, both times in Germany. I can't blame him considering German food is ALL meat, and delicious meat at that. Plus, he's only been a vegetarian for about 5 months and talks about it kind of like it's AA, but i respect the move nonetheless. I've included a pic of the beef with Nuno sucking on the fumes in the background. To top it all off, Brian and I shared a banana split (such a cute rhythm section move), and Nuno had a friend banana thingy that looked delicious but gave him a tummyache.

So, here I sit, typing away on my laptop in room 27 of Hotel Splendid. The town has grown quiet, and Anchorman is on TV in french. I know this movie well enough to actually understand the dialogue, which is hilarious. WHAMMY!!! We have tomorrow off as well, and will be looking to either do some skiing at one of the local resorts, or find some place to rent some mopeds and get crazaaaay. Hopefully I'll find a way to avoid breaking my wrist or an important tooth.

ODE TO LOTAR

So, last night in Winterthur Switzerland we were approached after the gig by a dude named Lotar. Is that not the coolest name you've ever heard in your life? It sounds like a name from another dimension! Or like he just stepped off of a viking ship in search of a town to rape and pillage, aflame with the vigorous fires of vikinghood. He had long, curly hair, and spoke English proficiently with a slight tinge of German.

I've been informed by the locals that most people in Switzerland speak at least two languages fluenty, and many speak three. Those languages include French, Italian, and German, and are used closest to the borders of their respective regions. There is even a fourth language, called Romanche, which is a combination of all three. I am told that it is only spoken in a tiny region of the country, near the border of Austria and close to the border of Italy. That's crazy, right? What if there were an alternate language in the US which combined elements of say, English, Ebonics, and Spanish? World would collide! I have trouble picturing the sound of Romanche, and unfortunately no one at the dinner table tonight spoke it either. Speaking of dinner, Switzerland has treated us extremely well in the food department. Last night and tonight we had essentially home-cooked meals served to us, with wine and water and soda, and even dessert! And all the other people who have joined us, including the opening acts, soundpeople, and promoters, have been totally enjoyable...which somehow amazes me. I usually despise foreigners, even though in this case it would be i, technically, playing the part of the foreigner.

After hanging out and drinking for free with Lotar and a couple of his vikingly compatriots, Brian, James, Nuno and I went back to the hotel as Shara went to spend the night at a friend's house a couple minutes away. Brian and I split a room, as did Nuno and James, and I ended up going to bed watching "Raging Bull" in German. As if that movie weren't brutal enough to watch in English, having to watch in German just flat out gave me nightmares. Something about not being able to understand the dialogue and having to make all connections to the plot based on facial expression and action made it complete mad. Brian agreed with me, and we both went to bed somewhat uncomfortable.

Minus the night terrors, I slept like a brick. We got up for breakfast around 10, and headed out at around 12:30 for our next destination, Fribourg. This is a quaint little city towards the French region of Switzerland. When we walked into the venue and began loading in, I was immediately shocked to see a giant skull-shaped disco ball hovering over our stage. I jumped at the sight. I'm telling you, it's about 5 feet long and about 3 feet wide, and extremely deep. It's a serious stage prop, worthy of a cameo in "Spinal Tap" itself (picture the mini stone henge being lowered onto the stage, except that this time it's actually a huge skull-shaped disco ball). Needless to say, this was a mildly hilarious first impression of the venue. Luckily, everyone on the sound and lighting tips have been totally pro, and this place has a super-sweet wireless connection which I am now happily exploiting. The hospitality has been superlative, with a great spread worthy of sandwich-making and carrot-dipping. There's even a tap in our dressing room! A whole tap with good beer! Right here! For FREE!! Yeah. That's cool. Hopefully tonight we will meet more eccentric people with names like Lotar. And of course, we will rock.....BENEATH A HUGE DISCO BALL SHAPED LIKE A HUMAN SKULL. Nuff said.

PS- Sorry for the gratuitous exclamation points on this one. But seriously. It's shaped like a human skull.

And on to Switzerland

Ok. Here's the deal: we have one week left on this crazy thing called tour. That is, one week until our last show at Bush Hall in London. I will be staying in London for an extra couple of days, attempting to let my hair down, party it up, and basically unwind for a bit. Seeing as things are beginning to wind down, I'm struck by a faint melancholy about the prospect of finishing up. I'm not sure what kind of culture shock I will experience when I get back to NY. The worst part will surely not be in terms of returning to America World (sounds like a theme park, right?), but rather getting back into the daily grind of being a bum and not having anything particularly important or productive to do during the day. I fear that it will be exhausting going back to that lifestyle....I kid, of course. But seriously, I have no doubt that I will have some sort of comedown from this whole experience. Hopefully you will all be there to help me drown my sorrows in laughter and maker's mark.

Our shows in Italy turned out being the best of the tour. And I know I seem to say that after almost every performance, but this time I say it purely in terms of the audience response. Milan was AWESOME. The people there were drunk, merry, loud, and extremely ITALIAN. I guess they say as a people the Italians are a passionate type, and I can now confirm that first hand. After our set, we hung out with the owner of the venue drinking shots of Jameson and talking about nothing in particular. We even tried to get in on a game of foosball, but to no avail. They really take the foosball seriously in Italy. It's not like in the states, where one just spins the handles as hard as he can and tries to bonk the ball into the goal from the goalie position. It's a sport of tact and great finesse over here. Almost like real soccer, except that the players are of course mounted on sliding poles. We got to smoke a little doobie in the upstairs room with the owner and some of his compatriots, laughing and smiling the whole way. People are seeming to really appreciate this music, which is a very rewarding thing to watch happen. After our encores, Brian and James and I usually get right to work breaking down the stage as Shara works the crowd with grace and class like I've never seen before. She looks her fans straight in the eye, is sincere and engaging, and shows no rock-star attitude whatsoever. All of her rockstar stuff she leaves on stage, like a true P R O.

We left Milan happy as clams, having enjoyed a field day on merch sales and free booze. Turin was our next stop. The drive itself only took about 3 hours, but was made much more difficult by the fact that our GPS unit (affectionately nicknamed Cynthia) chose to clock out. We were essentially driving a bit blind for the day. Turin is the Italian equivalent of Detroit, the motor city, because it is the base of production for the Fiat automobile line. The streets are filled with cars and the air clouded with fog, and the drivers here are some of the worst I've yet seen on the continent. Brussels might be tied with Turin for having the worst drivers in Europe, but I'm not going to hold it against either city.

The show in Turin was weird, but well-attended and well-executed on our part. I blame the weirdness on the worst opening band I've ever come in contact with in my life. I was sitting down watching their set thinking to myself, "wow, I must have eaten something wrong because I actually feel like throwing up. Wait a minute, all I ate today was an apple and a ham sandwich, so this band must actually be making me want to vomit." I guess it's wrong to talk shit about a band opening for you, but I can't help it. They were absolutely fucking terrible. I can't even go into why or how they ended up being so bad, but they pulled it off with flying colors. Since it was a late show, we got done at around 1am, and got back to the hotel around 2. Brian and I had to fend off advances from two Mojito-ified british ex-pat university students, but we escaped alive.

