Mondo Topless - Spain Fiasco 2007
Day One:
Excitement is in the air. Well, maybe more like anxiety. We've never done anything like this before, so we're not sure what to expect. People kept telling me how much the folks in Spain dig their rock and roll, especially Garage. So I'm thinking (or hoping) that this will turn out to be a great experience. Sure, it's fun to travel, immerse yourself into another culture, etc. but the real reason we're doing this is to play rock n' roll in front of an appreciative audience, make it back in one piece, and have some good stories to tell. This isn't quite like piling into the van and doing a weekender down South. We're dealing with airlines, baggage limitations for equipment, getting through customs, and stuff like that, so I'd say anxiety is definitely the order of the day.
Tom comes over with his luggage and bare drumming essentials. Pepe, our promoter in Spain, has provided the backline for the tour, which we're sharing with The Swingin' Neckbreakers. I've loaded my organ into my brand new custom-built flight case which Kris has dubbed the 'case of much ridiculousness'. I can't disagree with that, but damn, it's a mighty fine case.
Off to Scott's house to pick up him and Kris. Snarf down a homemade brownie, courtesy of Kris (beats me what food will be on the plane), load our stuff into the van and off we go to the airport. Parking and check-in are uneventful. At a little after 9:00 we take off on the red-eye to Madrid. Wow, this is really happening!
Good thing about living in Philly is that US Airways has cheap direct flights to Spain. Bad thing is that US Airways has a tendency to lose your luggage. Please, not my organ. A really lousy in-flight movie lulls most of the passengers into a deep slumber. I should be so lucky. Maybe I'm too excited, or over-tired or whatever, but I don't sleep much.
Day Two – Gruta 77, Madrid:
We land in Madrid 8 hours later, around 10am. I activate my global rental phone and we start rehearsing in our heads what we're gonna say to the customs agent. "We're on vacation". "Merchandise? No sir, it's just some CDs we're going to give away". "Well, yeah, we're in a band, but we're not getting paid or anything", and other such drivel. Walk up to a window to show our passports, get 'em stamped, and on to baggage. "Was that just customs?". "Nah, couldn't be". Grab our bags, and all of a sudden we're outside the airport! Customs in Spain is a joke. Pepe's waiting for us, along with Tom, Joe and Jeff from the Swingin' Neckbreakers We exchange pleasantries, and get introduced to Jimmy, our driver. I'm psyched, because I've heard great stories about Jimmy. He's one cool motherfucker, and one crazy-ass driver. In his defense, everyone in Spain is a crazy-ass driver. Jimmy's worried about everyone and everyone's equipment fitting into the van once we pick up the backline for tonight's show. More about that particular fiasco later…
Observations on Madrid: Tom says it's just like Philadelphia, only with Spanish words. I think it's a lot like Manhattan. This is a pretty big city, with everything happening at a break-neck pace. Everybody dresses really well, too. I knew we probably would be a bit underdressed for strolling around, but I think we're not so badly dressed as to be mistaken for the typical 'rude ugly American'. We check into our hotel. Our VERY NICE hotel. Calculating the exchnge rate in my head, it's something like $200 / night, and we get 2 rooms. That means the snoring boys (Kris and Scott) get their own room. Ahhhh, bliss. The thing about Spain – and probably all dense metropolitan areas in Europe – is that everything is really small. Small cars, small rooms, small hallways and doors … everything. But that's how it should be. Coming from the supersize capital of the world, this is quite refreshing.
We relax for a bit in the room and try to figure out how to plug our various devices in without getting blown up. Take a shower, and then meet up with Jimmy and Pepe for lunch (wonderful Italian restaurant where I had a yummy veggie pizza). Here's where I learned my first bit of essential Spanish: "Donde esta el bano?" (where's the bathroom). Back to the rooms again for a bit of a nap (8 hours of jetlag to get caught up on) before heading out to the club for our first show.
