Reflections on second European Inferno tour

It has been almost two weeks since I left Europe, and even longer since tour ended. I somehow posted twenty-seven blog entries, which hopefully paints a thorough picture of my travels over there. Even so, I figured I might as well make some general observations about the whole experience now that the dust has settled. Twenty-five shows in twenty-six days in seven countries is a lot, especially touring with a band whose situation hovers capriciously between DIY and professional. Surely, so many adventures cannot fit within the constraints of a blog, so there are little anecdotes that slipped my memory when posts were written, as well as observations that took time to form themselves. Towards the end of the month, I certainly found myself dreading the day when I would wake up and no longer be on tour, yet I seem to be adjusting fine so far. Then again, I have purposefully structured my life so that there really is no “normal” to which I return – in some ways, the tour is never over.

During tour, I took about twelve hundred photos. Looking at these during my brief visit to Chicago, my family pointed out that I used to take many more pictures with people in them, ones which told a story about the place I was visiting. I suppose that being in each city only one day on this tour made me inclined to take more detached pictures, since I am basically a tourist, even if by no fault of my own. As I showed them my photos, I realized that the stream of pictures consisted mostly of old architecture, graffiti, stickers, and myself. I suppose it’s a result of trying to make sense of the world around me as well as myself amid the chaos of tour.

I’m trying to recall some choice moments. So, our new 7” live recording from the Hallowmas video shoot last year had been delivered to the band just before we reached Poland, which meant there was finally something on the merch table which represented the current line up. People often ask the band to sign records at the shows, even though most of us are not on the recordings. It should come as no surprise that the first time someone asked me to sign one of these new items was such a high – autographing a record which I am actually on for the first time after two years with the band. Another memorable moment came earlier in the tour. I was hanging out after our show in Aalborg, where I had been chatting up the sound guys all night, who then switched to being bartenders after our set. One of them selected something on his ipod and pointed at me, but I continued chatting with the promoter’s girlfriend at our end of the bar and thought nothing of it. I turned towards the bar to face my drink just as the song hit the chorus, and was face-to-face with both of them as they sang the whole refrain of “Man Eater” to me while trying to suppress their own laughter. I will be the first to admit that this was totally warranted, but it was still an impressive (and adorable) reaction from people I had only known for a handful of hours. Then again, how long do I really know most people I meet on tour?

Let’s see, what else can I say about tour which hasn’t already been said? One new development on this visit to Europe was that traveling East of any of my European ancestry has made me appreciate my German heritage more than ever, just as traveling abroad has in a strange way made me appreciate my nationality over the years. After spending so much time in France after tour, I really missed speaking French, although it was nice to speak English the way I used to. In Europe, I find myself tempering my native language, speaking slower and more simply, even toning down my accent. By the end, I was even making the same grammatical mistakes as the locals who spoke English as a second or third language. I was also impressed with the amount of alternative energy sources I saw everywhere around us, including crop fields of solar panels on the side of the road. I ate a lot of really terrible potato chip flavours, deciding at the end that gourmet wasabi had won the contest. I also came out of tour with nicotine withdrawal after a straight month of smoking other people’s cigarettes through my saxophone. Speaking of my questionable health, my menstrual cycle was a mess. Women tend to sync up with other women, especially if they spend a lot of time in the same space, and my body is extremely sensitive in general. Let’s just say, there are three women in my band, so you do the math. Iimitation is the most sincere form of flattery? My Croatian squatter friend told me that my blog has gotten more bold and sassy (my words, not his) since last year, which I was definitely glad to hear. I have definitely begun to censor myself less as time has gone on, especially in the last few months, so please pardon all the menstruation talk.

Now for a rant. I spent parts of several van rides reading the Sidney Bechet autobiography which our pianist read last European tour. I am lousy with finishing books anyway, so it was clearly going to be a losing battle to get to the end of it. I usually like life stories when they tell of their humble beginnings, the wide-eyed introductions to the world that would someday become theirs, so I suppose I wasn’t too worried about only making it halfway through the book. It also got me listening to a “Chicago Style” album which somehow found its way onto my memory card of sheet music. Somehow I couldn’t find my Bechet albums, though. When people ask for my favourite jazz saxophone player, my standard answer is Sydney Bechet. This is not what most people are expecting and, especially in New York City, it isn’t the answer they want to hear. If somebody asks this question, it’s usually because they want to show off their inane knowledge of bebop. I know exactly who they want me to say, but honestly I’d rather to listen to one of the foremost bari players than the giants they want me to name, but I tell them someone like Bechet and they shut right up. Honestly, though, I agree with an old man from Harlem who I met at a swing dance club back in college – “I don’t like Jazz after it killed dancing.” It’s as though, once rock-and-roll showed up on the scene, jazz panicked and tried to make itself somehow more special, eventually becoming something you were “supposed” to learn how to do in school. Granted, some really fantastic stuff came out of the transition era out of swing, and even in the beat era, audiences got really wild in jazz clubs. Somehow, though, punk/hardcore/metal/what-have-you took over this chaotic role and jazz grew into something elite that you paid money to sit and stare at. Also, once jazz became more white and mainstream, there was a long stretch of time where jazz featured very few women compared to its early days. So yes, I have a lot of issues with jazz in the last half of the twentieth century. There are still people learning old jazz the traditional way, but there are also a lot of snobs out there who wouldn’t give most of the original jazz musicians the time of day if they showed up in a modern club.

That’s all for now, I might add more to this post at some point; memories come in waves.

For further insight, our violinist put an awesome map of where we were touring on her blog:

https://maps.google.com/maps/ms?msid=214442426263293060143.0004c7dd58cf71f39e4b3&msa=0

(Of course, Kassel is a lie!)

Paris and Sweet Home Chicago

Visiting Rouen on a Friday night was pretty fun, and a lot less hectic than where I otherwise would have been. Saturday afternoon in Paris was exactly my speed, however. I had made plans to meet up with a friend from high school, with whom I’ve become closer since we both found ourselves playing cabaret and Balkan music as adults. I had suggested we meet out front of a chain coffee shop in the station, so of course we waited at two separate ones. Finally, we found each other and headed out for lunch. Shortly after we started on our way, we walked past a lingerie store and immediately got drawn in. It had been years since we’d hung out, yet there we were ignoring each other in the interest of lingerie – which we agreed was a testament to the lasting bonds of friendship. I bought a very inexpensive but excessively frilly bra, feeling unreasonably psyched about finally having lingerie from Paris. At this point, we were both very hungry and stopped into a tapas place she liked, where she treated me to lunch and sangria, finishing with shot glasses of espresso and dessert samples. There was a lot to catch up on, so we took a long walk towards the hip part of town, stopping for more espresso on the sidewalk.

My friend finally left me at an outdoor market full of mostly antiques, which was on the way to the neighborhood with all the cool bars. I had some vague plans to meet up with my German friend, but had a feeling I would probably make a new one by the time I got out of the market. I talked to a guy I thought I might know, but he turned out to be from New Zealand. Another guy heard us speaking English and joined in the conversation, and wound up accompanying me around the market. It didn’t hurt that he had bags full of artisanal sausages and Turkish delight… indeed, a stranger with candy. It turned out that he was an American who had moved there to work for a French video game design company, and we spent a while hanging out on a park bench watching hipsters play bocci ball and drink beers, discussing geek culture. Somehow, I wound up being taken to a Cuban place for fancy happy hour cocktails and appetizers. I also discovered Orangina and red wine, although it was an early night for me. My German friend had invited me to see a punk show at a squat, but after a straight month of doing that every night, this wasn’t how I wanted to spend my Saturday.

At this point, my belongings were spread around Paris between two friends’ places and what I carried on my back. My friend from high school had offered to take my sax to her place, but four locations seemed even more daunting. The new clothing and underwear I had bought in the last couple of days came in handy indeed. I managed to make it to the hotel on the other side of the city just in time to meet my friend before he left and grab my smaller bag. He was meeting his co-workers to do a bit of sightseeing, and via their cabs and some walking, I made my way back to my French friend’s apartment near the Eiffel Tower.

I convinced the cafe on the corner to let me call my friend on their phone and he let me into the old courtyard building where he lives. When I walked in, he was listening to WWOZ, streaming live from New Orleans on the internet. We finished his bottle of wine and had a lovely and relaxing bit of afternoon, finally getting tempted outside by the gorgeous weather. We took a long walk down to the Seine, where we met my hilarious Croatian squatter friend (who teases me about reading my blog; hello there) at Shakespeare and Company. That’s something I’ve never done which has always been on my radar, work at the bookstore for a nook in which to sleep. We didn’t have a lot of time to hang out, as he was trying to get into a concert that night, but he bought me a falafel and we hung out by the water for a little while. I had met him on our previous European tour, but he hadn’t made it to any of our shows this time. He emailed me randomly after tour ended, so when I wrote back I asked if he was in Paris, since he is also a traveler and could be anywhere at any given time. Sure enough, he was.

