Berlin 5/9/07

Transition day for me from the Little Annie tour to the Botanica tour. Christian flies in from Oslo & London where he’s been playing with the Brooklyn band Falcon, opening for The Shout Out Louds. Keith comes straight from New York; John always seems to be in Germany; and I take the 4:50 AM airport van from Brescia to Milan and the Sleazy Jet from Milan to Berlin. Played with Annie at the Ikos Festival the night before. In a plastic, inflatable bubble with a Steinway and 50 people inside—and a couple thousand listening to the piped music on bleachers outside. We could sort of hear them whoop and holler between songs. Strange. The festival put us up at a “retreat” hotel. A former convent. My room featured a cross on the wall and church pew as decoration. Or were they meant as tools? Maybe they save that room just for visiting atheists. Smoking rooms; non-smoking rooms; god rooms. We hadn’t made a reservation for the airport van in advance. “Are you the ones that called,” asked the driver when he pulled up? “Si,” we both nodded vigorously. The phone call from the couple left stranded in Brescia came about 20 minutes later, too late to turn back. Our driver chuckled, took a drag on his cigarette and petted his dog.

In Berlin, I rent a little van and pick up Keith and John and head over to our good friend and sometime violinist, Anne deWolff’s place to cook dinner.  Once again, Anne has saved our collective asses and hooked us up with a rehearsal room so we can see if we remember all those songs we recorded in December. Christian is supposed to meet us at the studio and as we pull up we get a call that he’s crashed his mother’s car—with his new rental double bass inside. It turns out it’s just a fender-bender and Bangers is fine. When he finally arrives, his bass amp, which Keith brought over from New York, is somehow broken. We’re one day away from Christians’ debut on doghouse bass; haven’t played most of the new songs since we recorded them and the window for rehearsing is slowly closing. In the end, we finally get a few hours of work done, drink a lot of beer, and the next day we’re off to Dresden with Chris, our booking agent cum tourmanager; Rene, master-of-sound Hermkens and home-sweet-home for the next two months: the big blue Volkswagen Sprinter. Bangers’ bass is christened Harry.

Dresden 5/10

A journalist from a major jazz magazine, (if that isn’t an oxymoron), calls me up to schedule an interview. He tells me that in the past he and his wife made love while listening to Botanica, but now we’ve become wholly integrated into the life of his family. Everyone’s favorite records. The kids. The dogs…
We’ve played to a sold out Star Club before, opening for Madrugada, but tonight, the food is more of a highlight. We need the rehearsal anyway. About half the sparse audience buys a CD, though. One man comes up to me and asks if I remember him. Apparently the year before he had asked for a CD with a dedication to his recent ex hoping it would inspire a reunion. He told me it didn’t work, but he still liked us anyway. It’s time to leave.

Cottbus 5/11

Cottbus is 10 kilometers from the Polish border and we think about heading into Poland to fill up the van—gas being much cheaper on the other side—but we’re told the closest gas station is 30 kilometers inside Poland. (Seems like some enterprising soul could cash in on the situation). It’s a Visions Magazine party tonight and about 250 kids show up in a partying mood. Big stage, good sound—and even though the green bison vodka doesn’t make an appearance this time, life is good.

Leipzig 5/12

Hometown of Johann Sebastian Bach. Amazingly we’ve never played here before. Just as they’re tuning the organ, I visit the church where Bach was employed. If there were a heaven, this thing would be playing at the gates. A beautiful old-town; still suffering the growing pains and visual incongruities of modern Germany and the decimated East.  There’s something of a German cmj happening—PopUp Festival—and we load in, just as gifted guitarist and singer Timo Sander, formerly of Bee & Flower, takes his turn on the convention stage. We’re due on about 8 hours later—giving us plenty of time to see the sights; and for me to go thoroughly ballistic when we return and I think somebody’s stolen my piano stool. It’s the magic chair. (The only piece of furniture between me and total disaster—i.e. falling all over Christian and his precious upright bass). Bangers, who locates everything that goes missing, finally spots the stool onstage behind the drummer for one of the endlessly horrible bands playing before us. (yes, endless number of horrible bands, but endlessly horrible, nonetheless). In the middle of it all, some guy comes up to me and says “Ah, you don’t remember me, do you?” When I agree, he says “We played with you in Hamburg and you hated us.” I ask if it was 5 years ago. He says, “no, just a last fall.” It takes me a while, but then I vaguely remember. “Yeah, I didn’t like your band at all,” I nod. These guys, whose name I mercifully forget, after we’d played with them and it obviously didn’t work, called up the promoter at some club later on the tour and scammed their way onto the bill. After we found out, the night before, I insisted that they couldn’t go on. Making friends…
Anyway, turned out to be a fun show, the PopUp fans staying late to wildly applaud our set. And somewhere during the night, we manage to catch a glimpse of the most magnificent venue in Germany: The UT Connewitz theater. A warmly dilapidated, neo-classical marvel with an elegant balcony, peeling red paint, mirrored balls and a Parthenon-like pediment over the wide stage. Hopefully we play here the next time in good old Lepzig.