We departed Turin in the morning without the help of our faithful Cynthia, and set out for our show at Salzhaus. This drive was absolutely breathtaking. Between moments of unsatisfying sleep, the views were pristine and epic to a degree I've never experienced before. It's all lakes of glass and mountains covered in snow and beauty and wonderment (and other stuff....) I felt like I was in a scene from Lord of the Rings for about 4 out of the 5 hours of our trek. It actually kind of made me understand the whole neutrality thing in Switzerland here. I guess the mindset must be something along the lines of, "It's too pretty around here to fight anybody. Let's just sit around here, eat chocolate and play with pocket knives. And maybe make some cheese with holes in it." The drive was a bit long, but we arrived just in time for soundcheck. I'm now writing from the backstage area, fully fed and content with life for the most part. I am a bit homesick, though, and I'm torn between emotions about the final days of the tour. Until our last show, I will put on my P R O face and plow through. Hope everyone is doing well. I've included some photos from the drive and from the beautiful sunrise in Berlin. Enjoy.

Goodbye Germany, HELLO ITALY

Seeing as I only have a little bit of time, I will try to make this short. I have fully recovered from my unfortunate sickness, having spent about three days completely out of it and wishing I were either dead or home. I fought hard, drank lots of water, refrained from boozing, and was overall responsible about my plan of attack. The unfortunate thing about that, however, is that James has caught whatever bug I had and is now so much worse for it. I am feeling a little bit of survivor's guilt on that subject, now watching James stumble around zombified with fever, headache, cough, and the rest as I jump around happily and with renewed energy. I guess that's the way it works, though; sort of a family affair.

Our show in Berlin turned out being one of the best yet, as we rocked for a crowd of about 120 in a dingy, run-down club called the Mudd Club. Mom and Dad were in attendance, smiling and applauding away after every song, and so was Mr. Earl Harvin himself (drummer on the MBD album and all-around P R O). I found myself a little nervous before the set on accounts of Earl's being there, wanting to make sure I played perfectly and rocked efficiently. Upon meeting him, I found that Earl is just a normal dude. He was extremely personable and friendly, and I sort of felt like I was meeting Magic Johnson or something. I was even conscious of my voice going up a couple octaves as I introduced myself.

After the show I went back to my parents' hotel and ordered a HUGE room service burger that tasted like a German version of an American classic. Still delicious, though. I found Berlin to be a city without a true identity outside of its historical underpinnings. Apparently the entire former East Berlin has been revamped so heavily that it bares little to no resemblance to its past form. Obviously, i had no say on that matter, but was drawn anyways to its architecture, and especially the huge amount of graffiti on every block. In some ways it reminded me of places in NY like the lower east side: sort of grunged out, but with lots of personality and a palpable vibrance to it. Shara and James and Brian went out for a bit after the show, partying up Berliner style. Needless to say, I was sad to have missed out. But having my parents in town was AWESOME. I got to do some much needed laundry, switch out my broken suitcase for a functioning one, and I got some general TLC from Mom and Dad. My lady awakened me with a phone call at about 7am, and as I rolled over in my cot bed to look out the window, I saw a BEAUTIFUL sunrise - one which I will not soon forget. I will post a pic of that sunrise in the next blog, as well as some pics from the drive through Switzerland and into Italy. VERY pretty stuff.

We have four shows in the next four days, and so I will be pressed for free time in which to blog, but I will do my best to keep updates happening. I am in Milan now, which is a city made up of an entirely too fashionable populous. I'm doing backflips trying to keep up.

Blitzkrieg to Berlin

So, it’s true what they say about the highways in Germany: there are no speed limits, and no rules. The autobahn is a place where natural law rules out over common decency and logic; where motors rev and brake lights seem a figment of a past universe. I’m riding shotgun with Nuno at present, and I again will commend him on his responsible and competent piloting of our craft in the face of tremendous aggression. We have been hanging out mostly in the far right and middle lanes as moderation dictates, all the while watching Audis, Bmws, Mercedes, and even the odd ambitious Peugeot shoot by like bullets fired from guns. This is our Blietzkrieg to Berlin, so to speak.

We left our hotel in Frankfurt around 9:30 this morning, and I’ve quite enjoyed the drive thus far. The German countryside is extremely scenic, and marked in many places by dense forestry – so dense that at times the sun struggles to pierce the canopy to shine on the soil. Also something worth noting is the abundance of those huge three-pronged windmills, made for catching and storing wind energy. I wanted to call them propellers, but windmills is probably the more accepted term. These huge structures pepper the horizon in numbers, and are quite a feat of engineering. It’s a good thing to see this, because it means people over here are getting the picture on alternative energy. I can only think of a couple places in the states that employ these, most memorably near Palm Springs, 3 hours east of Los Angeles.

I’ve taken over DJ duties for our trek today, spinning a variety of Black Sabbath, Michael Jackson, The Doors, The Cold War Kids, The Beastie Boys, Blonde Redhead, and a mixture of others. It’s been a pretty good little mix in my opinion. I even tried to listen to the WolfMother (one word? Two words?) album, but couldn’t really get through it. I liked them live a lot more than recorded, I’ve concluded. Right now we have about an hour and a half left our drive, and are now in straight up old-school eastern-bloc territory. I love it. I feel like a communist…..er something.

One thing that I have found somewhat disturbing today is the frequent Mcdonald’s sightings along the autobahn. I figure if you have people driving over 100mph (I don’t know what that is in Km/hr), you shouldn’t encourage any impulses which would cause a quick change in direction. The thought of a delicious Big Mac could lead to utter catastrophe if not checked by the proper amount of road awareness. Seriously though, I don’t want to see a Mcdonald’s once every thirty minutes. It’s just the same as driving up to Boston and being bombarded by golden arch after golden arch the entire way. It’s distracting! And fattening! Call me a hypocrite, but I did in fact just enjoy a delicious bratwurst for lunch at a little petrol station. Bratwurst is everywhere in this country, and I love it. I guess Germans might even think of this cuisine as their own localized version of Mcdonald’s, purely on account of its ubiquity and its cultural underpinnings.

Despite the abundance of Brats, I have yet to see anyone where leiderhozen. This upsets me a bit. Although, some of the towns we passed today on the ol’ autobahn must have had some proud leiderhozen wearers. These towns were small, quaint, and each one looked like it could have been the original birthplace of Augustus Gloup, that poor boy who got sucked up into Willy Wonka’s chocolate river piping system. I’ll never forget him.

and then the fever broke....

I am happy to report that I woke up this morning feeling markedly better than I have at any point in the last two. You have no idea how happy this makes me. I went to bed early, having consumed plenty of liquids as per usual, and dreamed of trying to kill this huge rat that was extremely fast, furry, and elusive. It totally grossed me out. Perhaps this rat represented my sickness? I don't know. I'm no Freud.