On our way to Gruta 77 for show number one. Jimmy takes us at high-speed through the narrowest cobblestone streets imaginable. He's got amazing piloting skills. I thought for sure we would be clipping some side-view mirrors, but he's got it all under control, coaxing and prodding our loaded-down Citroen van as we surge on. Arrive at Gruta 77 for soundcheck. Here's where I greet my amplifier. I'm used to a big-ass Leslie-type dealie, but all I care about on this trip is something clean and loud, and hoping the organ I insisted on lugging actually fires up and makes proper organ-type sounds. I am presented with a road-tested old Roland JC120. This should suffice, as long as I remember to turn off the effects switch. For my Leslie sound I picked up an $18 DanElectro Fab chorus pedal before our trip. If it breaks, no big loss. Plug in, do our sound check, and off to dinner at another amazing restaurant. Once of those subterranean tile-lined joints where the waiters dash all over the place throwing food upon food upon food on the table. All they ever do on this trip is feed us! Being a vegetarian, it's challenging for me to find something to eat in Spain (they LOVE their meat), but I'm doing OK so far.
All of a sudden, it's 11:30, and we have to dash back to the club to play (on full stomachs; not such a great thing). We get to the club, and it's PACKED. About 250 people, and we can barely move. Run backstage, slap together a setlist (of course we forgot about that detail), and jump on stage. We start the set, and the people are really getting into it. Now, this is why we came to Spain. First half of the set is pretty rough for us, what with jetlag and slowness due to copious amounts of food, plus we keep forgetting parts of songs we never usually forget. Crowd doesn't give a shit and eats it up anyway. I yell "Hola!" and they yell right back. Cool. I'm not gonna push my luck with any more Spanish, though. Good thing a lot of 'em know English. Anyhoo, before we know it we're done. We don't feel that great about our set, but people are congratulating us left and right. That's a funny thing; people like to say "Congratulations", like we won some contest or something. I also met Raul, who interviewed me for Gruta 77 Magazine. It was cool seeing my interview answers published in Spanish. Neckbreakers go on and tear the roof off the joint. Easily one of the best bands on the planet. We sell a butt-load of CDs, LPs and singles, and everyone wants us to autograph 'em. This is way cool. Yep. We're rock stars now (yeah, right).
Just when we think things are gonna wind down, a DJ starts playing great garage rock, and people are mingling, hanging out, and dancing 'till 4am. When do they sleep? I learned about Spain's 'dual-Siesta' days later on in the trip. DJ throws on "The Way You Touch My Hand" from the Nomads' first album, people are singing along, and I'm in heaven. The Nomads were my introduction to garage rock, and here I am in Spain watching people scream out the lyrics to a song by this obscure band from Stockholm, Sweden. In the U.S., nobody would give a shit about the Nomads. I bet some of you reading this right now are saying "who are the Nomads?" Your loss.
Anyways, back to our sweet hotel, off to bed, up at 10:30 next morning, and on to the next show.
Day 3: Vittoria (Club Hell Dorado)
Pepe had rented a huge-ass van to haul all our equipment plus 8 people, but the van rental company fucked up and sent a too-small van. The van can hold the backline and luggage, but not 8 guys. Five at the most.
Pepe rented a small car so we could convoy it on this caravan of stars. Jimmy's brother gallantly offered to be driver number 2. How many people would drop everything to help drive a bunch of strangers around Spain? Whatta guy.
Anyhoo, we're off to Vittoria, in the heart of the Basque region. Interesting architecture. Very fortress-like. It kind of suits an area that has had a long history of conflict with the rest of the country. Check into an amazing hotel, with possibly the best bathroom I've ever experienced. Towel warmers! Can't wait for tomorrow morning's shower.
Meet in the lobby, and off to the club. Hell Dorado is basically a huge converted warehouse, but really cool. Great mural on the side wall, huge stage, amazing sound system, and incredibly professional sound man. The club owner's cool, too, and drives a kick-ass green metalflake '71 Chevy Camaro R/S. How that car made it to the heart of Basque country I'll never know.