Berlin 5/13

The “hometown” show is the best ever this time around, and the Maschinenhaus never sounded this good. The new Bee & Flower opens the show, featuring the always stellar Dana Schechter and Rod Miller, and complemented by other lovelies including Calexico’s Martin Wenk on trumpet & guitar. The full room is treated to the last night of a clean, white suit. The next day, we’re invited back to the Blend TV show on Turkish-German television network TD1. Christian has a date with his inheritance—uh, grandma—and can’t make it, so we inaugurate the bassless Botanica trio and Keith pops his cherry as kitchen-ware virtuoso supreme. His kit consists of various pots, pans and trays –and an occasional whack on the padded, studio seats. We even manage to rock Sex Offender from the new album in this format. Who needs bass when you’ve got balls?

Hamburg 5/15

After an off day in Berlin with no wounds yet to lick, we head to Hamburg where “Officer I’m High,” open the show. This is a new group, featuring handsome, tattooed boys from Nena’s band—yes THAT Nena—who our own John “loudboy” Andrews moonlights with. (Sans tats, but avec scarves…)  Nena shows up with 3 of her kids in tow and dances enthusiastically right in front of the stage through the whole show. She’s a sweetheart. Rumor has it that maybe she’ll cover “Berlin Hi-Fi.”

Luebeck 5/16

Last time we were here with the magnificent Stuurbaard Bakebaard, but this time the support duties are handled by a local Joe Jackson cover band, “Look Sharp.” Making matters worse is the practice room directly on top of the backstage, occupied by a horrible metal drummer practicing tom fills from the moment we arrive. Maybe he’s trying to impress us. We make him stop. The little balcony and general, rustic theater vibe, lends itself particularly well to megaphones, tambourines and roving accordions, and the show is great.

Bremen 5/17

This is the first stage too tiny to lay ol’ Harry on his side, but we make Bangers pluck and scratch anyway. Our erstwhile stage manager and muse, Tanja Behrends, shows up, and as always, makes it that much more special. And this is the first night that hits the trifecta from our rider: Bottle of whiskey, Ricola AND disposable camera.

Kassel 5/18

We play the Schlachthof—slaughterhouse. A very common transfer of use for music venues in Germany. Sometimes the transformation is less than obvious. Kassel is the equivalent of Omaha, (except that they have the 2nd biggest art fair in Europe here every 2 years). But really—Omaha the rest of the time. Right in the center of Germany at the intersection of several autobahns, this is the city you always see signs for and never go to. But there’s always a first. We’re fortunate enough to have the local duo Wuhte und Faust, co-conspirators of our friend David Judson Clemmons, open up the show. Wuhte und Faust sounds vaguely eschatological and apocalyptic; or maybe a lion-taming team, or vaudeville act---but in reality, they play pleasant folk pop and all their friends show up. We had no expectations for this town, but the small hall is pretty full and merch sales are brisk. Thanks W & F!

Bochum 5/19

The catering at the Bastion Club accurately reflects the name of the organization promoting the show: No Budget Arts. They only charge 4 Euros at the door and the place is packed, but for some reason—maybe the terrible sound and worse food?—I just don’t feel it. I can’t think of any other time when we play well and the room’s full and I just can’t focus on the show. And everyone in town’s depressed ‘cause their football team just lost the German Championships to Stuttgart. The on-going volume wars between rhythm section and front-creatures escalates and John and I have words about the set-list backstage, ending in John flipping the glass coffee table with what’s left of the lousy food, drink and everything else flying all over the dressing room. The next day when we show up for breakfast—instant coffee and Kraft singles—one of the sweet N.B.A. people is vacuuming up the room and I apologize for the mess explaining that “somehow the table fell over.” They give us all a friendly and enthusiastic farewell, hoping to see us soon. I like these people, but I just can’t see us coming back.

Cologne 5/20

We’ve wanted to play Gebaude 9 for a couple years and it doesn’t disappoint. The polar opposite of Bastion. Nice, big stage; superb catering. Cologne’s a touch town, and the large hall could’ve used a helluva lot more people, but our Krefeld krew shows up en masse, as well as Reinhardt Naekel, photographer extraordinaire, who manages to capture the white suit--and everyone else’s finery—before nightfall. It’s a gorgeous evening and our audience ambles in from the industrial alleyway and fills up the space in front of the stage. A perfect show. Holography would have been all we needed to make it look as good as it felt.

Regensburg 5/23

We travel to Bavaria so we can play for our friend Sven. For the last couple appearances, we’ve been at the Galerie Graz, but this time he’s putting the show on at an abandoned warehouse that will be demolished 2 days after our show. There’s a giant space that’s already been pretty much destroyed by a series of raves and then the smaller room we play in where the floor’s been covered in Astroturf. We figure if we play loud enough, maybe the walls will come down. John joins us right before we hit the stage, after taking every form of transportation known to man and fleeing to Italy for our 2 days off. We play a great show.