We parted ways at the subway, and I followed the sights and sounds of what appeared to be a rock show up the street, soon discovering that it was in fact a massive sound parade traveling down the street. The event was called Solidarite Sida and consisted of a number of stages rolling along with different bands playing for the spectators and the clusters of crowds who walked alongside. Alas, I had missed La Rue Ketanou earlier that afternoon. I followed the stages for a little while, practically retracing my tourism steps from earlier that day, when the Germans and I had walked through the courtyard of the Louvre, taking the obligatory photographs. Now, though, everyone walked past it on the street as though it was nothing too special. From the back, though, it does blend into the streets more than I had expected. Suddenly, the music was over and the crowds thickened as the rest of the revelers caught up to the stopped parade. I was on the wrong side of the street from where I need to be and got stuck in what was essentially the worst mosh pit ever. Fences went up and pushed everyone together, it was pretty awful and more similar to a protest than anything else I’ve ever seen. In Paris, though, even the riot cops are more fashionable than the Americans. Finally, the crowd was allowed back onto the street, and I hurried back to Notre Dame to meet my friend.

My friend from high school had suggested having a picnic dinner by the canal, and sure enough she met me at the cathedral with a bag of food and wine. We strolled over to the canal and found a nice bench and spent a long while there talking and eating. She had made incredible quiche and peanut butter chocolate cookies, plus we polished off a bottle of red wine. It felt like the perfect thing to do in Paris. I remembered my picnic under the Eiffel Tower after the Velorution, on my last lengthy stay in that city a couple years ago. After we finished, I walked her to her adorable attic apartment, which is randomly in the red light district, where I finally got to meet her boyfriend. She then showed me the way to the opera house, on whose steps I was supposed to meet my Croatian friend. She surprised both of us with her knowledge of the language. He was staying at a large squat just outside of Paris which I was curious to see, so again I stayed somewhere different for one night. After a subway ride and quite a bit of walking, we reached a rather nondescript-looking building. While we waited to be let in, we shared a Belgian beer on the steps. I was Orkestar Ziveli posters everywhere and later found out that this is where they rehearse.

The squat was far larger on the inside than it seemed from the street, which was lined with quite average-looking houses. After meeting some of the residents, who were gathered in the kitchen, I got a tour of the different floors of the building. It was vast, with a rehearsal space, free box area, large yet cozy common kitchen, various rooms and guest areas, and who knows what else. We wound up sleeping in the nicer of the two options, as the large sleeping room was full of folks who had just come off of the wine grape harvest. In the morning, I awoke feeling splendid, realizing how much better this felt than any of the fancier homes I had woken up in over the past several days.

My friend was trying to get an early start on hitchhiking to Barcelona for a festival, while I was planning to spend some of the afternoon wandering around Paris. Of course, despite only slightly sleeping in, we both got wrapped up in the leisurely morning routine common to communal living. We had coffee with the folks upstairs, he made couscous in the kitchen for breakfast, we headed to the spacious rooftop garden patio and had more strong espresso, then moved onto the infinite supply of dumpstered peaces, pears, and avocados. I met a lot of really cool people and spent a lot of time talking with the Italians who lived there. They were quite disappointed that I was only staying one night, insisting that they needed an English coach in the house. I will just have to visit them again next time, I suppose. I would certainly like to meet their resident Balkan brass band.

As we were getting ready to leave, I met a French guy who was staying there momentarily. He had seemed sad all morning, so I insisted that he come with me on an adventure. I had given up on making it up to Montmartre during this trip, but he had never see the other squat I was headed to, so we made a plan. We accompanied my Croatian friend onto the subway, then split ways with him as we headed to Pere Lachaise, a beautiful old cemetery on the way to our destination. Since we were there, we checked out Jim Morrison’s grave, at which point the security guards made us throw out our beer. I suppose one shouldn’t be drinking a beer in a cemetery in the middle of the afternoon, even if it is France and one is visiting a rockstar’s grave. We crossed the entire cemetery, finishing up at the Holocaust memorials. Somber, we headed back out into the bustling city.

After a stop at a supermarche for supplies, including a giant bottle of vile black Orangina which I soon abandoned, we headed for Le Miroiterie, a long-lasting squat which is soon going to close. When I had been invited to a show there a couple of nights before, I hadn’t realized that it was the same place where my band had played in Paris before I joined. This had made me extra keen to check it out. We weren’t sure that anyone would be there, but we decided to try anyway. Sure enough, the gates were open, and we soon found some folks to chat with. Once I told them I was in World/Inferno, we got into a lengthy discussion over beers and a tub of licorice. The stage is decently sized but the room is otherwise small. Between getting lost repeatedly, lacking a phone, not finding wifi, and getting distracted, I found myself on the brink of standing up my high school friend, who I was supposed to help shop for a touring bike that evening. Via email, we finally decided it was too crazy to meet up that night and made a raincheck for whenever we wind up in the same city again.

My new French friend and I had meanwhile wound up at some sort of jazz bar, where we drank Cuban liquor with the friendly staff and patrons. It was a Sunday evening, so the scene was very relaxed. We then set out on a long walk towards where I stayed, hit a far too hip yet alright bar that had Chimay on tap, then grabbed tepid food at an Asian takeout place. It was a fun adventure on my last night in town. Sometimes hanging out with a total stranger is the ideal way to leave a city; goodbyes are much easier this way. Eventually, he had to head back to the squat before folks there fell asleep, so I set out on a six kilometer walk to where I was staying. It was too beautiful of a night to take the subway. I happened to pass the bar which I had visited when I first arrived in Paris, and my phone still remembered the wifi code, so I stood around outside for a bit. Eventually, I was rewarded with the sight of Notre Dame at night. An Italian man asked me to light his cigarette, eventually admitting that it was simply a way to get to talk to me. I confided that I don’t even smoke, so the only reason I carry the lighter is to have another way to meet new people. I then realized he thought I was hitting on him, so I excused myself and continued walking. I arrived back at the apartment just as it began to rain.

In the morning, my friend and I woke up wearily and headed out to our respective paths for the day. He rode part of the way with me on the subway, then headed to work. The train was a very easy way to get to the airport. I arrived with just enough time for my flight to buy a bottle of duty-free calvados from Normandy for my mother. On the plane ride home, I chatted at length with the Lebanese model sitting beside me, who also believes in optimistically summoning your own future reality. Still not sleepy, I watched a major film which features one of the Broadway kids I have nannied. After this and a particularly dinner-like lunch, I set about building this post, which I inevitably didn’t finish. I managed not to sleep the entire flight, which boded well for avoiding massive jetlag.

Once I arrived in Chicago, I took the subway down to my old high school to meet up with my mother, who teaches there. It was the perfect sort of homecoming. That night, we ordered in Thai food and had a relaxing early night. The next day, she had to work, so I did laundry and began to repack my bags. Despite being in Chicago for only 48 hours, I found myself comforted by tour routines like working on my blog. In some ways, this brief piece of home in such a length of travel was more than I could process and every moment seemed like something I was supposed to be treasuring. Meanwhile, I was supposed to be unpacking for tour while simultaneously packing for the next. Having a phone again after a month was fairly distracting as well, although I limited myself to texting. Somehow, even with a long dinner with my uncle, plus showing them both all of my photos from the trip, I got myself packed by the next afternoon. It had been wonderful to not leave the building the whole time I was home, only going downstairs to do laundry or to hang out with my friends who live on the bottom floor. Forty-eight hours later, I was getting dropped off back at O’Hare airport and heading to Boston.

No Show: Retreat to France

Alright, now that I’ve left Paris, I’ll get to explaining this whole off-the-grid donkey farm adventure, as well as the rest of my post-tour time in France. As I mentioned before, the sound guy from Berlin made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. He took off work, borrowed his mother’s new little car, and scooped me up on the last night of tour. We flip-flopped all evening about how far we would make it that night. The band was driving towards Frankfurt and staying at a hotel near the airport, so either of us sleeping at the venue was out of the question, but getting a hotel seemed like a waste of money. We alternated between sleeping in a car right there in the parking lot and driving all the way to the farm that night. No amount of treats from the green room were able to keep me awake once the car started moving, so I slept for the first bit of driving. We finally settled on the idea of making it as far as possible and finding somewhere historically interesting to park. I had never been to Saarbrucken, a city near the border which was once French, so we finally aimed for that. We picked a place near the river in an empty cobblestone lot beside a very old cathedral. We awoke to a beautiful view, as well as a lot full of cars and a construction worker going about his business. We rolled out of our respective sides of the car and headed to the nearby museum to find the bathroom. We explored the town a bit and soon got on the road in search of a bakery; I got tuna quiche in honor of our drive through Lorraine. We had decided to take the scenic (and free!) rural highway and somehow found nowhere to buy coffee until we were quite close to our destination. We stopped for typical French lunch in a small village, gladly realizing that we both spoke French equally well.