Being in Freud's home country, however, I have been observing the locals here with a keen eye. Given that Frankfurt is such a shopper's wonderland, as I mentioned yesterday, everyone is tidy and well dressed in smart attire from head to foot. No one spits or shouts or even honks while they drive their mercedes through the streets. This of course made me feel especially repulsive, as I am a fountain of phlegm and snot right now. We didn't really do anything much last night, aside from eating a bit of pizza and perambulating a bit. Nuno and Brian and I were all extremely beat, so we went to bed relatively early to prepare for today's pre-show chores. I had to fetch a new pair of bass strings, Nuno inquired as to a repair on our valiant steed, and Brian was determined to clean some of his show clothes. As it turned out, my errand was the only successful one to my great surprise.

Tomorrow we have a 5 hour commute to Berlin, where I will be able to rendezvous with my parents. They are serious MBD groupies, and are just about that age where the word retirement comes into play. When I gave them the schedule of the tour they very glibly said, "Oh you're playing in Berlin? We've been wanting to go to Berlin! Maybe we'll show up for the show!" Needless to say, I'm excited to see them. My parents have been amazing to me since I've graduated school. Whereas most of my friends have immediately found themselves in jobs and hating every day of working those jobs, I have been busting my ass playing music, forefitting my nights in favor of rehearsals, lugging my "gear" around for shows that rarely pay more than $30, and basically being an all-around bum. This tour will represent the first time in my life that I'll be able to pay my own rent for a bit and still be able to buy some miscellaneous items. That's kind of scary, too, because I know that this type of tour will not be the norm for me...yet.....

My Mom and Dad used to come to all of my sporting events and such when I was a kid, so having them at shows provides a similar sort of solace and comfort for me. I know there's never going to be a moment when they come backstage and say, "oh it was great, but I didn't really like that fill you played in the 7th bar of the outro for Dragonfly" or "your groove was really lazy in Workhorse....you should really work that out and pep it up a little bit," but it's not even about their approval and enthusiasm that makes it nice to have them in attendance. It's more that I can be satisfied knowing that I am making them proud not only because this music kicks ass, but also that I've been working hard to get to this place. I also have to say here that I am extremely LUCKY -in more ways than one- to be in this position. Sebastian, one of my best friends and most fruitful collaborators, recommended me for this post back in the Summer. He and I started playing music together in my band Lemming, and then I signed on to play bass for INLETS, which is his personal brainchild. He'll be making fun of me tomorrow for talking about him in blog form, but I still figured I'd give him a shoutout since he is the reason I'm here. He also is a tenured veteran in MBD (check out the youtube from joe's pub....he's playing lead guitar and bells on something of an end). If you haven't already, I implore you download the INLETS debut EP FOR FREEEEEE (yes, freeeeee) at www.luvsound.org. He will also be doing a radio performance with INLETS for WFMU on feb 26th, and a show at the famous Brooklyn hipster hangout Union Pool on feb 24th. Check that ish out.

In other musical news, Nuno played me a Portugese band called Linda Martini in the car today, and I loved them. Check them out on myspace. Also check out a band called Critters Buggin that Brian showed me. Good stuff. That is all I have for now. Hope you are all enjoying yourselves in the frozen tundra that is NYC, or wherever you may be.

frankfurt

I had no idea that our day off in cologne actually fell on the first day of this city's version of mardi gras. It was absolutely insane. Picture literally thousands of Germans dressed up in all kinds of whacky and ridiculous outfits, all of them with beer in one hand and a bratwurst or sausage in the other. Seriously, this is not an exaggeration.

We checked out of our hotel around noon to find ourselves in the middle of some totally parallel drunken universe. People were making out, peeing on the streets, puking, and lining up to use the 50 euro public toilets. Remember what I said about Germans all seeming on the verge of snapping and going nuts? Well apparently my observation was spot on.

As for last night, the show last night was an odd one. We had a great time playing to a crowd of about 40 seated, quiet, German 40-somethings. Apparently there was a huge football match on that night which may have held the attentions of most of the younger would be MBD supporters. The highlight of the show for me, however, was breaking my low E string (AKA the most important string on the bass) and having to play the rest of the set on just three strings. I broke it on the song 'bring me the workhorse', and had to then do my best to play 'No Quarter' without embarrassing myself. It remains to be seen whether or not I succeeded. Our load out was easy, and I went to bed watching a program called 'Deutschland Idol'.... It was the German version of American Idol, and was essentially completely the same as the American version except that the judges and contestants spoke German. Seriously, even the in-between segment music was the same. I even figured the judges had the same personality types, even though I could not understand a word they said. The oddest thing about the program, however, was that the contestants did American songs. One did a heinous, frightening version of Sweet Home Alabama in a sort of Eddie Vedderesque voice, another did Barry Manilow's song Mandy, and there was even a valiant attempt at Bill Wither's Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone. I think I may have had night terrors about the Barry Manilow tune.

We checked out around noon, immediately finding ourselves in the middle of the fray of Carnival. I took lots of photos, but since I'm now writing from an internet cafe and can't download the pics I sent myself, you'll have to use your imagination until I can post them. After soaking in the local debauchery, we made the two hour trek to Frankfurt. This city reminds me of Beverly Hills, the German version. Literally all I have seen here are stores. I've seen about five H & Ms, two Nike stores, three Mcdonald's, a Foot Locker, and a Pizza Hut. It's weird. On the upside, the architecture of the downtown financial buildings is quite spectacular, with one building that sort of reminds me of something out of that Batman Returns movie (yes, the one with Dannz DeVito as the Penguin...). I'm going to wait on making any offensive judgements on this city until tomorrow, until then, assume that I'm having a pretty good time. That is, aside from my fever, whooping cough, 3 stringed bass, and one wheeled suitcase.

Klon, Koln, Cologne?

So, I am writing now from the venue one hour before our set. I think the name of it is Gerbaude 9, and it's all extremely east bloc. Reminds me of a place where vampires might come to hang out on saturday nights. There is lots of concrete, lots of bad graffiti, lots of stickers from performances past, and lots of Germans. Germans are a funny lot, I find. everyone is extremely friendly and full of smiles, but it seems as if they are constantly on the verge of snapping and totally flipping out. I'm aware of the fact that this is pure conjecture, but seeing as it is my first time in the country I might as well put my first impressions out there.

Even in spite of the dingy, grungy, run-down vibe of this place, I was surprised to find a pretty healthy wireless connection and an unbelievable spread in our dressing room. Seriously, we felt like royalty when we walked in. For dinner we ate green curry, and made sandwiches with excellent cheese, quality lunch meats, and a variety of healthy juices and teas (this aspect of the spread was immediately appealing to me, the sickly member of the bunch). I expected to see some sauerkraut and some kickass brats, but they were nowhere to be found. Our opener tonight is a very Tori Amos-y German singer/songwriter with an extremely gregarious manager whose name I can't recall. As we finished up our sound check with "No Quarter," I looked over to see him bobbing his head with a huge smile on his face. After we finished he informed me that he had been in attendance at the only two Led Zeppelin shows ever to take place in Frankfurt, his hometown. I believe his line was, "that is one of ze cool tings about being oold..." Having obviously never seen a Zep show myself, I agreed. Three of our shows so far have had similar types of gentle, sensitive openers, which is funny considering that our set ends up being extremely loud and aggressive. That's always a funny contrast for the audience I figure. I have only about 45 minutes before we hit go-time, so I figured I'd just give a little update on things.

