EVIDENTLY CHICKENTOWN

Senigallia proved to be as frustrating as the last few Italian shows. It’s beginning to occur to me that perhaps Italy does not give a rat’s ass about our particular brand of American avant-folk music. Why should they, really? They have their own rich traditions. Maybe my diluted aesthetic is of no use to them. Isn't it enough to have heart? Perhaps not. Bah fungul, to you Mr. Redfearn! The small café had a few people in it at the beginning of my set and they were only moderately noisy and indifferent. By the end, the place was filled to capacity and my set was rendered inaudible by the loud, drunken chatter. My frustration and anger provided some fuel to my fire and I was practically screaming by the time I got to “The Way of All Flesh”, which I have been performing as a duo with my handheld cassette recorder. As is well documented in my last few entries, my energy has been on the ebb for the last few days. It’s been hard to stay enthusiastic. I feed off the energy of the audience. When they don’t give it up, I start crumbling.
Micah played second and he was almost lost completely in the din. I tried to watch his set, but the place was so packed that I ended up milling around outside, chain-smoking and attempting some awkward conversation with Giovanni and Massimo, our profusely apologetic hosts. Afterwards, I couldn’t wait to leave. The crowds are starting to kill me. I have reverted to a agoraphobic state of catatonia these past few days. During the train rides, I’ve been wearing a hat, headphones, sunglasses and hood to try to block out all outside stimulus. The little things are getting to me. Like Bukowski said, it’s the broken shoelaces. There have been a lot of broken shoelaces on this trip.
We eventually were driven to our hotel by our hosts, who were both half in the bag at this point. We all had a few laughs as we attempted to defy the laws of physics, cramming ourselves, our bags and cases into the Massimo’s microscopic Fiat. The cars seem to be getting smaller and smaller at each gig, and our packing routine has become more and more comical by the day. I’m convinced the cars will continue to get smaller with each gig and that there will be lawnmower waiting for us at the train station in Athens. I sat crunched in the back seat with Micah’s guitar case pressing against my jawbone. Micah and I had separate rooms, which we both appreciated. We’ve been getting along pretty well, because we are both pretty comfortable with hours of silence, but a night of space is not necessarily a bad thing.
The next day we got coffee and pizza and took the train to Bologna. It was another hellish over-packed nightmare and I was exhausted by the time we got to Club Locomotif where we would be playing. This was the first large venue of the tour and I had a really nice kick drum with a swift and responsive pedal. I was pretty satisfying to hear myself through a giant PA system. It was positively Wagnerian. I could really the work dynamics in a room like this. We were sharing the bill with a big band from London called Scarlet’s Well which featured members of Heavenly and The Monochrome Set. They were a really nice bunch of folks and they had some interesting tunes and arrangements. I dug.
The show was poorly attended, but the audience was attentive, enthusiastic and refreshingly quiet. Since we were no longer dealing with a cacophonous audience, Micah was able to play some of his subtler material which I had been itching to hear again. I was in pretty good shape, after the previous nights' struggles. I played fairly aggressively, but I was still able to work the dynamics. It was a great show. I sold a few CDS. I had my energy back and I no longer wanted to choke anyone to death with an I-Pod cable.
The promoter drove us to a small bar/underground bookstore where Micah’s friend Egle was working. We would be staying with Egle and his wife Chiara that night. We had a few hours to kill before Egle got off work so we ended up chatting with Chiara and her old flatmate, Mariella about accordions, jawharps, and La Cosa Nostra (who are still a strong presence in Sicily). We were repeatedly cornered by a large and very crazy man named Aldo who claimed that he was a noise musician and that he was institutionalized after telling his psychiatrist that his ex-wife had left him for John Travolta. Aldo kept trying to convince me to buy him drinks, but I really did want to see him drunk on top of everything else, so I politely declined. Aldo joined our table and the conversation veered heavily toward John Travolta for the next few of hours.
When Egle got off work we crammed everything into Mariella’s car (another Fiat) and drove to their flat near the center of Bologna. We stayed up until 4am and there was cake, wine and fajitas. We woke up around 11 to the sounds of moving men bringing a mansion’s worth of furniture and appliances into the small flat. Egle and Chiara had been married in October and it was a Sicilian wedding so there was an enormous amount of gifts. The delivery people came hours earlier than expected and it was pretty overwhelming. Egle and Chiara frantically stumbled around boxes, washing machines and refrigerators which consumed almost every inch of the flat while Micah and I tried to shake off the sleep and get to the train. My malfunctioning rib was still aching, so I decided to take some effervescent anti-inflammatory medication. I also had some effervescent Vitamin C tablets, so I thought “What the hell?” and threw them in together. The result was an angry, hissing, mushroom cloud of foam that spilled all over the table and made a huge mess. I cleaned it up, tossed back the remainder and we headed to the train in yet another Fiat.
We are now on the way to Ljubljana, Slovenia, which will be the first stop of the Balkan leg of the tour. Sun Ra’s “Sun Song” is on my headphones. I haven’t showered in a few days and I pity this poor woman sitting next to me. I am worried about the Balkans, particularly Serbia. We will now be dealing with crumbling infrastructure and corrupt border police. It should be an interesting week. If you don’t hear from me again, I hope that you will remember all the good times we had and not the money I owe you…