Indeed, it was good thinking to eat before we arrived at the donkey farm, as it took a while to sort out the keys for our cabin. My companion’s friend was out of town, so it was a family project to get us checked in. We had a nice long chat with the owner’s sister over coffee, almost entirely in French. Despite all of our running around in flash storms after the cafe and upon arrival at the farm, once we were in the cabin, the sun came out and it was a beautiful day – one which I immediately tried to sleep through. While I was quite opposed to the idea at the time, my friend thankfully woke me up within the hour and insisted I head up the hill and enjoy the view over cups of coffee. There would be time to sleep when the rain returned. Eventually, we realized that we needed to start looking for a supermarket before they all closed. We eased back into the technologically advanced VW, in which we had woken up only twelve hours ago, and I put on the Boban/Marko Markovich CD I had bought for next-to-nothing at a Serbian gas station. Nothing says reckless driving in a small, fast car through the countryside quite like Balkan brass band music.

Sure enough, we had just missed the closest supermarket, or so we were told by a local, and wound up driving about a half hour to find another. It was fun to see the villages along the way, and we finally arrived at a massive grocery and whatnot superstore. It was about fifteen minutes until closing, so we divided up the items and sprinted in opposite directions. French food products, particularly after a month of only German and Eastern European options, were quite thrilling. In fact, it is rare that one even gets to perform the ritual of buying groceries while on tour, so the immense shop was overwhelming in a very fun way. Normally I can’t stand grocery shopping in chain supermarkets, but this was all so new and different, plus the time constraint made it feel like a game. Two products which I was particularly keen to find again were Bliss smoothies (which are from France, so reasonably priced there) and Orangina (which comes in far more weird, pulp-filled flavours than anyone else realizes). Our tour path had filled my annual desire for bitter lemon Schwepps, and now I was getting my juice fix. On this grocery trip, beside beverages, we did pretty well – hazelnut goat yoghurt, pumpkin soup, good lettuce, yoghurt shooters, hearty bread, decent red wine, and passable espresso – all for about ten euros. Soon enough we were back in the cabin and improvising a delicious dinner over the wood stove.

In fact, we fixed everything including coffee on that wood-burning stove, which kept the cabin blissfully warm all our entire visit. I also managed to hand wash just enough dirty clothes to last me the rest of my visit in Europe and dried them beside the fire. There is nothing I like better after tour than hiding away somewhere and leaving the bed for nothing but simple domestic tasks. It’s such a stark contrast to the exciting frenzy of tour, plus it’s awful nice to take care of myself once in a while. I even ignored my computer entirely for the first day, and I was so relaxed.

I’ve been referring to this as an “off-the-grid donkey farm” but really it was more of a hostel with pet donkeys. As I understood it, they do serve the purpose of weeding the fields, enabling the healthy growth of a variety of rare orchids. Every time I tried to explain my experience to folks in Paris, their first reaction would be “Un ferm de sange?!” While, a monkey farm would have been pretty incredible, I still couldn’t bring myself to call it an “ass farm” in order to avoid confusion. It wasn’t until the next day that I got to see the donkeys, who were hanging out near the cabin when I woke up at a respectfully late hour. I padded out onto the wet patio and could see our damp friends under a nearby tree. Eventually, after a lazy afternoon, the weather cleared and we headed to a field where we had been told we might find them hanging out. It was incredible! At first they were pretty unconcerned with our presence, but once we started feeding them apples they warmed right up. I had no idea how friendly and adorable they could be. One even took me for a playmate and lightly nipped me on the rump. This was when we decided it was time to flee. I had more fun playing with the donkeys than I could have imagined. I’ve even modified my life plan slightly. Some day, I’m going to have chickens for eggs, goats for milk… and donkeys for cuddling.

On the way back to the cabin, we picked a few vegetables from the abundant garden to add to our dinner. We then headed into the nearest town before the store closed. We got supplies for dinner and breakfast the next morning, grateful that our trip to the huge supermarket the night before had been cut so short, as the variety of French products was overwhelming. Dinner was slightly ambitious. We soaked a bunch of couscous, added muscat and golden raisins, cooked the veggies in a pan with oil from the olives and feta we had bought, threw in the couscous to heat it, then I hollowed out large figs and stuffed them. We brought one to the mother of the owner the next day so that she could try it, and she cut it into quarters, which is something I somehow had not thought of. Anyway, enough about food…

The Gite Soleole was an awesome place to rest after tour for so many reasons, including its tranquility, location, and the company of my awesome friend. I was also thrilled to be staying at an off-the-grid hostel, whose electricity came simply from small wind turbines and solar panels. On our last day there, after we had packed and said goodbye to the cabin which had been our cozy home for a few days – the longest I had stayed anywhere in a month – we headed up to the yurt to visit its resident, a Frenchman who has lived there four years. It was humble on the outside, aside from the intricately decorated door, but incredible on the inside. It was about as big as most New York studio apartments, but far better. The round walls were lined with everything from a bed to an artist work station, while the middle hosted the stove and assorted kitchen items. I felt that I could live happily in something like this some day.

We hung out in the yurt longer than expected, enjoying the company of our new friend over a glass of wine, practicing our French as well, and finally got on the road before evening. The original plan had been for him to drop me off in Metz, where I would catch the train, but we decided that it would be fun to spend a few more hours hanging out on the way to Paris. If he drove, I would pay tolls and play my saxophone for a little while in the car. On the way, though, we got to check out the city of Metz briefly, driving up to find its cathedral. The drive to Paris was actually much longer than the train, unlike what I’m used to in the US where driving is often faster, but it was far more fun this way I’m sure. We stopped along the way for espresso at a gas station and made it into the city not terribly late. We drove along the Seine past Notre Dame, which is always a pretty sight at night, and eventually found my friend’s apartment despite our lack of a GPS. It was hard to say goodbye after spending several days together, a luxury I so rarely get, and having no idea when we might see each other again. It had been an incredible little vacation and I couldn’t have asked for a better person to spend it with, we had such a lovely time.

I stopped in just to drop off my bag and have a drink with my French friend who I usually stay with, but who had to leave for work early. We met when we both stayed at a cold New Orleans squat several years ago during Mardi Gras. I then headed to stay with a friend from Berlin who was in town for work and staying at a very nice hotel, which he was going to let me hang out in the whole next day while he was working. His expense account paid for a cab, and I arrived to find him leaning against a lamp post, smoking a cigarette while he waited. As I exited the taxi, I had to laugh at the cinema-grade absurdity of my life at times like these.

I slept until well past noon the next day, then lazily tended to matters on the internet. After a couple of hours, I got up to bathe. The tub was so incredible that I took a shower, then a bath, then another shower. At the end of the bath, I laid in the immense tub and let the warm water drain off my body, feeling all of the leftover grime of a dozen distant squats melt away. I felt fresher than ever, although cleaning a month’s worth of Eastern European cigarette smoke out of my ear canals was a task in itself. I didn’t need pampering after tour, I needed an overhaul. I made myself some instant coffee and set to getting some writing done, alone and wrapped in a towel on a king sized bed. It was just as luxurious, yet a world away from the farm princess I had been just twenty-four hours earlier.

I felt a remarkable lack of remorse for spending my first day in Paris indoors. I rested myself and got some work done on the internet, taking breaks to stare out the window at the monuments of Paris – the Eiffel Tower in the rain, the Eiffel Tower in the sun, the Eiffel tower clouded in fog. I could even see Montmartre in the distance. I was content simply knowing I was in Paris. While the donkey farm had been relaxing, I was still in need of a day of alone time. I was still working on writing by the time my friend got back to the hotel. The poor guy had been working on his feet all day at a convention, and here I was lying around, all wrapped in luxury. We got ready and went to a French diner around the corner, where we shared the same sort of steak/frites/salad meal I’d split when I first arrived in France. I can’t even remember what I found to eat in France when I was still a vegetarian. We joined a couple of his friends for dinner there, then met up later at their new favourite bar in a hip part of town, taking a walk to hit up a bakery while we waited for them, then all going to another bar afterwards. I had a Kir Royal, as it seemed the thing to do in Paris, and convinced my friend to likewise drink Pastis, which he soon abandoned to my care. It was hilarious to be hanging out with a bunch of Germans so soon after tour. We encountered a group of hipsters at the bar and they bemoaned how it reminded of them of Berlin. “Do you have hipsters in New York?” … Yeah, I’m still laughing about that one.