An observation: time on tour seems to pass more quickly than time in real-life. The past five hours at this venue have seemed a quarter of that. I blame the delicious spread in part for this phenomenon, but I also attribute it to the strenuous nature of this whole tour thing. One's mind seems to turn off in the interim between sound check and performances. It's weird. I wonder if that is true for real day jobs, and the time between lunch and going home. Feel free to respond to this question with your own opinions. I'm genuinely curious.

ILL in Amsterdam.

It’s now February 14, Valentine’s day, and we have just left Amsterdam for Klon Germany. I neglected to write yesterday on accounts of a wicked flu I picked up somewhere between Manchester England and Brussels. Let me just say that to be sick on tour is to be completely and totally miserable. I woke up on the 13th with a fever, body aches, and a wicked case of the loose lung which rendered me completely useless for the entire day.

The team was extremely supportive the entire day however, allowing me to take leave from load-in duties and being all-in-all just completely sweet. It’s hard though, because I was raised to think that if you’re not helping when others are working then you’re doing something wrong. Brussels had treated us extremely well, because the venue had paid for our stay in a super nice hotel, complete with complimentary breakfast, free wireless, and unbelievable water pressure in the showers. I actually thought of that Seinfeld episode when Kramer buys the ultra high water pressure shower head off the black market and gets blown back upon trying it out. Even in spite of the good hospitality, I woke up the next day with a case of the DEATH. I laid out in the back of the van for most of the trip to Amsterdam, saying nothing outside of my periodic wheezing and sniffling. All I could think to myself during the trip was, “and we have a show to play tonight? AND tomorrow night? SERIOUSLY?” Shara had a radio interview/performance at a Dutch radio station at around 2:30, but I stayed in the van to lick my wounds as rain began to fall outside. The whole scene was a bit depressing, and even a little pathetic on my part.

We arrived at Paradiso at around 3:30, and were welcomed by a team of cheerful stage hands, all of them smiling and speaking sweet dutch-accented English. I think Dutch as a language is one of the strangest sounds my ears have ever heard. It sounds like someone trying to make fun of both English and German at the same time. Dutch also makes me think of the Swedish chef from the muppet babies – a truly delightful association. Team Diamond wouldn’t allow me to do any of the heavy lifting for the load-in, which is lucky for me because my muscles felt like they had taken the day off in a big way. It was hard for me to even stand up for most of the day. To combat my unwanted road-induced illness, I drank about 5 bottles of water, a whole liter bottle of orange juice, and three or four glasses of tea in the afternoon. Needless to say, I peed like a racehorse about once every hour for the entire day, a fact which made me somewhat self-conscious during our three-plus commute from Brussels.

During sound check, I sat on the side of the stage with my head hung low and my eyes barely staying open. What a sad scene I must have made. I’m not usually one to get headaches when I’m ill, but my head throbbed constantly all day. After our check, Brian escorted me to the pharmacy to pick up some medicine, only to find that the wall with the cold and flu remedies was a a labyrinth of Dutch. I had to ask the lady behind the counter for a recommendation. She pointed to a specialty ibuprofen and a thera-flu type powder thing to be used in hot water. Afterwards Brian and I meandered for a bit and made a stop in one of Amsterdam’s many fine coffee shops. I sadly behaved myself for fear of exacerbating my malady as Brian smoked half a doobie of some chronicles. Our set was an early one at Paradiso, starting at around 8pm in the upstairs room. The funny thing on this evening was that Wolf Mother, one of the “it” bands in the world right now, was playing the main stage beginning around 10pm. Our show was extremely well attended, packed all the way to the back, and the crowd was the best one we’d had yet. We even managed to sell about 80 cds and a good bit of merchandise. The show itself went very well, and I guess the adrenaline kicked in for me somewhere along the way because I felt just fine during the whole performance. Shara had told me to take it easy and not strain myself too much, but that’s hard to do when you’re playing music that genuinely moves you. The crowd ate up every song, whooping and hollering and begging for more after each tune. And sure enough, by the end of the set I was soaked with sweat. As we exited the stage, we gave our self-congratulations and wished Shara luck on her encore. She did that Prince tune, “why don’t you call me anymore?” and came backstage again. But the crowd still wanted more. They were not yet satiated, and had not had their fill. So she went out again and did another encore, this time doing one of the album tunes, “the good and the bad guy.” Again she exited the stage and came backstage where we again applauded her. But again, the crowd wanted more! They love them some Shara Worden in Amsterdam. So, she did one last encore before we had to break down the stage and retire to watch Wolf Mother.

The Wolf Mother crowd was outrageous, reminding me of the year 1976 as depicted in the classic film “Dazed and Confused.” Long hair, denim jackets, handle bar moustaches were abound, not to mention the few conspicuously high-on-mushrooms members of the audience. This was quite the scene. I really dug the show, even though it was the loudest music I’ve ever heard in my life, and there was a gargantuan Dutchman of about 6’5’’ in front of me for most of the time. Apparently “down in front!” is a phrase not often heard in Amsterdam. Luckily, we got to store most of our gear in the Paradiso so that we could do our load-out the next day. Shara, Brian, James and I left the venue to find a late dinner, and we settled on a little Thai place called “Mai Thai.”

After dinner, we met Nuno in front of the venue and headed to our hotel, only about three blocks from the venue. The hotel was stupidly called “Hotel Art Gallery,” and we were greeted wearily by the grumpy night reception guy. This place provided the cherry on top of an impossible day for me. Our rooms were on the 4th floor, and because there were no elevators, we caravanned up the 3-foot wide staircases laughing at the absurdity of the situation. We huffed and puffed, dragging our luggage behind us all the way. As I got to the fourth floor, I looked back to see James holding a broken suitcase wheel….. “dude, is this yours?” Yes, of course it was mine. This is the kind of day it had been for yours truly. After all of my troubles with whatever sickness I had picked up, my suitcase wheel had busted on the last volley of stairs in an impossibly narrow staircase in a cheesy hotel in Amsterdam at 1am. If there is a god, he/she/it was certainly having a laugh on this one. Tomorrow we will continue on to Germany.

brussels. brussels. brussels.