Ludwigshafen 5/24

A very modern venue in a city-operated cultural center. The concert series is sponsored by BASF, Germany’s biggest chemical corporation. I get a massive shock at sound check when I touch both my mics at the same time. We think it’s fixed, but near the end of the  show, it happens again and all the lights in the venue flicker. I have a swollen lip, but forge ahead. We don’t have time to go to the hotel after sound check and I badly need a shower, so they lead me to the bowels of the neighboring building and the restaurant’s staff bathroom. I come back through the hall in my towel, swigging Jack Daniels and ranting about the lack of people in the place. We’re sitting backstage while I complain about the lack of promotion, when the promoter comes in to tell us it’s late and we should play. I look pissed-off, but then he explains that most of the audience is waiting outside. It’s a nice evening, but it’s stiflingly hot inside the club. After the show, we repair to the sky-bar at our hotel, a 20 story 70’s era, decrepit, ex-luxury hotel oozing stale semen and champagne from the carpets and mortar from its walls. I play a couple tunes on the sky bar’s white upright and am immediately served a pilsner by our young Frankenstein of a barman. He’s 6ft 6” and completely square—of torso, head and brain. When I stop playing he returns to his playlist of 80’s power ballads. We’re the bar’s only customers. Hundreds of ropes hang from the ceiling and drape the walls, surrounding the cut-glass chandeliers and gaudy, polished brass fixtures. Gold and hemp. And who knows how many lines were cut on the mirrored tables. But best of all is the wrap-around view of Chemical City. What looks like the skyline of a medium-sized metropolis is not a city, but a factory: the BASF headquarters, where 50,000 people go to mix and sell potions every day. Reminds me of the oil refineries around Galvaston, Texas. It’s eerily silent in our glass- enclosed sky bar watching the millions of flickering lights. Evidence of the strangest potions and eschatological experimentation, but from where we sit, our own private mirage of a gorgeous Shangri-La. The Sky Bar is Christian’s highlight of the tour. It gives him something extra to write about in the custom postcards he sends every day to the mystery girl from Italy. Christian knows every swimming pool and post office in Europe. As we leave, the barman, who, with a budding double-chin, buzzcut and recessed eyes looks to be closing in on middle age, but turns out to be 21, remarks how all those songs he’s been playing are great, but there’s something just simply genius about Bonnie Tyler that makes you cry. We agree and go to bed.

Mainz 5/25

This is our first festival of the tour, and it turns out to be the biggest crowd Botanica has ever played for. The Open Ohr festival is a German institution, occupying Mainz’s old citadel one weekend a Summer for the past 30 years. About 4,000 people congregate on the lawn by 10 P.M. and we hit the stage just as the sun goes down. After years of bringing the “Botanica cloud” with us, we definitely get a lucky break in Mainz. The next night’s lineup is completely washed out, as Mainz survives its first tornado in recorded history. It’s the first complete night’s cancellation in the history of the festival. The drums blow off the riser and the lights come crashing down. But we were lucky and played the perfect slot on a stellar night. Things are looking up.

Saarbruecken 5/26

This is Chris—our bookies’—hometown. We’ve been here before; playgrounds and brothels side by side… Chris has organized an in-store for us at the hippest record store in town and un-spinal tap like, people actually show up. Some of them already have tickets for tonight, and I make sure they’re non-refundable before we start. This is our debut as a totally acoustic act and it proves to be an unqualified hit. Accordion, Upright bass, acoustic guitar and Keith on a myriad of pots and pans. We play the hits—Berlin Hi Fi and Age of Irony, as well as the obvious squeeze-box numbers and I have a good time running out in the street and through the record stacks with my strap-on. The tempestuous rains arrive later, but fortunately, the deluxe hotel is right around the corner from the venue and nothing—not even the totally dysfunctional PA—is going to dampen our mood. John and I leave the windows open in our room and my book, (in case anybody’s interested: “The Closing of the Western Mind, the Rise of Faith & the Fall of Reason), is completely destroyed in the ensuing flood.

Frankfurt 5/28

Good ol’ Frank is a sweet guy. But his club, Das Bett, is getting harassed by the city and he’s running scared. We’re too loud for him and he never wants to see us again. A few whiskeys later, things are better, but we’ve had enough of Frankfurt.

Viersen 5/29

There’s a Conny’s Come In sticker on the side of my organ and here we are again. In the middle of nowhere—a suburb of Krefeld. The last time the full band played here, the Wurlitzer went out of tune and someone stole my half-eaten pizza, the two events triggering a massive Wallfisch implosion. But this time, it’s a particularly charmed evening. Peter Breidenbach, the local impresario, fills the bar for us and the audience won’t let us leave. Peter says it’s the show of the year and gives us all Conny’s t-shirts. But just as we think all is well, Bangers notices the head of his bass—Harry’s head—is listing at a dangerous angle. If that thing snaps off, it could kill us all. As luck would have it, though, there are 2, not just 1, luthiers right in Viersen and we get the thing re-glued before its time to move on.