The next day we both slept in a bit, although I still had no job to rush off to in a suit. My American friend had tipped me off about the outdoor market in the Place d’Italy, which is exactly where I went once I left the hotel. After spending most of the previous day in bed, I was glad to get out of the room. I immediately found a lady selling clothing she designed and had manufactured for her in India, all of organic cotton, and bought four items for only twenty euros. While half of them were destined for my mother, I wound up wearing all of these items before I finally reunited with my bag back at the hotel two days later. A little more cheap shopping and some fresh fruit later, I was on a quest for wifi. I finally found a sympathetic waiter outside of a cafe, got the code, and read the email I had been waiting for. My friends in Rouen indeed wanted me to come visit that day, so off I went to the train station on the Metro. The trip wound up being rather hectic, especially because of my lack of a mobile phone, and I was reminded of how spoiled I’ve gotten touring in a band where all of the details are taken care of for us. Finally, after arriving in Rouen less than a few hours after reading the email in Paris, I found a cafe with wifi; a cup of coffee and suddenly the world slows down and makes sense.

My friends from Nuage Magique, who I had gotten to play with us in the May Day parade back in NYC, picked me up from the station in a car and drove me through the winding streets towards the cathedral. They had insisted that it was a beautiful old city when they invited me to visit, and indeed it was true. We parked and walked to the cathedral, which was as beautiful as promised. I took a ton of photos and went inside for a change. One of them brought his little daughter, who was adorably loud as we wandered the church. It was funny to be hanging out with a one year old. We checked out a few more historic buildings on our short walk to their favourite bar.

I was intrigued by the threat of drinking a French bloody mary, so we all ordered them. They were pretty weak compared to the ones I’m used to, but it was still novel to be drinking one on the  cobblestone streets of a sixteenth century city. I caught up with the guys for a bit before the one with the daughter had to head off with her and the baby. The drummer and I headed to an Afghani restaurant next door. He had offered to treat me to dinner and drinks if I bought train tickets to go there, and indeed he did. We had delicious appetizers and entrees and a decent bottle of wine and ate outside on the street, as the French seem to prefer. Afterwards, it was back to the bar, where the tuba player joined us again and we hung out with their hilarious friends. That night, I slept in an old building, out the window of which I could see countless old houses. In the morning, on the way to the train, we stopped at the beauty shop and record shop which his friend owns, where she made us coffee. It was quite impressive, with a split level patio waiting room. Soon, it was back on a train and off to Paris again, but this time my commute was far easier and I even made a new friend while I was buying my ticket in the station.

 

Next up, the rest of my visit in Paris and my 48 hours in Chicago!

Show 25: Schlafthoff; Wiesbaden, Germany

The name of the venue basically means “slaughterhouse” – the building’s original use many years ago. It is, understandably, a pretty creepy place. Come to think of it, the name of the city has the word “bad” in it as well. Despite stories about fights breaking out at the last show there (before I joined the band!), the evening turned out pretty well. What was really odd was playing a huge squat festival, a reunion-style private party, and yet ending our tour with a very ordinary show in a smaller German city. In many ways, it was anticlimactic and confusing. Barring any of that, it was a generally good show.

Since the band had last played there, a new building went up, making parking rather confusing. We finally settled on a spot and found our way inside the building. The stage and room were surprisingly small compared to the massive complex. Load in was pretty bizarre, since we had to pull everything through the main slaughterhouse building, with its giant arches and cavernous reaches. On the other side of the doors, though, was a cozy shotgun backstage, with several rooms leading into the next and the usual German club hospitality. Through the band’s friend whom we had celebrated the night before, we wound up with an American opening band. It was really strange and sweet to be twenty-five shows into a tour and sharing a greenroom with a band who had just started out on the road, some of whom had never toured Europe before. I taught the girls how to text using wifi on their smartphones and they were thrilled beyond belief.

It was difficult to enter the audience from backstage, so I couldn’t actually see most of the opening set, although I heard it. It was cool to be sharing the stage with a band which was all girls except for one boy. We went out to a decently-sized crowd. For once, the Germans had an excuse for not dancing, since the floor in front of the stage was made of flat metal sheeting. As I said, no show could have lived up to our experiences the past two days, as well as a week of non-German audiences (for better and for worse), so while it was a good show with a happy audience, it was strange in a way. The set list was quite good, although it was a shame we didn’t get to do a second encore and play the song about Germany.

Some fun friends of the band who I had met previously were there for the show, as well as the awesome ladies who had put on our show in Heidelberg. After we finished, I joined all of them out in the garden, along with the sound guy from Berlin, who had driven all the way there to see the band and whisk me away to France. Our accordionist knew people in town, so we joined them out at the picnic tables for drinks afterward. It still didn’t quite feel like the last night of tour, except for the fact that I was very tired. Last year’s final show had been so epic, full of old friends and weird intoxication and a wild afterparty, that there was no way a normal show could come close to matching it. Then again, it might have been a clever tactical move, considering everyone was a sleepless drunken mess on the flight home last year. Load out was very slow and we took our time saying goodbyes.

After hanging out on that day off in Berlin, the sound guy and I had tried to figure out a way to hang out again before tour ended. It turned out that his friend owns a quaint hostel on a donkey farm on the way to Paris from Weisbaden, so we planned a silly road trip. The more worn out I felt as tour wrapped up, the better a few leisurely days in the French countryside sounded. I also really enjoyed telling everyone I was going to a French donkey farm instead of the Frankfurt airport. After the show, I gradually moved my stuff from backstage into my friend’s car, finally getting around to saying farewells. I saw them all sitting in the van without me and felt a kind of loss. “This feels like… what is it called when you leave the womb?” What I meant was some sort of separation anxiety, but they shot back “Living!” Well, actually, the accordionist yelled “birth” and then slapped me like a newborn baby. Okay, so maybe I wouldn’t miss them quite as much as I thought…

Show 24: Surprise Party; Hafenklang; Hamburg, Germany

I gradually fell asleep in my haze of nostalgia after Zoro Fest and woke up to a double rainbow over circus tents in Hamburg. We were making another stop at the music shop, but this time our van driver would not be abandoning one-third of the band there. It was a short stop for some bits of drum hardware which had gone missing the night before, and we were soon on our way to the venue. This show was a strange one. In reality, it was the reason we had come to Europe – a surprise birthday party for the man who had originally been responsible for the band touring Europe in the first place, so many years ago. We would be playing a small set during the party, which was being held – strangely enough – in the upstairs of the venue where we had played in Hamburg not so long ago.

We were all a bit worse for the wear at this point on tour, as well as looking – understandably – like we had been napping in a van all day. Our arrival at the party was therefore pretty low-key, but it was still before the surprise part. I awkwardly ate some chips and had some coffee, trying to wake up. Once the man of honor arrived, I headed off for a bit of a walk before the sun set. For a change, I headed along the waterfront for a while, admiring the harbour.

I inevitably wound up at the Kogge (Rock ‘n’ Roll Hotel), where I found myself having the inevitable conversation about gentrification in the neighborhood with a charming drunk couple who had been sitting with my friend when I arrived. The way the guy described the rich kids coming in from other cities, adopting the local habits which suited them and trying to banish the rest, bringing in their fiercer laws and foreign morals (along with an unsympathetic police force), made gentrification sound a whole lot like colonialism – a thought which had never occurred to me. If you haven’t already noticed, I have a life-long obsession with class systems and self-imposed cultural identities, so this was an overwhelming realization. Granted, although gentrification often starts out with a mixture of artists moving into largely non-white neighborhoods, gentrification comes nowhere near the racial and religious oppression involved in colonialism. However, if you look at it in terms of class and economic status, it is still a case of self-appointed imperial powers slumming it in the savage lands in order to benefit from their resources – abundant land, exotic items, fetishizeable culture. Just look at St. Pauli. It was disgusting to me when I experienced it first-hand as a small child and it only gets more abhorrent the older I get. I walked back to the club, watching the moon over the harbour and getting Three Penny Opera songs stuck in my head.

When I arrived back at the party, things were much more drunk and festive. I laughed at the record number of thick-framed glasses in the room. I had sadly missed the first act, with whom I would later make friends, but arrived just in time for our frontman’s acoustic set. It was quite good. I hung out with a lot of familiar faces from our various shows, including the promoter from Aalborg and his awesome girlfriend, who had traveled quite a ways to be there. The band had planned to play a few songs and of course it turned into a small set. There were a few locals who had somehow made it in and were so happy to see us play, having missed the previous Hamburg show. Because the sound board didn’t have phantom power, I couldn’t use my sax mic, so I had to use a microphone on a stand. During the song where the violinist and I usually do a backbend, the singer tried to help me out with his mic and I simply fell over; classy. Otherwise, it was a very fun show and made a lot of people happy.