After my last post, I had what felt like a near-death experience. After having driven almost the entire length of England, the Diamond found itselff aboard yet another ferry, this time heading to mainland Europe. To be more specific, our ship's destination was on the north-eastern corner of France. The process of mounting a ferry in Europe is strange if not totally frightening. You wait in a line of about three to four-hundred cars, bunched closely together in formation, and drive slowly up a ramp onto a massive boat. This morning, however, would prove to be a very challenging voyage across the channel. The rain during our drive down to the dover cliffs ceased only for about fifteen minutes during our entire trip, and only seemed to worsen as we boarded our ferry. Brian and i took a brief moment while still docked to snap some pictures, with the wind abusing us and the turbulent water rocking the boat beneath our tired and road-weary feet. As soon as we embarked on the one hour voyage across the channel, I realized this would not be an average boat ride.

I tried to distract myself from the ominous swaying and ebbing of the massive vessel by watching an episode of Tina Fey's new NBC series, 30 rock, only to find that comedy provides no solace for a fear of dying. I sat in my seat trying to contain my panic, only holding back from screaming because the other passengers on board seemed totally at ease. There were young children laughing and running around as our craft swayed violently to and fro, crashing into the manic surf beneath us. As i looked up briefly from my i-pod, i watched a young girl of about 7 vomit gracefully into a barf-bag. We were extremely lucky that the voyage was only an hour long.

Finding ourselves on solid ground, i silently rejoiced in my saftey as i fell sound asleep. I awoke with Brussels surrounding me, and with no namesake cookies in sight. Go figure. The venue was fantastic, complete with strange roadies speaking in tongues foreign to my ears, and with hairdos i had never seen before. After soundcheck, i killed time by calling home and napping in our backstage area. The show was the most well attended yet, and was even complete with a lighting guy. He utilized a lot of different looks, and even threw a strobe light in at the end of "freak out." Needless to say, the show rocked. Tomorrow, we head to Amsterdam. I couldn't be happier about that.

no sleep til' BRUSSELS

It’s 2:45 in the morning, and I’m writing from our van as we jet south to catch a ferry from the port city of Dover. This will be our hardest day of travel of the entire tour, and we will most likely arrive in Brussels somewhere in the early afternoon. I’m told that our hotel has a pool, sauna, and Jacuzzi, so there is a silver lining in there somewhere, even if we’ll only be able to enjoy it for a slim hour or two. I just finished the first shift in the shotgun seat attempting to keep our faithful pilot Nuno awake and on his toes, a chore which proved positively enjoyable. I think Nuno and I have a lot in common: we both have beards, we’re both extremely laid back, we both love music and travel, and we are both photography buffs. Come to think of it, that means that every single one of us in this van right now have a lot in common with Nuno. Of course, Shara lacks the beard…

Nuno is from Portugal, in a town not more than a kilometer (approximately 2/3 of a mile, for those of you not familiar with the metric system) from the beach. Portugal is apparently referred to by fellow Europeans as the “California” of Europe, a fact which goes far to explain Nuno’s laid back demeanor. It has been raining since we left Manchester, hard enough that the pitter-patter on the windshield has made it hard to hear the i-pod playing over our van’s speakers.

In the silences between our front-seat chatter, I got to thinking about the show tonight. It was completely out of body for me. I don’t know whether to accredit it to Brian’s being there, or to Shara for playing her most solid show yet, or for the city of Manchester for providing such a positive and enthusiastic audience. Whatever the reason, we kicked serious arse tonight. It felt like every song had a near perfection to it. And, of course we KILLED No Quarter again. No question. To think that this is our first show together in trio formation is scary, because it makes me think about the next 44 shows we are yet to play over the coming months. We have 15 left on this tour, then the SXSW show on march 16, and then it’s on the road again with the Decemberists.

As tired as I am right now, I have a strange manic energy happening in my bones. I even volunteered to stand my post next to Nuno for the duration of our early morning journey, but then thought the better of the idea and took a seat in the back next to Brian. The droning hum of the highway is almost deafening right now as I sit with my laptop, but I’m happy. Brian just leaned over to me and said, “I know this may sound sappy, but this is exactly what I want to be doing right now. Even if it’s 3am, we’re going to our next show. This is awesome.” Sappiness aside, I couldn’t agree with him more.

I will now try to catch some ZZZZs.

Wow. I just jostled about on the floor of our van for a good hour and a half trying to find a position suitable and comfortable enough for slumber. I don’t know if it worked, but I do know that we have somehow, someway arrived at the cliffs of dover at the southern tip of England, thanks to Nuno’s stellar work behind the wheel. I am dedicating today’s blog to him. And let me reiterate that Nuno is the MAN. I don’t know Brian is even alive right now given that he just arrived on the continent yesterday morning and had a show to play last night. He wins the trooper award for the week. In spite of maximum trooper status, we’re all a bit batty right now seeing as it’s 7:30 in the morning and we’ve successfully driven straight through the night. Once we are on the ferry at dover, we will still be about three hours away from Brussels. By the time I get to a wireless connection and publish this update, I will be one more time zone further east, and therefore one time zone further away from home. What I’m trying to say here is that I miss my peoples. Please send me email if you’d like, as I’d love to get some word from the states. Today’s girlfriend haiku reads:

A LONELY BOTTLE

OF BUSHMILL’S IRISH WHISKEY

AWAITS YOUR RETURN

sunday, sunday, sunday.

I have found that days off on tour are splendid and welcome respites from the stress and constant hustle of being on the road, but having said that, I’m ready to play again. And this time, Mr. Brian Wolfe will be back on duty after missing our first three dates in Dublin, Belfast, and Glasgow. Brian is a surgeon on the drums; he cuts with a fine blade and has a steady hand capable of performing the most intricate of maneuvers with both ease and flare. I couldn’t be happier to have him back on as my rhythm section partner in crime. Even though Binzer did a fantastic job filling in during Brian’s absence on the first three dates, playing with Brian again sort of feels like coming home. I’m very excited. We had a nice, leisurely sound check, and I wore a bent grin on my face pretty much the entire time.

Having logged time in the Diamond with now three different drummers, I can say that Brian has a sort of style and panache that makes this music feel just right. It’s not too flashy, never too slow, and always squarely and comfortably in the pocket. To be “in the pocket” is a hard thing to describe, however. It’s a term used most often to refer to the interplay between the bass and the drums in an ensemble, and is always mentioned alongside words like groove, or feel. Being in the pocket means that not only are you playing completely together, completely rhythmically fused, but also that your dynamics and the intensity with which you attack the notes make sense in an aesthetically pleasing and harmonious manner. This will probably make me sound like a “puff,” as Joshua Ben Joseph frequently called it, but I would compare it to having really good sex. Mom, Dad, please pretend I just compared it to something else.