After sound-check, we go to a restaurant, and Jimmy gives us a very complicated lesson on the history of Spain, different monarchs and religions, and the Basque separatist movement. An amazing history that I never really knew much about. At this time, we find out that Jimmy's brother has a family emergency and will have to bail on the tour. We'll meet up with a new driver the following night.
Back to the club. Huge room isn't totally packed, but still a very healthy crowd. Must be around 200 or so. We go on, and play much better this night. The kinks from the previous night were worked out, and the set was much more enjoyable for us. We throw in a couple of garage nuggets ("Good Guys Don't Wear White", "Get Me to the World On Time") and the crowd eats it up. They like our originals (and some folks I spot singing along to them occasionally), but putting some classic garage songs into our set really gets 'em going. We decide at the last second to finish the set with The Stooges' "Loose", and the crowd goes apeshit. Man, they love The Stooges here, and we're happy to oblige.
Get off stage, mop our sweaty brows, and mingle while the Swingin' Neckbreakers play another awesome set. These guys are unreal, and when they're on, nobody can touch them.
We totally clean up on merchandise again (I think we sold about $550 these first 2 nights, if I'm calculating my conversion rates properly), sign a bunch of stuff and hear more of those "Congratulations".
Before we left for the tour, Dan Electro (from the Woggles) emailed us with some traveling advice. He had just returned from Spain himself (he played percussion for the British 60's Soul/Funk band Bongolian, and mentioned that he had left appropriate graffiti in several choice clubs. We were quite pleased to observe one of his creations backstage at Hell Dorado, written especially for us:
Day Four: Gijon (Club Louie Louie)
We won't meet up with our new 2nd driver until we get to Gijon, so Jeff Neckbreaker has agreed to pilot the car. I would've done some driving myself, but it took Jimmy over an hour with the rental company to get Jeff legally added as a driver. Oh well; I guess I'll have to wait until our next trip to Spain before I get my chance to experience driving here.
At this point, I wanna comment on Jimmy. This guy is amazing. He takes care of everything, like a TRUE tour manager. We're spoiled. He checks us into hotels, deals with the local promoters, tells us where and when to do everything, loads all our shit, sells all our merchandise, feeds us (too much), and drives like Parnelli Jones. Hey Pepe, give this man a raise.
Takes a while for Jeff to get used to the stick-shift, but he does well, and he's all excited to be driving. All the better for me, 'cause I take a nice nap in the car. Get lunch at a rest-stop restaurant. This ain't no Jersey Turnpike Roy Rogers heat lamp burger restaurant. Although it's a very pretty restaurant with lot of freshly made stuff, I don't do too well here. The "Ensalada Mixte" (mixed salad) has eggs and tuna. Next time I should muster up my courage and say "soy un vegetariano" and see what they can do for me. Often restaurants have English menus if you ask for 'em, so that makes ordering easy, and Jimmy's a good translator. No complaints from everyone else, 'cause they're groovin' on all the beef, squid, eel, prawns, and other foods that had faces and mommies.
We arrive in Gijon and pull up to the Louie Louie Club. It's a really small subterranean affair, but it's super cool looking. Cool rock n' roll posters abound (Velvet Underground, Stooges, etc.) and a very interesting step-down dance floor in the middle of the room surrounded by a padded railing. Stage in front, bar in back, and little alcoves with couches and seats. The unusual layout is attributed to its former life as a titty bar.
We set up for sound check and blast into a song. At this point I realize that my voice is 100% blown. I'm not singing, I'm squeaking. This is not good at all, and I'm completely bummed. Third night of the tour and my voice is shot. We've got 7 more shows. What am I gonna do? Kris throws a handful of lozenges my way, and he and Scott offer to relieve me of some of my vocals for the show if necessary.
Back to the hotel for a bit, out for dinner and back to the club. We head downstairs and it's packed! What's going on? This is a Sunday night. Sunday nights in Spain are nothing like Sunday nights in the States. If we did a Khyber gig in Philly on a Sunday night there would be maybe 10 people there, tops. It's a bittersweet feeling, though. Good that it's a packed, eager crowd. Bad that I sound like Froggy from The Little Rascals.