A highlight of the night was finally making friends with a notable Chicago zinester/musician, who then fed my inner teenage ego in a variety of ways throughout the night. I had always known him by reputation, but never by face, even though we apparently ran in the same circles with all of the same people back at the turn of the century in Chicago. Although I missed his acoustic set during the party, I pieced together who he was by the time our frontman had finished his own, and awkwardly introduced myself. We talked about Chicago and he mentioned that he had worked at Quimby’s bookstore. I already knew this, of course. “Do you remember a zine called Pirate Riot?” I asked. He actually did remember my humble one-off which I had written about ten years ago, which I’d sold on consignment at Quimby’s and a couple other places. He was likewise impressed that I knew him by his writing reputation and had no clue about his music career. At this point, my teenage self had completely lost it, but adult Leslie was trying to play it cool. After we played our set, I felt like the cosmos had evened out the playing field and we were on mutual turf. It was past teenage Leslie’s bedtime, and I could carry on socializing with my peers.

I stayed longer than the rest of the band, finally losing a key piece of my new favourite pair of earrings in the woods, missing out on a few goodbyes, but having a pretty fun almost-the-end-of-tour party. Several of us stayed with one of the folks who threw the party, having comfy beds and delicious breakfast in the morning, then picking up the rest of the band at the Chicago crew’s apartment. I hung out with so many awesome people that night and the next morning, it felt like the last night of tour. However, we had one more show to go. On the drive out of town, we all reminisced about the terrible compliments people have given us on this tour, and there were some pretty good ones. The men in Eastern Europe managed to outdo even the worst “German compliments” when it came to talking to the women in the band, but now we could laugh about it.

Show 23: Zoro Fest; Leipzig, Germany

(Here is my post about Zoro Fest, where I had originally posted a placeholder after tour ended. I know some of you are already curious about my “off-the-grid French donkey farm” excuse, but there are three more posts left about the Inferno tour before I get to that. Those four will be followed up by some reflections on the whole experience.)

Our entry into Leipzig felt somehow magical. One minute, we were passing a stone lion on the side of the woodland highway which simply read “Leipzig” and the next we were driving down the street towards Zoro. I was happy to be returning to both the city, although I had seen little of it on the previous trip but had been hearing called “new Berlin” ever since, and to be playing again at Zoro. We had prepared ourselves for the worst kinds of chaos, given the scuffle during our previous visit as well as the reputation of a largely crusty punk festival versus our current weakened state of tour weariness. However, I was so eager to see a variety of old friends that a mixture of joy and nervousness made it difficult to sleep in the van on the way there.

The scene at Zoro was exactly how I remembered it. We drove into a courtyard full of punks and dogs, everyone either quite busy or drinking beers at picnic tables. We had clearly arrived early enough to load in without much hassle, and there was quite a bit of leisure time to be had. I anxiously awaited the influx of old friends and lovers which was sure to continue throughout the evening. In the meantime, I was happy to see a number of other familiar faces, including the English/Russian couple who I had also run into in Berlin last year. He let me ride his tall bike around the courtyard, which was a huge nostalgic treat for me.

Since tour was winding down, I decided it was time to drag out some clean clothes. I was also happy to wear the vest I had gotten in Berlin and the skirt I’d bought in the Czech Republic, since I was growing tired of the same few outfits. The band never wears street clothes on stage, so my suitcase essentially contained outfits for two separate people, making laundry necessary and combinations fairly finite. I thought I looked very cute, with my knee-length purple plaid crepe skirt, ruffled white blouse, clashing plaid grey vest, tattered grey-blue socks, and matching slipper shoes. The punks, however, thought my outfit was pretty funny, but kindly told me so. One French girl gave me the most flattering German compliment. She said I was wearing “anti street wear” like what it said on the side of our van – that I was dressed strangely but not like all the other kids there, which made me punker than the punks. I was totally rocking my made-up “barricade punk” French revolution orphan look, so I’m glad it made an impression in the land of bile-pallet clothes and studded jackets.

If I wasn’t in love with Zoro the last time we played there, then it surely happened this time. Granted, if you read that old blog post, you can see that the night ended in a near-fist fight and a lot of chaos, but on the whole I left impressed with the space. On a side note, the sound guy told me that every time he sees the dude I almost got in a fight with, he still winces a bit as though to show he won’t start any trouble. I suppose angering an entire band, two warrior princess Germans, and the sound guy would leave a lasting impression. Apparently, he’s a nice guy, it was just “the wrong drugs at the wrong time.”

As for the romance which lingered on across Germany, a look at last year’s posts on Leipzig, Gottingen, and Berlin might lend some insight into the significance of my main companion for the night. Traveling all the time can make one lose faith in anything ever lasting, but once in a while there are people who are still just where you left them and are happier than ever to take you back into their arms, even if you both know it will only last a day. While my romantic life is more complicated than ever, it was good to find a moment of consistency in a world of fantastic new friends. No matter how happy I was to pick up right where we had left off at the train station in Berlin last year, I knew I would be just as sad once I was back on the road the next day.

Our experience with Zoro was similar and in fact better than the last time, despite all of the frenzy of a giant festival. Over the course of several days, a variety of bands would play in the large performance space, the basement, and even the “bike cemetary” room beside the record shop. There was even a stage set up outside, but since we were playing on the first day, it wound up serving mostly as a hang out space and eventual rain shelter. The inside of the building was much how I remembered it and the food blew away my expectations. If I recall correctly, it was veggie meatballs, “chicken of the woods” mushroom schnitzel, gravy, fancy salad, mashed potatoes, and a variety of other good stuff – all vegan of course. The kitchen staff was awesome as usual, full of sassy Swedish ladies, and I enjoyed eating with the other bands who were performing that night. This was our only festival of the tour, and we shared the bill with folks from Austria, France, Sweden, and other places.

I spent much of the evening misplacing and finding the aforementioned lover-friend, and otherwise hanging out with the sound guy from last year, some of the usual suspects who frequent our shows and their charming Swiss friend, my bartender friend from Nuremberg and his roommate who had kindly made the trip out, the Zoro folks, and a number of people I had just met. I was thrilled to reconnect with a lady who had been at our show last year in New Orleans and now lives in Barcelona. We both wondered where our Croatian friend was, considering how much he likes both the band and Zoro. I bought some radical stickers and a silly tote bag as souvenirs at the various vendors, as well as some coffee with homemade liquor from some French folks.

I had such a good time at the festival that I almost forgot to mention the show itself. Although there were enough mixes, I had to go without a monitor because of the small stage. I’m starting to get used to it, although it is clearly not ideal. The room was packed with people, even all the way out into the hallway, which was a lot of fun. Of course, it made dancing or moshing pretty difficult for the audience, but they seemed to have a lot of fun anyway. It was incredibly smoky in there and made it a bit difficult to play, what with needing to breath and all, but everything went pretty well. It was hot and loud and fun, but by the end I was quite worn out. We loaded out a few things, crawling through a window in a stone wall to get to the van, just as it was beginning to rain. I managed to find my friend again and held on tight so as not to lose him again in the crowds, which were getting denser and drunker by the minute.

I was rewarded for my resolution to stay relatively sober by a night which was surreal regardless, but also calm. I felt a bit old for leaving the festival so early, although it was already well past 3am. My friend and I walked back to the “wagenplatz” where he lives. Wagenplatz is the much cooler German word for trailer park. Having been to a number of counter-culture trailer parks and boat yards, I knew about what to expect and was not disappointed. Refreshingly, this one seemed to be populated mostly with punks rather than hippies. We stopped first at our friend’s house to pick up the dog, then walked a while longer until we came upon a large wrought iron fence. We entered and all around were the shadows of trees, industrial buildings, and oddly shaped trailers. I knew that nothing would look the same in the morning, so I soaked in the eerie new surroundings.

It’s possible I have never slept in such a comfortable vehicle, although in fact it doesn’t actually run, so it’s more of a tiny house. The insides were wood on all sides, sloping slightly so that it had the look of an old horse wagon. Starting from the back, there was a small bed, a sink, a closet, and a wood-burning stove. It wasn’t too cold, but we lit a fire anyway because we could. His dog was having a slumber party that night, so the two canines slept underneath the bed in their own little room. I feel very at home in these sorts of cozy surroundings, so this might have been the most comfortably I’ve slept all tour. In the morning, it was quite liberating to wander back from the shower, which was gas-heated and in a building a small walk away, wearing nothing but a towel. I could live happily there, I’m sure. I had missed my chance to visit the vegan Tex-Mex truck the night before, but saw one of its welded bicycle billboards on our walk and our bass player was kind enough to share a bit of her jalapeno poppers with me in the van later.