Bielefeld 5/30-31

 The Forum in Bielefeld is, after Krefeld, our other home-away-from-home. I’ve played here 9 times—six with Botanica. They have our picture on their homepage http://www.forum-bielefeld.com—and on the walls of the club. Great home-cooking and fantastic sound every time. This is supposed to be our first show with The Drones from Australia but they cancel and we have the night to ourselves. Ralf and the Forum staff are also the winners of last year’s “Grossmuter’s Wohnzimmer Wettbewrb” (grandma’s livingroom contest—sounds a bit better in German). We asked people to bring furniture to the show each night. Though we were greeted with all sorts of tables, rugs, lamps, chests and the like at various locales, the Forum built a whole stage set for us, complete with roof, windows, curtains and a battery powered fairy-godmother Tinkerbell whirling right above my head. The prize was a private concert. So this time around, Ralf keeps us a day longer and puts on a garden party at his friend’s house, the caretaker/night watchman of a huge, outdoor swimming pool. A garden complete with open fires and bbq pits, teepees on the lawn and the proverbial burbling brook nearby greets us as we set up the Wurlitzer, toy piano, upright bass and a bunch of pots and pans for Keith to whack on. We plug the wurli, the guitar and the bass in the Fender Twin and all huddle around the amp. I  think of putting my voice through the Twin as well, but there’s no mic, so I just howl into the garden as dusk falls. (The whole thing make everybody think of Doo Rag, the amazing Arizona band I heard in Tuscon when Congo Norvell opened for them.)
I don’t think we can do more than 30 minutes like this, but we end up playing for almost an hour and a half. Crowning the evening is our midnight skinny-dip in the pool—complete with a high-speed spin around the “Grossmutter Schleuderer,” (grandma spinner), a massaging current for the old ladies having a day at the “spa,” but which cranked up to maximum speed, on a dark night, and all of us high as a kite, makes for a fun evening’s entertainment. Everybody wins with the Grossmutter’s Wohnzimmer Wettbewerb.

Wesel 6/1

We played here 6 years ago with 16 Horsepower. The only small club on that tour and it was so packed it rained inside the venue. This time it doesn’t rain. The promoter asks if we still have the red, Kay guitar we traded him 4 Botanica t-shirts for in 2001. Yes indeed. Good memory. John forgets his super-pro mic-stand slide holder here and has to fashion one out of a coat-hanger. Much cooler looking and just as effective. 

Stuttgart 6/2

Each time we play the Laboratorium, it gets more crowded. Jazz club—people sitting at tables and I dance all over them, spilling their drinks. We do 2 sets here, like a proper combo and, surprisingly, it always works. Maybe we are a jazz band. This time they’ve locked the backstage piano so we can’t hang out singing with the stragglers ‘til the wee hours. But we do anyway—at the bar next door. A bit of Brel; a touch of Tom Waits.

Graz, 6/3

Another new city, as we head into Austria. Here The Drones actually show up, and prove themselves to be a very dapper bunch of smart and loud rockers. Awkwardly and ruggedly handsome, in that 60’s Anglo pop sort of way. They all have very intense eyes, as well as a good sense of humor and an appreciation for whiskey. We’re greeted at the backstage door of the PPC by Miss Graz, Ellie, the promoter’s official rep and band babysitter. Ellie’s half Greek and sports a print dress with a color scheme worthy of Carman Miranda that fits as if she grew up in it.  With 6” pumps and shoulder bag to match. And ribbons, I think—though I might have just imagined the cherry on top. With a woman like that taking care of business, things are looking up for Graz.
Great hotel as well, despite the odd feature of transparent shower stalls. For that added intimacy you so want on tour.

Vienna, 6/5

The exact halfway mark of the tour and a much needed day-off as we all do laundry and I plead with a string of dry-cleaners to take care of my white suit. One finally agrees—for a fistful of euros. The Prater is a unique and amazing place—much more than just tacky amusement park that looks like anywhere else and gets all the tourists. It’s a huge, green space, filled with forests and lakes—and little villages, old and new, that somehow co-exist with the giant city surrounding the greenery. Long walks and great desserts. A great way to get ready to play. Our posters are all over town here. Somebody did their homework. Our friend Klaus from ORF TV comes by and his crew has to leave after the first 3 songs to make sure and get us on the midnight news—a bit of culture! Everything is perfect when we hit the stage, and then all of a sudden, the Wurlitzer has its first breakdown of the tour. 2 keys break and a third goes out of tune. As I’m prowling the stage, looking for a solution and other noisemakers to help pick up the slack, shouts of “we love Botanica” and “I love you Paul” come up from the crowd. We stay late, signing CDs and shirts. We love Vienna back.

Linz 6/6

I’ve been here barely a month ago with Little Annie. We were picked up from Salzburg Airport by Lucky—pronounced Lookie—60 year old blues guitarist and gopher. Idolized Alvin Lee to the point of naming his son Alvin Lee. Whose picture he showed us—with the real Alvin Lee. Alvin Jr. took up the drums and plays with his namesake. Lookie’s been working for the Posthof in Linz for 20 years. In his spare time, he teaches 30 guitar students a week. We ask him about Linzer torte and he says we should have put it on the rider, but as a special favor, he goes out and gets us a little pie! Mmm—heaven. So with Botanica, we have our tour manager call ahead and make sure the Linzer Torte is there on arrival. Indeed—six full-size pies! The Posthof is as pleasant as can be, with fantastic sound & lights and even better food. It seems everybody’s been working there forever. The owner/booker seems like a wonderfully supportive bloke, but after a few beers, the stage manager, who after 22 years on the job has recently been “written up” for pissing against a wall, (outside), says his boss is “worse than Hitler.” Austria is so charming. There are reclaimed easy chairs and couches scattered throughout the big hall. I make the people get up and push the furniture to the front of the stage. It’s great to just crawl upstairs after the show and crash.