After a completely enjoyable though relatively uneventful night on the town with Joshua, his friend Dom, and a couple of other Mancunian locals, I went to bed happily last night. For some reason I woke up early, around 8, and watched BBC news for an hour before a sudden impulse to exercise overtake me. I found this fairly odd, for I’ve been off that whole exercise thing for quite a while. I cranked some tuneage on my laptop and did a bunch of crunches and sit-ups and pull-ups until I felt the burn. After achieving the burn, I regretted the crunches and the sit-ups and the pushups. I showered and got dressed and headed downstairs to find some breakfast. In the lobby I found Nuno, Brian, and Nuno’s girlfriend sitting around in chairs discussing things. I greeted Dr. Brian Wolfe warmly, asking him about the funeral services for his Grandma, and bid him adieu as I searched for breakfast. There was a nice little place right around the corner from the hotel where I happily ordered a garlic and prawn omelet (yes, it sounds disgusting). I returned as Shara and James came out of the elevator, and soon found myself again sitting in the nice little place right around the corner. My comrades ate as I watched, and we chatted eagerly about a variety of topics not really worthy of mentioning. Afterwards, around 2pm, we met Nuno at the venue and began our load-in of the gear. Colin, the soundman at the Life Café, was extremely friendly and professional, which made the sound check both painless and fun.

After sound check, I explored the neighborhood a bit, stumbling across a charming pub named something ending in “Arms.” I was tickled to find that on the big screen was a soccer (football?) match between Arsenal and Wigan Athletic. I thought of my good friend and fellow member of The Kiss-Off, Oliver, who adores English football. I ordered a Guinness and headed to the upstairs area to blend with the locals with the score 1 – 0 in favor of Wigan. Most of the faces of the spectators in the place were a bit chagrined; evidently there was more than a few Arsenal fans in the building. After a few futile efforts, Arsenal finally scored on a bit of a fluke own-goal in the 82nd minute, which drew a volley of cheers from. I joined the cheers, feeling like a bit of a phony because I don’t really care about the Premier League all that much. I’m a bigger fan of Football American style. However, Arsenal scored again seven minutes later on a beautiful cross and stunning finish by a guy named Rosicky. “Magical stuff!!” was the commentator’s choice of words. I agreed, smiling and cheering along with the rest of the footee fans.

That pretty much brings us up to date on today’s events. And, though somewhat unexciting, the day shot by as if out of a cannon. I guess that’s the way it works, though. Unfortunately, we will be driving straight through the night after the show in order to make a 7am ferry over to Belgium, and our next destination, the city of Brussels. I’m excited to find out whether or not they have actually cookies there like the Pepperidge Farm Brussels cookies, which are extremely delicious. ESPECIALLY when dipped in milk. I am somewhat sad to leave Manchester, only because it is a city made of visible history, and is full of total drunks. I hear that’s sort of par for the course around these parts. Anyways, tomorrow will take us onto the mainland of Europe, and Tuesday will bring us nothing short of AMSTERDAM. I hear marijuana is legal there.

paragraphs!

thanks to louise, who just showed me the light on how to make page breaks happen. hallelujah? (sp?)

god bless days off X2. funny stuff.

After last night’s somewhat botched attempt at meeting the locals, today proved entirely more fulfilling. I woke up gladly around 1pm, slightly hung-over but entirely well rested, and began my day. I walked towards Manchester Metropolitan University, taking pictures and I-podding it as I went, looking of course like a total sore thumb. I don’t mind looking foreign, especially because they seem to love yanks here in Manchester. I didn’t really expect that to be the case, but every person I asked regarding fun bars or interesting places to visit was entirely friendly and non-anti-American. I spent a little bit of time in the Manchester University Museum, which had an exhibit on the T-Rex, my favorite of the dinosaur family. Also at the museum was an exhibit entitled “Wild Britain,” featuring the not-so-exotic wildlife of the UK. It was made up of mostly birds and weird regular animals with funny names, but nothing really special. I left around 4 to make phone calls back to the states, waking my parents in LA to discuss the recent happenings in Glasgow and Manchester.

On my way back to the hotel, I stopped in at a bar called The Thirsty Scholar. I chose this place because there is a bar in NY on either 1st or 2nd avenue with the same name. As soon as I approached the bar to order to a pint, a cue ball-headed man named Joshua struck up a conversation. He began by saying, “you look good, man. How are you?” He didn’t seem homosexual to me, so I was in no way suspicious of his motives. He did, however, seem to be noticeably intoxicated. Now, I’ve heard a lot about the tendency towards day-time drunkenness around these parts, but until today hadn’t had a chance to confirm this rumor. Also, this interaction would prove to be my first actual conversation with a member of the Manchester community. My conversation progressed with this friendly, bald, drunken man, whose name I soon found to out to be Joshua. Fully, it’s Joshua Ben Joseph (upon rendering that info, his comment was “yeah I’m a big Jew…”). During the course of his ramblings, I found out that he is a musician/poet, a tarot-card reader by trade, and altogether a totally paranoid and partially psychotic human being. Four or five times he would begin sentences with, “I wouldn’t say this if I were sober, but I’m PISSED….so…..” and then finish them. He was a combination of totally confident in his place in the world and totally paranoid about it. In terms of his art, his conceit is to set the works of famous British poets to music in singer/songwriter form. He invited me to the third anniversary of the “Green Bohemia” evening tonight at a bar/venue right around the corner entitled the Green Room, and I gave him my solemn word that I would be there. Joshua needed someone to vent to today, and I was happy to be there for it. He kept on interrupting me when I would attempt to respond to his ramblings, only to then apologize, rubbing his bald head and closing his eyes, cursing his drunken imposition. He apologized at times for being too loud –which he was not- and for talking too much, and for spilling his guts out to a total stranger. He also repeated himself a lot - a trait true to a true drunk. He shook my hand four times, introducing himself and asking me my own name each time. I doubt he’ll remember it upon reuniting this evening. He also confessed to having a bit of a drinking problem, which I found both innocuous and somewhat tragic…as well as obvious. After last night’s scientific silence and observation, I was happy to meet a Mancunian (as they call themselves here) with a penance for conversation. Another thing he repeated was that many people meet him and ask him if he’s a “puff,” which is English for gay. His response to this subject: “But I’m not a puff. I may look like one, and I may dress like a puff, but I’m not a puff. I have a girlfriend! I love women!” He bought me my second round, a Maker’s Mark neat, and introduced me to a fellow musician friend of his named Kevin Fox. Kevin, upon shaking my hand, reached over and fixed my tie, bashfully muttering, “I’m sorry, I just had to…” He, too, proved to be a musician of the singer/songwriter type, and promptly gave me his promo CD. Both Kevin (Kev), and Joshua, are extremely talented. I implore you to peep their myspace profiles: myspace.com/joshuabenjoseph , myspace.com/kevfox . I sat and chatted with these two jolly lads for a good hour, taking some pics, drinking some pints, and generally having a good time. It’s now 9:19 here in Manchester, and I will soon be joining up with this merry crew again for a “proper” Manchester night. Hopefully my first impression of this city will be rectified. Tomorrow will mark the arrival of Brian, MBD’s drummer for these next two tours, and I am very excited for this. We will also again have a show tomorrow, and I greatly look forward to it. More information to come.

thank god for days off.