Soon, it was over to another squat (Liwi) for a breakfast which included more types of spread than I have ever seen, including homemade ones in jars. I am always happy to be somewhere that has soymilk for my coffee too. Back at the venue, we met somebody from Cumbia Queers, a band whose colorful posters have graced the walls of several venues where we have played, who had seen our show the night before. Alas, we were not able to see them play, but talked of future opportunities. As we slowly loaded out, my friend from Nuremberg happened to be walking past and we had another chance for farewells.

The drive out of Leipzig was a real eye-opener. Somehow all I remembered from the previous visit was the squat and a variety of similar-looking buildings. We left the city via the center, which contained a wide variety of gorgeously massive buildings. One was definitely the train station, but I’m not sure about the rest. I think I had underestimated how big of a city it was, which only increased my desire to come back and visit. Full of joy about the festival, my old and new friends, and a very comfortable night in awesome spaces, I felt the sadness of separation sinking in as we left town.

 

Show 22: Yacht Club; Brno, Czech Republic

Even with our leisurely time in the last city, we still were able to stop at the hotel for an hour before heading to the venue. This was quite a nice surprise, and some of us were even able to get Thai food from the restaurant downstairs. I enjoyed a chance to wash out some underpants, lay out a selection of my smoke-filled show clothes, and stretch out my bed for a little while. The hotel was relatively fancy, although it had the usual daunting staircase and fairly non-existent elevator. Soon, it was off on another confusing drive.

It seemed that we would be playing a much larger city, although the venue turned out to be on the edge of town, near the university. The show poster took a lot of liberties, turning the wineglass logo from years ago into the balloon for the cover art from the last album, as well as claiming that the band included former members of Leftover Crack, the Dresden Dolls, Citizen Fish, and Against Me! Everything on the poster had some basis in fact, but it was all a bit fabricated for the sake of hype – not that anyone could blame them. Also, the poster did look pretty awesome.

It was a bit difficult to find the venue, although it was predictably bunker-like and somewhat covered in graffiti. The sign outside was somewhat exploitative of women, but then again I had seen more signs for strip clubs on our drive to the venue than anywhere else on the tour so far. In the greenroom, we had an amenity I have never seen before – an anatomically correct blow up doll. Talk about catering? Gross. Otherwise, they took care of us pretty well, even ordering hot and tasty vegan catering. Besides this, we had the crunchy vegan sandwiches which the local Food Not Bombs gave us at the end of the night, which I continued eating for days after the show. Needless to say, I was very happy to see them at the show, tabling right beside the bar. It should always be this way. All night, to the side of the band, was a projected photo montage of “Protest Fest” – a radical festival which has been going on for years in Brno. I was very happy indeed to see such an activist presence at our show, not just outside but actually during the show. Like I said, this is how things should be, period. I remember PETA tabling outside of Morrissey’s concert at a small town show years ago. It’s as though a majority of musicians don’t care enough to have a political or ethical agenda anymore, or the recording industry has them too scared and castrated to form their own opinions. I am thankful every day to be in a non-mainstream band which sings about radical politics.

It was strange to arrive to the show so refreshed and prepared. We already knew where we were sleeping, had even already prepared our beds for the night, and I myself arrived at the venue dressed for the show. Like the night before, there really wasn’t anywhere to explore, so I was stuck at the venue until we played. Some people spend a half hour warming up, some turn to substances, I personally need a brisk walk and some alone time. Ah well, not this night. I found my solace in the upstairs bar, which was remarkably lacking in character. The bartender was very handsome and lying about his age, but I got a free shot in my coffee for being honest about mine. They had the creepiest foosball table I have ever seen, with human-looking figures chipping away with age. Prohibition was still in effect and I was getting really sick of light beer.

The show was good, although the large room dissipated some of the condensed energy we had felt from the Czech people the night before. I had more fun dancing around on stage than I have at many of the shows so far. I think it could be because I’ve finally gotten to a point in the band where I am comfortable on a variety of levels, so the show is nothing but pure fun at this point. It’s one thing to enjoy playing shows on tour, it’s another to eagerly look forward to them as though nothing else that day could possibly make you happier. The crowd was, in my opinion, the perfect mix of attentive and fun. Sometimes, the audiences back in the states get so involved in the pit that it can feel like nobody is actually watching the performance. Knowing full well that there were thoughtful eyes fixed upon me gave all the more reason to dance around. A third of the way into the set, I had already pulled a muscle in one of my thighs, so I must’ve been giving it more than I usually do… maybe too much, I had to switch to favoring the other leg on lunges. The metal beam beside us which held up the ceiling was a tremendous help in coming up with new stage antics, although I was conscious of how easily it could look like a stripper pole if used too much. There was no wall within my reach this time, but I made use of the line of gear beside me, at one point deepening my standing backbend by reaching my non-playing hand over my head and climbing it downwards. I also came up with a new way to hold my sax,which was moreso due to the stretching I’d been doing than the layout of the stage. It took me this long, but I finally realized I can reach my left hand behind my back and hold my sax from the other side. I am getting so attached to this back harness saxophone strap that I use. I can’t wait to get my wireless mic back and quit being tethered by the leg.

Despite spilling most of my lemonade/beer during a song where we all jump up and down, I still had to pee by the middle of the set. So, it was a race to the bathroom, which was fortunately right outside of the greenroom, unlike in Vienna where I had to go back inside the bar from the outside. I made it back to the band in plenty of time. This was yet another show where I danced around a whole lot and then really needed to run to the toilet; I’m noticing a theme here. It’s a tricky balance, much like riding in the tour van, of staying hydrated while trying to be respectful of your bladder’s fickle internal clock. This is why drinking pale beer on stage is always my last choice, but sometimes in Europe this is easier to come by than bottled water. I made use of the various flasks the folks outside had, although it dawned on me that this wasn’t the wisest decision considering there was some poisoned liquor floating around in the country.

Much of the crowd stayed around to thank us after the show. I’ve explained what a “punisher” is and I think I’ve described “German compliments” – where they are trying to engage you and be friendly but actually say something really insulting. Well, the folks after this show had their own special hybrid of these two phenomenon. I was actually quite looking forward to talking to the audience, as they all seemed quite fun and cute before the show. Well, the guy who had spent the whole concert staring at me said, in less eloquent English of course, that he was intrigued by the onstage discrepancy between my self-esteem and my talent/beauty. I found this psychoanalysis interesting for a little while, but finally excused myself from the draining conversation. I then spoke to a guy who called us a “poor man’s Chumbawumba” but complained that we had no hits. I put up with this line of discussion for a bit until he told me what a good drummer I was. She has pink hair, come on! Some people were quite kind, however, and I talked to several who were shocked we would be play such a small city. I told them they should have seen where we played the night before. Somebody in the band was told that this had been the “show of the year” for sure, since no better bands were scheduled to play in Brno until next year.

We were staying at a well-kept hotel near a theatre which does a lot of musicals, not too far from the city center. In the morning, I woke up just early enough to take a shower, load my stuff into the van, and go exploring for about ten minutes. I had intended to have longer and see the larger historical landmarks, but my head had not wanted to leave the pillow. I felt satisfied enough, though, and of course had plenty of time for coffee and internet while waiting for the stragglers in the lobby.

I napped heavily in the van until we reached our first gas station stop. In the distance, we could see Prague, the drive through which I intended not to miss. The routing through Prague was a pleasant surprise. Last tour, I had woken up while we were passing through the most beautiful parts and over the river, but assumed we would see more of it before we left the next day. Alas, our show was on the outskirts of town in a Soviet-style basement venue, and we never returned to the beautiful downtown. Since we weren’t playing there this time, I assumed it was out of the way. I marveled at the stunning architecture and still would like to return and see it some day in the future. As we drove on, I enjoyed our last sightings of the Czech countryside, even the part where we got lost in small, hilly villages. The border of Germany passed us without much notice and soon we were driving past Dresden.

Show 21: Vrah; Rosnov pod Radhostem, Czech Republic

The Czech Republic is another country I had never visited before this tour, and our drive was satisfyingly eerie. We drove ever deeper into the winding countryside, staring out of foggy, rain-streaked windows at the damp hillsides. It was the perfect weather for our haphazard journey into places unknown. Not only was the town where we were headed very tiny, but we weren’t even playing in the city center. The van slowed down as we reached a group of houses at the base of a small industrial complex. Sure enough, there was a squat concrete building covered in graffiti. Even in the middle of post-Soviet nowhere, we play the same venues. It was so cold outside that a few of us stayed in the van until further notice, at which point I crawled up into the loft and hid under the blankets.

Eventually, the venue was opened and I joined everyone inside for a tour of the building. It was the usual scene of ratty couches, spare bicycles, makeshift kitchen, haphazard infoshop, questionable toilets, and a small stage, all held in by sticker-encrusted walls. It was familiar and therefore comfortable, even in the middle of the countryside where few spoke much English. I was happy to see Citizen Fish flyers and posters everywhere, though. After we loaded in, I went for a walk around the area and enjoyed sunset views of grazing sheep.