Munich 6/7

I haven’t played Munich in years. Played a free festival with Firewater once that was great, but the last club show here with that band was 20 people in an uninviting room the night after 600 rabid fans in Vienna. I expect nothing, but it actually turns out we have an audience in Munich. The Backstage club is an overgrown beer-garden with adjoining band spaces—giant, big, medium and small. (We pick door number 2). Joel Hoekstra, john’s doppelganger has flown in from New York to meet us here and check out what we’ve been up to, because after this show, John has to find the nearest phone-booth and transform into his Nena persona for 3 days. So Joel arrives to do sound check with us and watch John stomp on his 50 pedals. By the time we pull up to the club, Joel’s been there for hours. There’s an all-DAY rave going on—started at 6AM--and everybody walking around  is in a state of heightened awareness and attenuated movement. That is if they’re not cross-eyed and collapsed. After another hour of me fucking around trying to repair the Wurlitzer, we manage to play through half the set with Joel while John watches and remarks that he’s the only one on stage who doesn’t look green. By the time we wake up the next day, John’s long gone and we’re off to Switzerland.

Lucerne 6/8

Here I spend another couple hours fucking around with the Wurli. I’ve managed to locate a couple tines in Germany, but they won’t arrive for a few days. All this time with the screwdriver and soldering iron is killing my eating habits. So it’s no wonder that I have a total meltdown on Chris after the show. He takes it well—might be a lifer like Rene, who put up with similar treatment 5 years ago and hasn’t given up! Anyway, it’s our first show with Joel and our first time playing the entertainingly Brasil-like, (as in the set of the movie—pipes), club Konzerthaus Schüür. Why the 2 umlaut “U”s is anybodies guess. We did ask… We open for buzz band—(or so we’ve been told)—Portugal the Man—who are actually many men and from Alaska. They turn out to be quite fantastic. A bit of a jam band at times, but a truly beautiful and engaging sound. We’re in our dressing room after the set and Chris comes waltzing in with the merch, saying he’s stopped selling—he’s tired. So I lose my mind, toss a chair in a long Beckham-like arc across the catering table where it lands just in front of a diving-to-escape Joel, who probably just realizes what he’s gotten himself into. After some more yelling, I got out and sell a bunch more shit. Sometimes you’re right, even when you are an asshole. I tell Joel to turn up next time, but his spot-on performance is way beyond what any human could be expected to do!

St. Gallen 6/9

Back at one of our fave venues—The Grabenhalle. There’s a good crowd on hand and Joel does indeed turn up. It’s the midpoint of his tour with us. The big Swiss tour. As we enter the hotel bar, a gaggle of girls dressed up as bunnies and drinking colored shots, corrals us into their bachelorette party by making us drink the shots and contribute to the girl’s dowry—or something similar we can’t fathom at all. This is a country, after all, where certain states didn’t give women the right to vote ‘til the 70s.  Besides the amazing home-cooked gourmet meal and the 4 A.M ping pong on the dance-floor, St. Gallen is special for the natural pools straight up the mountain and into the forest in back of the town. A 20 minute hike and you’ve got all the beauty of Switzerland at your feet. At midnight tonight, Keith turns another decade—like those digits turning over on his odometer—and Rene, ever the most thoughtful man in rock, goes out and gets a cake which awaits Keith on the drum throne when we come back for our first encore. The whole crowd sings happy birthday and then we play another bunch of songs. The next day, it being Switzerland and the drive being mercifully short, we get to spend the day at the pools—and Keith gets to spend his birthday in style. Joel thinks this Botanica tour thing isn’t so bad after all.

Winterthur 6/10

First thing we see entering the Salzhaus is a poster of Tito & Tarantula, prominently featuring ex-Botanica bass goddess Abby Travis, (who actually sings on two songs on our new album). Turns out she’s not on tour with them, they just, understandably, like using her picture. The Salzhaus is very Joe’s Pub cum Largo—for our bicoastal American friends. Lots of tables and nice candles, but Chris tells me just as we’re going on stage, that the promoter made a special request that I jump around on the bar again. Ah—all shtick—this entertainment business. Of course I oblige—and then Joel, on the last night of his Swiss tour, after playing behind his head and with his teeth on Dead Prophet, actually hands his guitar to a guy sitting at a front table. Joel’s large breast fetish is also generously accommodated by an Italian fan who saw us in Berlin and has made the trip from god-knows where to relive the experience. We get our picture taken by a Japanese photographer; head to the only bar in town still open after the Salzhaus closes; and after blowing half our fee on the incredibly overpriced drinks, collapse back at the hotel. I’m rooming with Joel and by the time I wake up, he’s long gone—the only sign of his ever being there, the lone guitar pick in the middle of the bed.

Reutlingen 6/11

30k south of Stuttgart, we’re back in Germany--at the Café Nepomuk, (actually a reconstituted cinema). The idyll of Switzerland is already fading in the rear-view mirror. We’re all hungry, both my megaphones are trashed, John is late returning, the hotel is far and the carpets stink—(it’s closing for good at the end of the week)-- Keith needs more information than I can give and everybody ends up briefly hating each other again. In the end, though, it’s a wonderful show—as it usually is—and we play the encores around the beat-up old upright piano; part of the audience on stage; acoustic gtr; upright bass; Keith on pots and pans and not a mic in sight. Our soulful friend from L.A. and Berlin, David Judson Clemons, sings the hell out of his opening set and lends us the aforementioned acoustic guitar. Finally, local muse Marguerite Gautier even manages to drive all around south-east Germany to locate a huge, new megaphone for me. The next day we have off in peaceful Reutlingen and I pay a visit to the world famous Stuttgart zoo.