I head upstairs and… excuse me, I lost my train of thought. The rental car carrying the Neckbreakers just passed us with Tom Neckbreaker mooning us from the passenger window. He may be a rock star in Spain, but he's got a nasty looking butt. Where was I? Oh yeah. I head upstairs to the bathroom and lock myself in a stall. I'm really scared about my voice, but what am I gonna do? I have to give it a try. I head back downstairs and convince the soundman to give me about 5 minutes to try to warm my voice up. I head to a corner and do some of the few vocal exercises I know, and order a shot of Jack Daniels, which does have a "loosening" effect on your vocal chords. We go on and somehow we get through it. It's rough, I sing in low registers and omit some of the more "difficult" vocal parts, and my voice is cracking all over the place, but the crowd just doesn't seem to care. I almost got the impression that they knew my voice was messed up, and they were kind of urging me on. This may be complete bullshit on my part, but feeling that way definitely helped me get through it.
Groove to the Neckbreakers, sell some more stuff, talk to some nice folks (or try to; I think the talking after we play is more damaging than the actually singing) and hang out until it's time to go back to the hotel. This was not exactly a nice hotel. Clean bathrooms, but that's about it. No matter; we got some of the best sleep of the trip.
Oh yeah, I almost forgot. It's Super Bowl Sunday. Some of us were watching the game in our rooms. Being six hours ahead, coupled with the earlier showtime of a Sunday night, made it possible to watch a good portion of the game live, even though it was 1:30 am. Crazy game. The Colts gave da Bears every opportunity to put the game away in the first half, but it just wasn't gonna happen. The NFC is weak, and Rex Grossman's a fraud.
I share the room with Jimmy and our new 2nd driver, Ricardo. Ricardo is very cool, but very quiet. Not sure yet if he knows any English.
Day Five: Ponferrada (Budda)
Up next morning and down to the hotel café for fresh-squeezed O.J. (they squeeze it in front of you). I take out my laptop and find a free hotspot, so I check email and stuff, waiting for some of the others to be ready.
My voice is practically non-existent this morning. I resolve to completely shut up during the day to save it. </SPAN>Jeff Neckbreaker tries to come up with some rudimentary sign language for me, which basically consists of him shrugging his shoulders as if to say "are you OK"? My part consists of either a thumbs up or a thumbs down. Of course my bandmates enjoy the opportunity to deride me, knowing full well that I am incapable of responding. Thanks, guys.
In the van for the drive to Ponferrada. The trip is about 3 hours (which is pretty much the typical trip length for most of the tour). Here's where we witness the most amazing scenery I've ever experienced. A beautiful little village in just about every hollow, huge expanses of hilly land with free-range animals, and the most majestic snow-capped mountains I've ever seen. Jimmy pilots us at near light-speed, but I'm still able to snap a bunch of photos:
We pull into Ponferrada and check into our swanky hotel. We stayed in what amounted to a hostel the night before, but at least it was clean. Tonight's hotel is a really posh one. Meet down at the lobby and head to Budda for sound-check. This club is really cool looking. Buddas everywhere! Here's a sample:
One small problem playing a club like this. It may be beautiful to look at, but acoustically it's a mess. The sound waves bounce all over the place, and it's really difficult to get a good mix without sounding like crap. At soundcheck we try (as much as we can) to not be too loud. That's what you have to do when playing in such a sonically 'bright' room. Tom basically figured he had to 'tippy tap' on the drums, which definitely helped. As far as my voice, I kinda squeaked and grunted out some vocals just to see if I had anything at all, but I really didn't. I decided not to get nervous about it, since it wouldn't do any good. We go out for dinner and back to the hotel for a bit, and I ask Jimmy to make sure we get back to the club early enough so I can do some vocal warmups.
At the hotel, we get together to work on a set list. The previous nights we tried to play too many songs we hadn't rehearsed enough, and the sets kind of suffered. This night we resolve to tighten up the setlist and get, as Tom mentioned, our "mojo" back. It's nice to have mojo, but not nice to lose it, so it's good to get it back. I'm not exactly sure what "mojo" is, but I do know we need it.