Seeing as we had no show in Manchester last night, i got to let my proverbial hair down for the first time since the tour started. We arrived at the hotel at around 6:30pm after suffering through a pretty tough bout of traffic on the M6, Manchester's version of the BQE. Our hotel is perfect, located in the heart of the Manchester downtown area, and for the first time i have the room completely to myself. I felt like a bit of a child once i got settled, jumping on the bed, having a pillow fight with myself, and even taking some silly pictures in the mirror. I dilly dallied (sp?) for a good three hours in my room before heading out into the great beyond known as Manchester City. The rain had let up by the time i left the hotel, although it was still bitter cold and a bit damp. I tried to mark a couple of initial landmarks right off the bat: the Manchester Public Library, Town Hall, and of course the address of my hotel on Lower Moseley Street. I chose a direction and went with it, initially looking for Peter street because of a recommendation from the zoftig red-haired lady at the reception desk. I didn't end up finding Peter Street, and instead found myself following the meandering drunks all walking in pairs and groups towards their Friday evening destinations. After a good twenty minutes on foot i became restless. When i saw a neon green sign for a place with the familiar title of "copa cabana," i aborted my walk and went inside. As i went down the flight of steps into the entrance of the club, i heard the all too familiar sounds of Tito Puente and his latin jazz orchestra. Not live, of course, but blaring over the PA. It actually could have been one of a million different other latin jazz artists, but the stereotype serves to prove my point here. Picture bongos and cowbell and trumpets blaring. This place was god-awful lame. Luckily I got to do my best fly-on-the-wall impression and stand at the bar ordering jack daniel's neat and pints of Carlsberg until i was tipsy enough to tolerate the ridiculousness of my environment. I stood at the far end of the bar, nearest the exit and the coatcheck, sipping gingerly and watching latin music videos on silent with a smirk on my face. I was conscious of a certain scientific attitude which overtook me, almost as if I was conducting field research for some experiment on the nature of a foreign world. Manchester is certainly that, above all else. The conclusions i came to in this ridiculous place, decked wall to wall with macro-sized neon Corona bottles and half-priced mojitos, did not bode well for a first impression of not-so-jolly Manchester: the people at the cabana dressed like idiots, danced like morons, and could be thought of as being generally attractive. For example, i saw a dude wearing a pink collared shirt with a picture of Che over his left breast, with the word "rebellious" written in arc from shoulder to shoulder on the back; i saw a man with a funny nose and what looked to be jerry curls, even though he was white; i saw a lot of tight, short, nylon dresses, a lot of gratuitous and tasteless makeup, and a lot of super-faux hipster hairdos. And, of course, a fair share of really bad dancing reminiscent of Elaine Bennis. PIcture me at the end of the bar, watching this scene unfold with a grin on my face and a drink in my hand. QUITE the scene. I can also say without a trace of trepidation that the music videos playing on silent on the monitors were the most ridiculous and comical pieces of entertainment - if you can call it that - that i've ever seen. The one that i first noticed upon entering depicted a ballet class. Between the shots of the ballet moves was footage of a bearded latino dude singing passionately behind a piano. The footage of the dancing class was ridiculous enough on its own, but the dancers soon began to sing along to the song of the man behind the piano. Before i knew it, the dancers and the singer were together in the dance studio, dancing like idiots and singing together. The second video one was even more vapid and uninteresting. It started out with a closeup of the volume knobs on a fender guitar amp being ever-so-carefully turned up, and then zoomed out to show the flaming troubadour and star of the video inside a subway station with his mustang guitar. I couldn't help but picture the process of filming this piece of trash, with the director in the background shouting directions and encouragement, and the singer trying his best to look his most creative, emotional, and enveloped in his rocking. R I D I C U L O U S. As he played, a train pulled up. Passengers disembarked, and there were closeups of the passengers' reactions to the song and to the deutschbag singing it. Some looked confused, some looked interested, and some looked like they didn't know what on earth was happening. The video progressed, sadly, to other scenes of public performance. The guy set his amp up in a cafe and began to sing. Then he moved into a library and began to sing. You can imagine my facial expression while watching all of this nonsense unfold. The other video i care enough to describe involved a lady singer in a chef's outfit chopping vegetables and preparing a meal in a domesticated kitchen setting. Her makeup was running to illustrate her tears and whatever emotional strain was contained within the lyrics of the song. The video then cut to a man tied up in the bedroom, struggling to free himself with a look of terror on his face. Keep in mind, however, that these fucking stupid videos were played on mute, and Tito-Puente-esque crap was playing in the background. The video ended with the man freeing his hands, but not his legs, hopping to the balcony of the apartment, and jumping off the balcony. After that, it cut again back to the singer chopping vegetables and crying (and lip-synching in spanish....). I guess i blame American culture for creating this pseudo-artistic medium which so blatantly bastardizes the essence and conceit of music, and turns it into this superficial mockery of coherent creative expression. FUCK M T V!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!. After a few more drinks and a few more terrible Latin Music videos by artists like Paulina Rubio and Shakira, I happily left the copa cabana without having muttered a word to anyone except the bartenders. I gathered myself, and picked a new direction to explore. Soon i came to a late night eatery selling pizza, fried chicken, "kebabs", and hamburgers. Happily, I paid 4 pounds for 1 piece of friend chicken and a chicken shwarma. I had to shout my order to be heard over the massive thumping of the subwoofers from the club next door, bumping what sounded like a combination of hip-hop and British grime rap. I ate quickly and happily, still thinking of bogus music videos and how they have ruined the music industry en masse. Since this eatery was actually NEXT DOOR to a club, i figured i would minimize my foot traffic and check it out. I've never really been a club type, as any one of my friends will confirm, but as i said before i was on a mission of scientific observation. I was determined. I don't remember the name of this next place, although it must have had something to do with roller skates because you could rent them out for a small price at the coat check. Maybe it's just me, but i'm of the opinion that combining alcohol consumption and being on wheels is a terrible idea. I mean, if drunk driving and drunk bicycling are illegal, shouldn't drunken rollerskating be illegal as well? They're not even rollerblades, which require a good deal less balance and physical coordination. They're rollerskates............which are really fucking hard to successfully operate without incident. My worries were confirmed when a hefty chick with blonde hair ran into me, cracked my shin, and fell to the floor giggling with jiggling, inebriated delight. Needless to say, I was not pleased. I had a couple drinks at the bar, snapped a couple of pictures of the club, bought a 1 pound shot of blue alcohol from a rollerskating shot-girl wearing bunny ears lined with blinking lights, smoked my first cigarette in 2.5 years, got my coat, and moved on not a moment too soon (the cigarette came out of my pure confusion and restlessness.... don't worry, mom and dad). As i departed, i aimed for the landmarks i had established on my way. I stopped at one last place near our hotel, the Obsidian Bar (don't ask me why i remember the name of this one and not the rollerskate club with the bunny eared shot girls). Here I drank one glass of Maker's Mark, because it was the first time i'd seen it over here in the UK. It reminded me of home, and warmed my soul. Speaking of home, i've found myself relatively homesick these past days. Perhaps it's the dreary grey of the Manchester sky, or the long drives, or the 3 hour sound checks with a drummer we'd only just met, but i'm lonely here. I miss home, i miss my friends, i miss the green sour patch kids, and i miss the firehouse. This all hit me like a ton of bricks as i left the Obsidian bar and limped back to the hotel thinking of NY. I went to bed texting my love across the pond and sulking about bad timing and postcards.

