NOVEMBER COMING FIRE

Joyeux Samhain, filthy American pigs! It’s Halloween in Belgium. Halloween is just not the same here. The Belgians have only been celebrating this holiest of holies for the past 5 years and everyone here seems genuinely confused about the whole mess. I’ve tried to explain it, but it’s but it‘s untranslatable. The sad part is that they’ve been celebrating All Souls’ Day instead of Halloween here. Belgium has been getting screwed out of the best holiday of them all. I weep for Belgium.
I am in a much better mood with a bit of sleep and the hotel debacle behind me. My father kindly deposited some money in my bank account, so I’m in the black again. Yeah, I know, I’m now in debt to both Steve and my father…but who cares? I’m in Europe for a month, Goddammit! Fuck all y’all!
I’m in Ghent in the aforementioned Northern section of Belgium where they speak Flemish, a dialect of Dutch, which, from what I understand bears some similarities to German. I haven’t the slightest handle on any of these languages, but it doesn’t matter because most of the people I met seem to be better English speakers than most of the Americans I deal with on a daily basis. Micah rolled into LaCurie/RTT in the late afternoon while I was playing bucket brigade trying to deal with an errant toilet. I greeted him, but told him that it was probably better if he didn’t shake my hand. Once that fire was out, we caught up over homemade quiche which one of the promoters mother had prepared. England had gone well for him. He had opened for Simon Finn the previous night in London and it had been a killer show.
We played on an old bus which had been transformed into a quiet music venue, complete with a hardwood floors, a small heater, and stage lights. I played first. I played quite badly. I rushed the tempos on everything, played clumsily, sang out of tune and without confidence and had a few complete train wrecks. The audience was hard to read, but they did call me back for an encore. I played a slow version of Roky Erickson’s “I Have Always Been Here Before” using my famous shaky-knee technique throughout. It actually went fairly well because I kept it simple. Micah’s set was quite good, though he seemed a bit more reserved than usual. He ended with a cover of Jimmy “The Singing Brakeman” Rodgers’ “Away Out on the Mountain”…a truly psychedelic masterpiece from the depression era with complex yodeling patterns and descriptions of grizzly bear coats and beavers paddling on walking canes. I was thrilled. I love this tune. Jimmy Rodgers recorded a good deal of his music while suffering from tuberculosis, which eventually killed him. It didn’t seem to effect his voice, though. He could yodel like a motherfucker and all the while he was drowning in mucous and coughing up gobs of blood. That’s a tough bastard. And here I am whining about a smoker’s cough and a minor sinus infection. Always the pussy.
After the gig, I smoked some hashish and spoke with an attractive young sculptress from France named Tatiana. I found myself defending Mathew Barney again. I feel like I‘m constantly defending Matthew Barney. He should put me on the payroll.
Later, we were driven to the band quarters in an old beat up BMW limousine. Micah had to share the front seat with a unicycle, which I was trying to convince him to work into his act. Micah was unconvinced. After tearing through a strange network of alleys while being followed by a friend of the driver’s on bicycle, we arrived at the apartment.
It took us about half an hour to get the keys to work, which we realized was because we were at the wrong apartment. After righting this issue, we ascended the four flights of stairs with all of our bags. It was Hell. I had to lighten my load or I would never survive this tour. I left the huge duffle bag and most of it’s contents with the promoter (don’t worry Annapurna, I’m picking it up on the way back) and I crammed a bare requisite amount of clothing and personal effects into my pedal and accordion cases. In the morning there was coffee, but no coffee maker. Micah tried to make cowboy coffee in a saucepan on the stove, but it tasted like boiled shoes. We decided to wait until we got to the train station for the morning fix. We ate some eggs and descended the endless stairs.
We got to the station, drank copious amounts of coffee while fending off a drunken ex-hippy beggar, got the train and arrived in Ghent forty-five minutes later. We quickly found a small park to collect ourselves. We sat on a rock. I chain-smoked, Micah paced and we both sat in awe of the seemingly endless parade of unbelievably hot European women, none of whom we would ever have the opportunity to touch or even talk to. It’s probably better that way. Later, while walking along the river by giant weeping willows I pointed to a window where a woman was creating a comically profuse amount of steam while cooking dinner. It looked like she was cooking in the shower. We glanced upwards and saw a tall woman in a turtleneck sweater in the apartment above the steam-bath staring back at us. We waved and she waved back. “We’ll call her the one who got away” Micah said and went on to call it the perfect interaction. On the walk back we noted that her blinds were drawn. I guess it was unrequited.
We played at a small pub for a drunk, and very noisy, audience. There was no PA or amplification of any kind and I almost lost my voice trying to be audible above the obnoxious din. I played far better than I did last night, but I don’t think anyone heard me. I had great time playing, regardless. “Elzabet” was particularly vengeful. Micah’s set was fantastic, though he cut it short due to a jackhammer headache which he later had to drown in whiskey. He played a killer version of Springsteen’s “I’m on Fire”. The Boss generally leaves me cold, but I have soft spot for this one.
Outside the bar, we met a grizzled and surly American ex-patriate street performer who told us ludicrous horror stories about the former Yugoslavian border patrols. It got me genuinely worried, but Micah reassured me that it was bullshit. He described these gentlemen as being corrupt, but in a very endearing way. Apparently, they tend to want a little bribe money to get drunk with. It seems like a fairly innocuous abuse of power. I can get behind it. I can't imagine that I would act any differently given their circumstance. We decided to start a bribe fund.
Now we’re back at Phillip and Benedicte’s house. It’s a beautiful place and I have my own bed. My luck is on the rise, but the tour is only beginning.