We get back to the club and I have about 15 minutes to work up a voice. A nice little crowd of about 40 or so, which isn't really awful for a Monday night in a tiny club. We go on, and surprisingly, my voice isn't half bad (isn't half good, either). I'm definitely hitting some clunkers here and there, but I get the feeling that I'm on the upswing. As for our mojo, it seems to be returning. The little crowd is quite enthusiastic, the sound isn't too bad, and we seem to be enjoying ourselves more.
The stage was very wide, but not very deep, so Tom and the amps stayed up there, while Kris, Scott and I played on the floor. I like that. Sometimes I'm self-conscious being 'up on a pedestal', and it's nice sometimes to be closer to the folks watching you.
Somebody posted some video from this show on YouTube. Lousy sound quality, but here's us doing "Good Guys Don't Wear White":
After the show, the local promoter fed us with some really good pizza and some salad especially for me (that was nice). Ricardo excitedly pointed out the salad to me. He's been a really great help on the tour, making sure we have food, drinks, etc., and relieving Jimmy when needed.
We all head out to a bar around the corner. Just a little hole in the wall, but here's a perfect example of why Spain beats the U.S.A. hands-down in the rock and roll department (and yes, that's a Nomads poster!):
Joe Neckbreaker meets up with his old friend Michael, who's originally from Long Island, NY but emigrated to Spain 11 years ago. He's a really cool guy, and he was filling me in on the experience of living in Spain from an ex-U.S. Citizen's point of view. Mainly (and this is not news to me) people just place so much more emphasis on enjoying the finer aspects of life (and I don't mean fancy cars or 50" plasma TVs). You can boil it down to this: "Work to live" vs. "live to work".
Michael also told me something that absolutely blew me away. He's had our two previous albums ("Go Fast" on Get Hip and "Get Ready for Action!" on Dionysus). He DJs at various clubs around town, and when he puts on our version of the Shadows of Knight's "Shake", it works the dancers up into a frenzy! I'm floored when I hear this. It again speaks to the typical Spaniard's knowledge of garage rock. They know the Shadows of Knight's version (which is kind of obscure by rock and roll standards) and appreciate what we bring to our version. Me and my new hero, Michael:
OK. Late night. Tired. Off to the hotel. Tomorrow's another day.
Day Six: Cedeira (Universal):
Today we're off to Cedeira (Jimmy's home town!!!). Jimmy's incredibly psyched (and nervous) about this show. He's done a ton of promotion around town, and there are some serious expenses to cover. Cedeira is in Galicia (the Glacier region) on the northern coast of Spain. It's a beautiful seaside resort town. Driving into Cedeira was quite breathtaking, and shoreline is amazing. Huge breakers hitting massive rock formations, interesting curved beaches, and resort properties that blend into the landscape rather than take it over.
For lunch, we pull into a beautiful, rustic old restaurant that the owner had opened up just for us!
Here we had some of the best food of the trip, and some mighty fine wine. I'm not much of a wine drinker, but this stuff is amazing. They really know how to serve wine that goes well with meals. Something to do wth the acidity content of the wine, I think. It's definitely not Manischewitz, which tastes almost like syrup in comparison.
We head to the club (Universal), which as a very American theme. Almost like a TGI Fridays of rock and roll. Cool posters abound (MC5, Lyres, Gore Gore Girls, etc.), and yeah, that's a motorcycle parked next to the pool table.
The pool room also had something I never expected to see in a bar on the Northern coast of Spain halfway around the world:
Yep, Philadelphia. Go figure. We do sound check, which is a bit dicey. Another bright room that's difficult to get a good sound in. Back to the hotel for a bit to change and work up a setlist, then Jimmy picks us up to head beck to the club. He's EXTREMELY nervous 'cause it looks like nobody's gonna show up. It's about 9:00 and nobody's there. "I'm very a-scary about this show" says Jimmy. We head backstage where the same restaurant laid out a huge spread of food for us. Tom is in absolute heaven, snarfing down the best omelletes of his life. "You're gonna regret this" I tell him, knowing that he always feels like shit if he eats before playing. "I can't help it" he says, to which I reply that I better not hear him complain. "Oh, you'll hear me complain". Yep. I stay in there to do vocal exercises, doing my best to bring my voice back to its normal form.