Neu Ulm 6/13

Not a new city for us, but a new venue. And thankfully so, as the last couple years, we played the club in the train station—a good bunch of people, but an ungodly amount of 60 cycle hum through every sound-reinforcement device. This time it’s the Café Hansen, owner-operator: Bodo Hansen, another melomane and epicurian. He make us the best mushroom sauce ever and then we try and all fit on his postage-stamp size stage. Christian doesn’t want to pull out the doghouse, but there’s just enough room for it to both lie down—and stand up. The place is packed, which really isn’t saying all that much, but makes for a helluva a friendly vibe. And after a good meal, it’s all just icing on the cake anyway. A crew of New Jersey-ites who’re on this side to follow our pals World Inferno/Friendship Society happen to be in Ulm, saw the ad, come to the show, and make us feel at home.

Soest 6/14

Some town smack dab in the middle of Deutschland. (Someday we will have played every village in this country). Pronounced “proast” (like roast)—or as the Soestians are sick of hearing “prost, Soest.” (Prost meaning “cheers” auf Deutsch. (Incidentally, “prost” means “bad”, “spoiled’ in Romanian, which I can never get out of my head every time I clink glasses and look my neighbor in the eye. Anyway, it’s a big club, with a good-looking stage and the appropriate bells and whistles attached, but Rene is so depressed when he encounters the PA, he doesn’t even want to do the show. What a pile of shit. It takes forever to get everything working and by that time it’s already doors and there are 10 people in the place. Eventually, we play to 22. When I make the usual complaining noises about nobody doing promotion etc, the house tech reassures us that he’s done tons of shows here with 5 people. “Oh yeah, bands get 250 fans 60 kilometers up the road, come here and maybe 35 show up. Don’t worry about it.” We worry. This is also before the same guy starts going on about how Soest used to be “the most important city in Europe.” Yes the world—the known universe, why not. Apparently the place had the same 30,000 population a thousand years ago as it does today. Bully for Soest. Actually it was one of the biggest towns in its own state—Westphalia. As often happens, we sell merch to half the “crowd;” some kids from Berlin are even there to do an interview for an on-line zine, and the promoter takes us to a 4 star gourmet dinner at the restaurant across the street which stays open just for us. Rene is a bit happier. “Best meal of the tour,” he says of his salmon and asparagus dish. I wouldn’t go that far, but the digs are swanky. As the locals get progressively soused, the proud native goes back into his “Soest was the capital of the world schtick and it really is time to leave, before we have to defend the honor of the Mediterranean. Or even Cologne. The hotel they have us booked into is 5 miles away in the resort town Bad Sassendorf—spa, actually, “Bad” as they call it in German, which translates into spa for octogenarians. Somehow we find the place in the dead of night and when I switch on the light in my room, I find a huge, black spider adorning the wall right next to the headboard of the bed. As I go to kill it with my rolled up Harper’s, it scurries away behind the bed, and though I’m delirious with exhaustion, I spend most of the night staring up at the ceiling imagining the hole in my side after the incision to remove the spider poison. Bleary-eyed at breakfast the next morning, I mention the black stranger—and the numerous other arachnids in my bathroom—to the owner who acknowledges that, yes “that room has a big tree right outside the window and since we leave the window open, there seems to be something of a spider problem.” I thank her for the information. John and I do a bit of shopping and we realize we’re the youngest people in town by about 30 years. And we’re not exactly born yesterday.

Krefeld 6/15

John has to leave us again and we’ve booked a special trio show into our favorite bar in the world—The Blauer Engel. Bangers is happy not to stick those damn earplugs in tonight and he’ll actually get to hear his upright. I always look forward to something new. We also know it’ll be so crowded in here, breathing will be at a premium. All this and more comes true. I can’t go crowd surfing with the minimal backup band, but once again, it’s amazing what a bunch of pots and pans and a bit of wood with 4 strings can create. We dance all night to the local djs.

Dudelange, Luxembourg 6/16

I had no idea Luxembourg was actually this big! 100kilometres from head to toe and we drive through all of it, arriving at the small town of Dudelange, about 15k south of the capital city, (co-capital of Europe). Big, open-air festival has taken over the town. Originally, we were supposed to play on one of the outdoor stages, but because John is in Denmark playing “99 Luftballoons” and we’re engaging the services of Belgian rock god Arno’s guitar player, (who by sublime coincidence is also playing the festival), our set has been moved to a small bar at 1:00AM, in years past the scene of the festival after party. In the afternoon, when we load in, the entire PA is on the “stage” in the corner of the bar and there wouldn’t be room for a solo piccolo act. Even after they move everything out of the way, fitting on stage is  a packing act equivalent to getting all our gear in a mini van and Christian’s bass really doesn’t make the cut tonight. It pours most of the night and so, once again defeating the gods that’ve rained on our party the past few years, the late-night bar scene turns to our advantage. Geoffrey Burton from Arno’s band, our sometime co-conspirator and the most geniously guitarded player in all Europe, walks over from the enormo stage and plunks his pedal board down in front of our tiny stage at about half past midnight. His pedals about equal the size of our podium. Looking like Pete Townshend and playing like Nels Cline, Roland S. Howard and Robert Quine rolled into one, we can only look forward to the day we play with both Geoff and John, the world’s two greatest axe slingers. Just as we’re about to go on, I realize the batteries in my brand new, big-ass megaphone are dead. Yes, batteries included—should’ve figured. Then, miraculously an identical horn materializes from behind the bar. Unbelievable! I hop up to get it and we’re off. The masses are totally liquefied, knocking over the toy piano three times before I even have a chance to play it and packed so hard into the bar that at least 2 or 3 hundred people fan out into the street out front trying to shove their way in. Fun times in Luxembourg. 

