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.