go bruins

yeah....that's poppa smurf watching UCLA beat USC. Represent. And as for the no paragraph situation, take it up with the blogger website. They don't allow that.....SO un-P R O. Mitchell, deal with it, you finnicky bitch.

me and my manchest-er

I hate reading anything that's not split up into paragraphs, so i apologize for not having that happening here....mitchell, that apology is for you....Pardon my momentary digression. Onto more urgent and pressing matters involving gray skies and flocks of sheep. My prediction of a killer show last night came true as i knew it would, as we pulled off a scorching and altogether wicked rendition of No Quarter as our encore. Another more comedic highlight of the performance was a botched monitor to stage jump during the song "freak out" (of course) by yours truly, as i landed in a puddle of my own mansweat, thereby slipping and falling on my ass. To recover, i executed a full backwards summersault into a prone position right in front of my amp, making it seem half way intentional. I believe we may have even captured it on tape, but i may move to destroy the evidence in order to salvage a bit of dignity. We also got to drink free single malt scotch the whole night, which proved worthwhile and delicious. Thank you Scotland. After the show, we headed back to our hotel and chatted together about the status of the world. The topics covered included global warming, the state of the music industry, and again why George W. is such a fucking monkey. Binzer seemed most passionate about the state of the environment, expressing the opinion that the U.S. as a country is on the whole more ignorant and blithe about waste management and recycling, and that the world is essentially going to hell in a handbasket. We all agreed. In terms of the music industry debate, i made the argument that creative pursuits have historically functioned in cycles, and that we are in for some sort of our own renaissance, as well as a change in the way musicians are capable of making money. I guess that's a bit of my blind optimism at work, but i really have no other choice but to be optimistic at this point. After all, i couldn't possibly do anything else....i don't have the patience, knowledge, wherewithal, or tolerance for authority that building a career in other field would require. Much to my parent's chagrin, I will probably and hopefully be a bassbum for life. As for the subject of George W. being a monkey, i need not delve into that realm. It's too easy. On a sadder note, i found out on BBC news this morning that Anna Nicole Smith has passed away into the great beyond. My condolences to Howard, her dog Sugar Pie, and anyone else in the Nicole-Smith clan. One wonders, however, if there is really anybody left in her family to mourn her. She was a hero to redneck, big-breasted, stupid women everywhere. She proved that even if you are too high to speak or sit up straight, you can still be famous and marry 80 year olds for their money; a true inspiration. This all seems to me like the first official death at the hands of "reality" TV, as we all guiltily watched her sad opera of the macabre unfold on E, as a fat woman, and then her subsequent transformation -with the help of TRIMSPA- back to the form she held during her soft porn days. I think she may have been one of the first naked women i ever saw on showtime as a kid, in a movie entitled "Skyscraper." If you haven't seen it, do, because there's a wicked sex scene or 45 in there that should provide an apt tribute to her creative contributions to the world. If you take offense to my tone, I understand. But she lived her life in a way that makes the cliche of the American Dream even more cliche, and almost makes me feel dirty. Actually, no. It makes me feel downright sinful for ever having seen Naked Gun 33 1/3 (or was is it 2 1/2). To be fair, i love those movies. And OJ was in them, so that's great too. Having one's morning start with that headline sets an odd precident for the rest of the day, as i'm sure you'll agree. Actually, i'm not sure when you all found out about that news given the nature of the time difference across the pond, but i'm sure the NY Post had a field day with the story. Anyways, we all arose around 10am slightly hungover from the single malt and the late night politics, hungry for a real breakfast. Binzer's flight left Glasgow at around 2, so he needed to be out by around noon, giving us a bit of time to eat kickass bacon egg and cheeses (yes, they have those here too). After breakfast, we sadly parted ways with the righteous Binzer and took to the streets of Glasgow for a lazy perambulation. Since Nuno, our faithful tour manager and resident road warrior, carried the responsibility of Binzer's ride to the airport, the walk consisted of myself, Shara, and James. The two of them are such a happy and extraordinary couple that it made me miss my own lady back home. Yes, i'm going to get sappy for a second here. Sue me. We stopped off in a little coffee shop for some warm beverages, and i took that opportunity to give Randi a ring, awakening her with kind words and sweetness. blah blah. I'm in disbelief right now, because she is the best thing that's happened to me in a while, and she has come along in a period in my life where almost everything else is going swimmingly - almost all of my boys from high school have made the migration east to the apple, i've found myself in several bands which are sustaining and validating my endeavors as a musician, my family is healthy and happy, and the world is still round. For my departure, Randi wrote me a haiku for every day I'd be away, laminated each one, and placed them in an amazing little box with a compass in the middle so i'd be able to symbolically know where home is. Tell me that's not the best gift a girl has ever presented a boy and i'll tell you are a fatuous ignoramus (look it up...). Nuno returned around 12:30, and we proceeded to load the gear, which we had luckily been able to leave at the venue over night, from the venue into the van. We got on the road at around 1:00 for jolly old England and our next destination, Manchester City. The drive south through the Scottish countryside was pristine as i had expected it to having made a similar trek on my first visit here, even in spite of the grey overcast skies and the spots of rain. My highlight of the drive happened as we stopped off for gas (petrol, as they refer to it in the UK) and got a chance for a sweet photo opportunity with the silliest flock of sheep i've ever seen in my life. I walked up to the fence with my camera and they began to sheepisly (!)retreat until i offered up a vigorous BAAAAAAAAH......which seemed to freeze them in their tracks. I got a couple great shots of the silly creatures, with each one of them looking straight at me in a funny little formation, and each of them with a full winter coat of fluffy, goofy wool. I tried that whole mantra that Babe the magical shepherd pig learns in that movie, but they didn't seem interested. For the record, if you haven't seen the movie Babe, then you're not my friend. As we got closer to the border with England, the weather grew even more dark and depressing. Today's guest DJ was James, who spun an eclectic mixture of stuff. My favorites included the Archie Bronson Outfit, Psapp, I love you but I've chosen darkness (yes, that's the actual band name), and the solo work of one Earl Harvin, who is the studio stud responsible for the drumming on the MBD album "Bring Me the Workhorse," and the forthcoming album "1,000 Shark's Teeth." I recommend checking out this stuff, because it's all fucking amazing. Earl's stuff is available on myspace at myspace.com/earlharvin. Represent. I took a little snooze for the last leg of our trip, dreaming of things i can't now recall. I have today and tomorrow off in dreary Manchester, and as it is now friday evening and around GO TIME, I will be signing off to make my best attempt at getting embarrassing at the surrounding water holes. I will do my best to get a feel for the scene, and perhaps meet some locals. Perhaps some yocals, too.