Huy, Belgium 6/17

We’re supposed to play a festival at the Kulturkirche, (“Culture Church”), in Cologne tonight, but the show’s been cancelled because they lost their sponsor, so at short notice, our friend photographer/psychiatrist/guitarist/impresario Michael Kamp pulls a gig in Huy out of his hat. After finding the town on our map, we arrive in the midst of family fair day and the medieval, central square is inaccessible. It’s several hundred feet from the nearest parking to the bar where we play. The “PA” is a Behringer one-piece which we position behind me and in front of Keith—who sets up in the window of the bar. By the time we play the fair is long over, it pours, and there are 12 people in the joint.  Including two local in-bred girls with eyes set way too close who comment on our mailing list that they’d love to give us “blue jobs.” Telephone numbers included. But after the show, the promoter takes us to a 17th century stone farmhouse 10 minutes out of town where we open the back door and look up at the Milky Way and straight across the lawn at the cows. There’s a table and two chairs in the grass. An ageless bench leans against the side of the house, tilted upwards—perfect for stargazing. Early the next morning, John walks out into the field and successfully tests the functionality of the electrified fence, much to the amusement of the heifers. John and I drive to the megamart, foraging for food and we make the best damn feast of the whole tour, washed down with 3 bottles of fine Spanish wine our super-fan Lexie gave us back in Soest. We’ve been saving it for a special occasion—and this has been the best time off ever. After two days in the Ardennes, we almost forget we’re on tour.

Dusseldorf, 6/19

The Pretty Vacant club. In a previous incarnation, with a name I can’t remember, this club was famous for its supply of absinthe. Which is probably why I can’t remember what it’s called. Played here solo just a few months ago. This time I set up in front of the stage, as the rest of us cover more than enough real estate for the confines of the set-up. Not enough lines in the PA. We’re clearly making our way through the glory days of the tour. But it’s a great show. Our PR man shows up—from the aptly titled Starkult company. Maybe we’ll inspire him.

Jena, 20/9

Heading back east. The defining feature of the Rosenkeller is the labyrinthine access to the room. The choice is either what seems like miles up and down a cobblestone path, 3 flights of medieval, stone stairs under a vaulted ceiling with about 5 feet of clearance; or pretty much a straight shot down a metal spiral staircase about 2 feet wide. We chose both forms of punishment. The show is fantastic, even though John and I have a huge and enduring blowout that begins right as we walk off-stage and ends hours later with Bangers complaining that I’m late. We’re all sick of the sound of each other’s voices. The song that sparked the fight—the very moment--is immortalized here:
We trade the club Botanica t-shirts for Rosenkeller shirts and then head back to the hotel for a farewell nightcap with the Drones. They’re all pleasantly lubricated and looking forward to their route back to Australia via the Trans Siberian Express. Melbourne by way of Mongolia. Michael and Dan, lured by the promise of free liquor, enter a Karaoke contest in a trailer somewhere and win with their rendition of “Land Down Under.” They’re decked out in their door prizes of straw hats and beach totes, sipping the rest of their winnings. The next morning the hotel won’t let them leave ‘til an arrangement can be made with the club to pay for room damages. We all move on.

Halle, 6/20

Finally, at Objekt 5—renowned Jazz club that it is—a stage worthy of the doghouse bass. A gourmet dinner; an NPR audience. And a kid from the local radio station who does an interview and asks about the follow-up to our “hit” “Berlin Hi-Fi.” If only! This is a fine place to play and the Wurlitzer stays in tune, though I just know one of these tines is gonna break any day. The replacements I’ve ordered are following me around Europe, a day or two behind us…

Wurzburg, 6/22

And here the Wurlitzer tine does arrive. But does it matter? The Umsonst Und Drausen festival has been hyped to us as the 2nd most visited outdoor festival in Germany with over 100,000 visitors, but they sure aren’t coming exclusively for the music. More like giant county fair with a couple of munchkin stages at either end of the midway. At exactly the moment where the MC announces “…and please welcomes to the stage Botanica!” I’m 1/2 dressed by the van, frantically looking around for my hairbrush—and John is taking a shit in the portapotty. We play between an indescribably bland Canadian folkie and a German outfit called “Acoustic Fun Orchestra”, which brings a semi full of flight cases, including their own monitor desk and wedges. Annoyingly getting in our way, John addresses the wankiest looking of the bunch and asks “you must be Acoustic fun-time,” to which the self-described “spice-girl Ska rocker” angrily responds “Orchestra!” Within 5 minutes of getting on stage, the mystery girl with the magical hat materializes in front of the stage and I jump and retrieve the offering. Too small to fit atop my jewfro; too big for Andrews, the hat lands on Bangers, where it fits like nothing’s ever fit before and he doesn’t take it off for 3 days and nights. The highlights of Wurzburg are the beautiful sets from Arcade Fire violinist Owen Pallet, whose extraordinary ease with a looper and a melody are really something to experience; and Swiss storyteller Sophie hunger, whose marvelous voice and co-conspiring virtuosos enthrall us all.