From what I gathered, this space has existed for more than a decade and is the hub of alternative culture in that part of the world. I considered it a big honor to play somewhere so special and secluded, as well as psyched that so many people who might not otherwise make it to big cities for shows would be able to see us. However, on the other side of the coin, we were met with another difficult sound check. The sound guys didn’t speak a lot of English, so it unfolded like a game of charades. It was no surprise that we didn’t have monitors and the gear was a bit worse for the wear, but expecting anything more than this would have been foolish. What small DIY venues like this lack in sound quality is almost always made up for in audience enthusiasm. Nobody is coming to a show like that expecting studio-quality sound.

Once it was dark outside, my usual pre-show routine of exploring the neighborhood was out of the question. Beyond the door to the club lay an abyss of dark countryside. Our dressing room was a tiny bedroom into which we all somehow managed to fit. While getting ready, several of us got into a political discussion about the definition of homelessness as it relates to the traveler and squatter culture in America, which made me very happy. A number of both friends at home and people at our previous show had warned us about the prohibition which had just begun in the Czech Republic, due to a number of deaths caused by poisoned liquor. Somehow, though, we wound up with a bottle of American bourbon backstage and otherwise made do. Prohibition, bah.

It was already a full room when the opening solo act was playing. By the time we went on, the enthusiasm in the room was palpable, even over all of the cigarette smoke. The space was spilling out into the hallway and everyone was psyched for the show, especially the sound crew and bartenders, who were even singing along. I really enjoy when we play small towns instead of the nearby big cities. A number of locals came up and thanked us for coming there instead of Prague. Others told me that they had traveled hundreds of kilometers just to see us, but it was worth the trip. We hung out afterward for a while before going to sleep at a cute little chalet further up the mountain.

In the morning, I awoke from a very disturbing nightmare. This was the first time all tour that I had gotten more than eight straight hours of sleep, so I suppose my mind didn’t know how to handle it. I ate some bread and spread and went for a small walk. I found a bar next door and a rather small pumpkin patch full of boulder-sized pumpkins. We headed out eventually, and the van ride began with a lengthy book discussion, focusing on science fiction authors, as we headed to the main town.

There wasn’t much to choose from, but I immediately spotted a second-hand shop and headed straight for it. Half of the band came in soon afterward, but I stayed the longest. I could have happily spent an hour in there, but tried to be as quick as I could. I found several items, all about three euros in price, which I adored but didn’t quite fit me right. In the end, I found a gorgeous purple and black old-fashioned skirt which could be useful for a variety of costumes. It wasn’t hard to find the rest of the band, who were at the only open restaurant in town, and I got to finish everyone’s lunches. Our tour manager said to take a good look around, because this was the last pretty scenery we would be seeing for the rest of our trip together. We all walked back to the van via the coffee shop, where I bought a terrible-looking but incredible dessert. We went into the tourist information center to say goodbye to our host.

One of the funniest moments of tour happened just before we left the town. We realized that a gaggle of teenage girls were image-searching us at the internet kiosk while we were talking to the promoter. He must have tipped them off. They were all pointing at our pictures on the computer, finding the matching person, then giggling and whispering. I’m pretty sure none of them spoke English. Back at the van, we decided to give them one of our postcards and I volunteered to deliver it. I walked over and calmly held out the card, at which point I was swarmed by screaming girls. It was like feeding ducks, but with only one small piece of bread. I escaped back to the van and the girls continued fighting over the card. We had lost our accordion player to a wifi connection, so when I went out to find him, I came armed with two more postcards which I had somehow dug out of a bag. As I walked past, they asked in broken English if I had any more. I pulled two out of my pocket and smiled, held them at arms length, and again ran from the screaming frenzy back to the safety of the van. They ignored the accordion player, though, since he wasn’t on the postcard and we were allowed to leave their small town.

Show 20: Chelsea; Vienna, Austria

After we entered the Czech Republic, we stopped for lunch at – big surprise! – a gas station. This one at least had a restaurant, and I ate a delicious and cheap omelet with a shredded cabbage salad. After a general lack of vegetables other than cucumbers and tomatoes (which are of course better than none at all), even a lousy salad was extremely exciting. I also grabbed an espresso, a bag of those complex “chakalaka” flavoured chips, and of course a small bottle of weird liquor for a souvenir. When I get back to the states, I’m either going to have an awesome exotic liquor tasting party or a bunch of clothes which are covered in broken glass and smell like schnapps.

I very vividly remember our visit to Vienna last summer, when we played a popular show and I then spent the night wandering the town with local musicians. We arrived at the same venue as last time, and the staff was entirely the same. I was happy to see the sound guy, who I remembered as being one of my favourites on the last tour, and hoped he could help fix the problems I had been having with my mic cable at the previous show. Even so, it was another tense sound check, but this time due to stage placement. I’ve begun to feel like a sound leper, since nobody wants to be next to my monitor. Not only does most of this band’s sound fall into my range, but everyone is very loud on stage, so I need my monitor unreasonably loud as well or I might as well not have one. The guitarist had the sound guy put me on the opposite side of the stage, which of course displeased the keys player. I knew it wasn’t personal, but it’s still never fun to feel unwanted or banished. I wound up playing on the stairs, separated from the rest of the band by the accordionist’s keyboard and pedal setup. The sound guy did a thorough job of checking us and, despite my own stress, I enjoyed the group vocal check where everyone used “Funky Town” to test their mics as a group.

After we were done, the band followed the spread of snacks upstairs through a dense crowd of people. I wondered why all of these relatively mainstream locals were there to see our show. I thought that maybe the punk scene in Vienna is much more diverse than I remembered… then I realized it was just a football game in the other room. Fortunately, it was over by the time our show started. I felt satisfied enough with my exploration of the city on the previous trip, so I spent my small bit of free time having a picnic dinner with some iced cider at a bistro table outside, where I still managed to get wifi. I soon realized that I had sat beside the door to the club, casually eating a banana and looking like a weirdo while people showed up for the show. I didn’t mind much, as the awesome older punk door lady from last year was there and fun to chat with. Eventually, I headed up to the green room and managed to get my blog posted while doing my makeup. The frontman and I, who are often the last ones to get out of the dressing room, kept getting startled by the trains rumbling beneath us, which sounded an awful lot like the drums which always open the set. We’ve both had to rush to the stage when the band starts without us, so it was an entirely unfounded paranoia.

Since the dressing room was quite small and a tight squeeze to access, I had brought up my clothing for the show in a small bag. What I had forgotten was shorts, which I usually wear due to all of the stage antics and short skirts, especially on nights such as these when I am wearing particularly sparse fishnets. I have two pairs, one is a longer set of black bloomer shorts and the other is the short polka dot ones I picked up (thankfully) at a second-hand store before all of the crowd surfing at Golden Fest last winter. The van wasn’t parked directly outside, so I decided to just wing it with my tights and leopard print and lace underpants. Vienna – I’m sorry and you’re welcome.

Despite my protests about being so separate from the violinist, who was all the way at the other end of a very long and shallow stage, I actually enjoyed my new position quite a bit. I felt like I made the most of a frustrating situation, but my sound wasn’t really so bad considering how loud the room was. I think our keys player wasn’t so fortunate, though. Having what felt like a wall between me and the rest of the band forced me to come up with more shtick, as well as to overcompensate for my peripheral position. (Thank you, Uta Hagen.) There have been a few comparable situations on this tour, and each time I gladly dig back into my bag of tricks from the years I spent doing clowning. I never thought that all of my physical theatre and mime training, which arguably dates back about as far as my musical training, would come in so handy in a punk band. A juggler friend of mine always used to say “Write it down, or you’ll always be a birthday clown” – and so here it is. My favourite beat from the show was finding myself crouching, as I often do during certain songs, this time with my hand against the wall beside me. I then brought myself to standing by walking my hand slowly up the wall like a spider. I’m not even sure anyone noticed, but I made the note for myself to try this again the next time I play beside a wall. Some folks who had seen us last year complained to me that I wasn’t in the middle this time and said I looked cut off, but I had a lot of fun and everyone in the band agreed that it was a really good performance on the whole. The Vienna crowd is always nothing short of spectacular, so it was bound to be a fantastic show.

On a less glamorous note, I had made a deliberate effort to stay hydrated after soundcheck, which of course meant I was stuck on stage needing to pee. I looked down at the set list and saw a lengthy encore, so as soon as we went outside I bolted for the toilet, knowing that the first song up had a long bass intro. Even so, I missed the beginning of the horn part, but I felt a whole lot better! I suppose it also made my solo all the more theatrical, since I had been missing when the encore started. I climbed out onto the railing part of the stage, as I had done every time I needed to interact with the violinist during the show. At a couple of points where I play the same line as the guitarist and the bass player, they made a point of coming over to my corner of the stage, which really warmed my heart. After a couple of years, I suppose I am grateful for having to change things up a bit, however much I might want to fight it.