I peek outside, and the club is starting to fill up nicely. By the time we get on stage, the place is jam-packed. Jimmy had nothing to worry about. Check it out:
We blast into our set, starting with "No More". We're on, baby. We're tight, we're rockin', we're shreddin', we're… uh oh. The room goes dark. Pitch black. Amps go dead. Power failure! "Oooohhhhh", goes the crowd. We stand around for a moment. Power goes back on. "Yeaaaahhhh!!!" goes the crowd. Dark again. "Ooooohhhh". Back on. "Yeaaaahhh!". Dark. "Ooohhhh". Back on. A tentative "yeah". Power stays on. We re-start the set. My voice is feeling better. However, it appears that the soundman is having trouble with feedback, and sonic difficulties ensue. I pinpoint the problem. Let's just say that it's a bit difficult for the soundman to adjust the sound when he's up front dancing, fercryinoutloud. No matter; the crowd is digging us and we're digging them. I can't hear my amp. So much so that I think it's broken. I mash my fist down on the keys and I hear it groan. OK, I can't hear it from where I am, but I don't need to hear it. We soldier on, and put on a fun show for Jimmy's home town.
Swingin' Neckbreakers go on, and Tom kicks into his typical Gerry Roslie/Little Richard howl, and… he starts croaking. Now he's losing HIS voice, and it ain't purty. Hoo boy. I sure know how that feels. Difference between us is that he just shrugs it off and still has a ball, whereas I'd worry myself into a lumpy heap of despair.
Neckbreakers play forever, and the crowd gets sweaty and the floor gets slippery. Just another typical weeknight in Spain. Thank you, Cedeira, for showing us a good time, and for your greatest export, Jimmy Garcia:
Day Seven: Valladolid (Porta Cali)
It's all starting to become a blur by now. I don't remember the drive, I don't remember eating, I don't remember sleeping…. I don't even know what day it is any more. Oh yeah… Wednesday. I guess that's what true touring is all about. >I do remember Jimmy getting lost and making lots of u-turns and asking lots of people where a particular street is. We finally pull up at the club, which seems to be smack in the middle of a modern business district. We jump the curb and park in a courtyard outside the club. We open the door, and voila! Instant coolness. But unlike the coolness in some of the other clubs. No garage rock posters, no Bettie Page pics. We're talking murals on the ceilings, ornate details all about the place, and a very dapper elderly gentleman patrolling the premises making sure everything is in order. See here:
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I met Oskar Garcia, who writes for the Spanish fanzine "Kick Out the Jams", and also DJs on the radio. We had been in contact prior to the tour. It's been cool meeting some of these folks in person. The show starts very early (around 9:30 or so), because the club says we have to be out of there by midnight. My voice is even better tonight; not 100%, but getting there. Small crowd, but very attentive and fun. I urge them to come closer to the stage, which they do, and during "Think With Your Hands", I lead them in a little go-go beat hand clapping sesssion during the verses. We encore with "Loose", which is our usual go-to song to either end a set or encore with, and it yields predictably positive results. I'm fully convinced that Stooges songs are definite language- and culture-barrier breakers.
After the show, the bands are treated to a humongous spread of food. Tom gets another heap-full of omelettes, transporing him once again into a gastronomic nirvana. I get a big-ass salad. Galactic amounts of onions, which I inhale, and the tomatoes are absolutely amazing. I believe that all vegetables throughout the country are grown and transported locally. No need to freeze, preserve, sprinkle with pesticides, inject with food coloring, blah blah blah. Nothing to hide the flavor or strip out the nutrients.