Last year, I had made several new friends after the show, mostly Slovenians. My guides for the night became two guys from the band Roy de Roy and their radical friend from Graz. Last year, the band had arrived to the venue with only time enough to sound check, get ready, and play. After the show, everyone was eager to head for sleep at the nice hotel. I, however, wanted to take advantage of my first chance to see Vienna, or Austria for that matter. This whole saga can be read on my Vienna post from last year, but basically I had stayed up the whole night with my new friends, wandering around Vienna with tiny bottles of Jager and flasks of Slivo, ending with a drunken sunrise Klezmer jam session. I was up for another wild night this time, and yet nothing is ever as good as it once was. I still wanted some hint of my previous Vienna adventure, and my band grew short on patience and left me at the club. Via email, I figured out where the hotel was and how to get into my room, in case I ever made it home before morning. The guys from the local band had shown up, but one had to work the next morning, so in the end it was the Slovenian accordion player and I (they are often the most fun one in any band, if not at least the last one standing, true story) getting locked in with the bartenders. We agreed to ditch the two guys behind the bar who had been flirting with me all night and instead run off to hang out with the lady bartender, who was far more fun. The three of us found a food stand and ate weird Austrian cheese sausage with brown bread while we shared a lemon beer and people-watched. We had picked a good bench, privy to strange old men, a strip club, a car crash, and discouraged young pickpockets. It wasn’t a wild night, but I was just as happy for the good company. The bartender had to rush off to rescue her friend from the bat which had gotten into her apartment, so my friend walked me to the hotel, where I was relieved to find the concierge expecting me. I crawled into bed quite late, but also rather grateful.

I enjoyed a very rare treat the next morning – getting up and out of the room, but then going back to bed anyway. As I understood it, we were leaving at 11am, so there I was in the breakfast room shortly beforehand, at which point I was informed that we were actually leaving at noon. I turned around on my heels and was soon back under the covers. I haven’t woken up so blissful all tour. It’s one thing to hit the snooze alarm, but it’s another to be showered and dressed but still give up and go back to sleep. This couldn’t have happened in a more beautiful hotel either. I felt a sort of domestic comfort which I haven’t felt all tour, and all it took was a half hour nap.

I headed down to the breakfast room, which I remembered from the last trip, as well as the gorgeous lobby full of celebrity pictures. It has been a little while since I was back in a place where my computer remembered the wifi password. I was psyched for the fantastic breakfast, with its brown eggs, fresh yoghurt, and feta cheese cubes. It was a bit odd to be plopped right back in the lap of luxury after our tour of Poland and the Balkans. Still feeling lavish, I was deliberately unproductive on the internet, checking the buzz about the band amid watching music videos from my new friends in Finland. I totally forgot about the hippy store downstairs, which was probably a good thing for my pocketbook in the end. We drove out of Vienna and I nodded off slightly in the van to music in my headphones. Some days there is a specific feeling I want, and listening to ska is the only way to get it. This doesn’t happen often, but when it does, there is little pang of joy that I can feel all the way back to my teenage years.

Show 19: Club Place; Rijeka, Croatia

So, somehow I did not realize that there might not be wifi in rural Czech Republic. If I wasn’t surprised not to find any at the squat where we played in the middle of nowhere, I certainly couldn’t expect there to be a connection at the chalet where we slept, which was even further up in the mountains. Here’s the post about our last Croatia show, before we headed to Austria and then the Czech Republic.

It was the middle of the afternoon before we were headed for the next city. I knew I probably needed sleep in both directions, having gotten still too little already and hoping that I would have better things to do on our last night in Croatia than go to bed early. However, I felt so full of life, intrigued by the mystery of the previous night, that I wanted nothing more than to try to make sense of it on my keyboard. I was glad I stayed awake, though, as the drive towards our next Croatian city was beautiful, with stunning mountains unlike any I could recall seeing before in Europe.

It appeared that we were playing in a particularly beautiful part of the city, with winding hills of cobblestone streets and old buildings. We were on the edge of the Adriatic Sea and even without seeing the water, it was apparent. Our club, however, fit the usual dive mold. We loaded in and I had a bit of time to walk to the end of the road, where a fantastic assortment of abandoned factory buildings (I assume anyway, the windows were all smashed) which sat beside a stream. I couldn’t tell if it was squatted or just re-purposed and not kept up, but I saw what appeared to be sculptures looming deep inside. I explored for a little while before hurrying back to the venue, unsure if I was actually trespassing. I am an odd kind of tourist and I’m really surprised it doesn’t get me into trouble more often.

Soundcheck was frustrating, as the club’s system was not terribly complete and a number of the cables had issues. We have been having a problem throughout Eastern Europe with the microphones not being grounded properly and the vocal mics shocking their users, so this situation was no different. We also had no monitors, so the violinist and I flanked the stage on either side. I was essentially playing in the hallway to the bathroom, so I was actually hoping the club wouldn’t fill up, otherwise it would be another battle for my front teeth. We tried to hurry through soundcheck, since we needed to get to the hostel to change and eat dinner. The moment we stepped onto the front patio, a voice out of the darkness uttered “World Inferno.” This is getting to be an unsettling trend. I mean, it’s flattering, but somehow the Croatian accents make it sound ominous. This guy happened to be hanging out at the hostel and had seen the band a number of times previously, but couldn’t make it to the show that night.

We headed into the dining room of the hostel, where we had a very starch-centered dinner of bread, rice, and pasta. It’s moments like these where the lack of protein and vegetables is even disappointing for the one third of the band whose dietary restrictions cause these sorts of meals to happen in meat-heavy countries. Just as it had been strange to miss sleeping in a squat when we played in Serbia, it was also odd to find myself yearning for vegan slop. The food was tasty enough, I just personally don’t like too many carbohydrates in general, so it was a bit underwhelming.

Speaking of which, the show in Zagreb had been so incredible, it was almost guaranteed that we would be disappointed the next day. Not only were we playing a smaller room in a smaller city, but the vibe of a club is not that of a radical squat. The folks hosting us and running the show, as well as the bar and sound staff, were very friendly and helpful. It wasn’t their fault that the weekday crowd in that city was pretty bland. It wasn’t as seemingly punk of an audience as I’d expected from the previous night and the tattoo shop which whirred behind the stage, although it was a happy crowd on the whole. We were all also at a slight disadvantage due to the lack of a stage, with lights only at the very back behind the drummer. The nonexistence of a fourth wall was clearly a bit unnerving for the moderately-sized crowd. Eventually, a couple of ladies danced, and I found someone to waltz with during the violin solo. There were several photographers, so I’m looking forward to finding evidence of this show online. Afterward, I had a fun time drinking weird Croatian schnapps with the promoter. Someone from the audience likened us to Oingo Boingo, which is not an uncommon comparison. I think the evening went well, but it’s hard for me to paint an accurate picture of the show, since the crowd in Zagreb had seemed so much more engaged.

After we returned to the hostel, I stayed awake for a little while using the internet, since they hadn’t had any at the club. I was up early enough to grab breakfast, which was pretty much just white bread and liver paste with coffee out of a machine and sugary juices. Wow, it has been three weeks on tour, I usually don’t complain about our comfort this much, but then again the lack of nutrition was beginning to get to me. I headed out to the beach, but wasn’t sure if I would go swimming. As it turned out, I spent so much time admiring the fancy villas and stunning views during my walk that I didn’t really have enough time to make getting wet worthwhile. Besides, the two option were pebble beach and cement. I had already swam in the Adriatic once before, back in 2009 when I caught a ride out of Ljubljana with some Irish guys who were headed to exhibit at the Biennale in Venice. We had been unable to find rooms in Trieste, but had been able to convince the bar where we had been drinking all night to let us pass out on the patio couches, which sheltered us slightly from the rain. We woke up to empty bottles of prosecco and angry waiters. We simply walked out, went across the street, and jumped straight into the Adriatic for our shower. So, if I didn’t get a lonesome swim on this visit, I wasn’t going to feel too disappointed.

Back at the hostel, I met a friendly Russian woman from the states who said she would come see our show in DC. Just as we were leaving, she mentioned how much she likes Gogol Bordello; of course. The drive out of Rijeka was very pretty, as was our route through the Croatian countryside. Soon enough, we reached the border of Slovenia and had another border entry as we returned to the EU. In tribute, I began listening to Roy de Roy, enjoying our drive past its quaint hilly villages. The scenery on this tour has been a welcome change from our Western European drives last summer.