As we load out, people start filtering in and all of a sudden the place turns into a cool little salsa dance club:
We high-tailed it back to the hotel to get as much sleep as possible. Early start the next morning for the longest haul of the trip: 8 hours to Cox.
Day Eight: Cox (TNT Blues)
Day 8 was originally supposed to be a day off in Madrid. Ahh, yes, maybe spend my time in the Prado, or strolling around, or – most of all – resting. But instead we were booked for another show. First it was to be in Orihuela, and then it got switched to Cox (pronounced thos). Hey, if we're gonna be in Spain on tour, we should be playing every night.
Eight grueling, exhausting hours of driving, and we pull into Cox. How to describe this town? Lower-income working class, and I discover that it has a large immigrant population. Very run-down, but also lots of construction, so it definitely seems to be on the up-swing, real estate-wise. But you can't escape the fact that it's definitely a rough-and-tumble town.
We circumnavigate a traffic circle about 15 times while Jimmy tries to find out from the local promoter where the club is. We go down dusty streets and muddy back-alleys and finally arrive at TNT Blues. It's a tiny little hole-in-the-wall club with a crappy vocal-only P.A. that a little 3-year old kid is using as his personal "Mr. Microphone". Kinda cute, and then his brother starts crying that he wants a turn, and then their Mom drags them away.
Neckbreakers attempt a sound-check to screaming, screeching, wailing feedback. We do our soundcheck and fare a little better, I think because we reposition the monitors and insist that the P.A. is turned down. Off to the hotel (actually a motel) for a bit of rest and food.
Back to the club, and there's a nice little crowd. Definitely the "roughest" looking crowd we've witnessed on the trip. Even though we're in a dingy club in the middle of some working-class immigrant town, it still exudes its own level of garage coolness:
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The last photo above shows something that's very typical of cool bars in Spain: extensive LP and CD collections behind the bar for the playing. Squint hard and you'll see Remains and Moving Sidewalks LPs!
Our sets are not spectacular, but the crowd enjoys it nonetheless. I think the original idea to have a day off probably should've been the way to go. Kris is so tired he doesn't want to hang out and gets a ride back to the motel. We follow suit not too much later. Tomorrow: sunny Valencia!
Day Nine: Valencia (Dub Club)
The drive to Valencia is about 3-4 hours. We're all up at a reasonable hour after a decent night's sleep (nobody cared to stay up late to party).
Only one word can describe the drive to Valencia: WOW. We're traveling down the Eastern Mediterranean Coast. Wow, wow, and more wow:
We pull into Valencia in the late afternoon, and I notice another Philadelphia reminder. This one is pretty damn unreal; an exact replica of Peter Max's "Love" sculpture, but "doubled":
Check in at a very nifty Holiday Inn (complete with dual-voltage bathroom electricity; don't wanna fry your shaver), rest for a bit, and off to Dub Club. Small, narrow, but nicely laid out. And there's a tuba for a bar tap. Really cool.
Pepe's joining us for this show, so I really want it to be good. We set up, and start the sound check. Then disaster strikes (well, at least for me). My organ starts making sick scratching sounds, and then… nothing. Totally dead. No signal whatsoever. Complete system failure. And I'm pissed. I pop the lid, poke around at the bird's nest wiring, but nothing. Sound man comes to the rescue, though. They have an in-house Yamaha electric piano thingy, so we throw it on top of the organ, he presses a coupla buttons, and it makes a half-decent representation of an old Fender Rhodes or Wurlitzer electric. Good enough.
Off to dinner, and return to a jam-packed club. We start the set, and the crowd is waaaay digging it. Easily the most enthusiastic crowd of the tour. Bordering on wild. Damn I love these Spaniards. Very hot, very sweaty, very successful, even though it sounded like Mondo Topless Jerry Lee Lewis-style. Fingers are sore 'cause I'm not used to weighted keys. Eh, whatever.
One of the folks in attendance, a friend of Pepe's named Pablo, tells me I can borrow his Hohner combo organ for tomorrow night! Yay! We agree to get together tomorrow morning to pick it up. Back to hotel, back to bed. One more show to go. Stay tuned...