Ravenna 6/25

We’ve heard that this is the best place to play in Italy in the Summer and it doesn’t disappoint. Our endless drive is rewarded with a perfect, late-night trattoria dinner in Ravenna, and Keith, crossing the border to his ancestral homeland for the first time basks in the sun and sips the espresso. The other side of the alps is just plain better. We’re wined and dined for 3 days at the Hana Bi club, walk for miles on the sandy beach, stopping only for the world’s best milk-shakes, and somewhere in the middle of it all-- after the ping pong—we play a show on the outdoor terrace with the sea breeze blowing in on our faces as I sing. The giant beach umbrellas, folded and tied and standing tall behind the audience look like a bunch of angelic ghosts guarding the magnificent moment. The fantomas of Hana Bi. 

Reichenau 6/27

We reluctantly head north, but happily end up in another spectacular place, though German-style this time. Lakes, forests and the churches are more austere. We keep blowing out the power while setting up and for only the second time in 38 shows, Harry gets left in the van for lack of space. A childhood friend of Christian’s trecks hundreds of kilometers to check out what the Bangers has been up to all these years. We play, we run around the island, (well John does, the rest of us walk); we gaze out at the lake and watch the ducks and then it’s time to leave. We save some time and miles by putting our van on a ferry and riding across the Lake of Konstanz on our way to another 1,000k day.

Fusion Festival (Laerz), 6/29

Wow! Here’s where we all die and come back as hippies. This is a legendary German happening on a semi-abandoned old military airfield between Berlin and Hamburg. The bands play in and around the camouflaged hangars. As a center of the German “alternative” scene, it’s unrivaled—something of a Burning Man meets Woodstock with a dash of Fugazi. Hundreds of acres of the most bizarrely pimped vehicles imaginable wind their way with us up the dirt road  as we get in at 2AM the night before our show. After a 12 hour drive. We have to get the keys to the farmhouse where we’re staying.
From the all organic food—(yay)—to the endless mud, this is the real deal. Christian looks around and proclaims it a flashback to his youth, sleeping on trains and under trees while riding around from festival to festival. It’s really all too much fun—including our show, (in a hangar packed with people escaping the sudden downpour)—and then the night climaxes with 16 piece Russian party-band Leningrad rockin’ the entire tent city.
A friend of ours from a nearby Ostsee outpost emails a few days before and asks if we could help him with a “revolutionary gesture of solidarity” by sneaking him, 7 friends and their van into the festival for an impromptu performance. Not even at Fusion, but almost!

Coninx Pop Festival (Elsloo), 6/30

We end the 7 week marathon in Holland—30k from our label home, Rent A Dog, in Aachen; down the pike from Rene in Belgium, and with our dear friend Mark from Stuurbaard Bakkebaard, goodwill ambassador of Dutch rock ‘n roll, yelling at us from the front of the crowd. Another tent, another river, but nowhere near the mayhem and mud of Fusion. Nice big stage, thousands of drunk, friendly people and a great way for us to go slip on quietly into the night. The band, Rene, Chris, his local bookie partners in crime and label king Ulli share a backstage, post-show dinner, all toasting Botanica adventures present and future

HARLEM TO COTTBUS, Fall '06
Sept. 18-20 Paris
I leave New York the night before my birthday, arriving in Paris, my former home-town, not for any heavy party time, but with missions in mind. Pieces of the show to find. A toy piano, a megaphone, an accordion, a tambourine, an amp, guitar stands, cymbals—hell, maybe a violinist and some dancing chimpanzees. And then there’s the issue of whether La Fleche d’Or, (The Golden Arrow)—the club we’re playing—had actually gotten us a Wurlitzer piano. By some accidental stroke of genius, I’d hesitated leaving my Korg
CX-3 organ with tour manager Tim “Huckleberry” Kroll in Germany after the last tour, finally dropping it off in Paris on the way to the airport. Just couldn’t stand the thought of hauling the thing across the Atlantic one more time. So there it was in my friend Delphine’s basement. Somehow the god of logistics is smiling on us and this tour starts in Paris.
La Fleche d’Or, a defunct train station on the east side of town, is retrofitted into something of a cabaret dance hall with a covered terrace to enjoy the fine, sauced fish while looking out over the graffiti-covered walls of the train track fjords. My old friend Benedicte, (aka Manu, Villain—polymorphously splendid Paris personality and violin/accordion co-conspirator of my old Los Angeles tennis partner, the Finnish-American rock star from France, Theo Hakola), gives me a beautiful, little accordion. Small keys, tight bellows and a pleasantly rich sound. And she throws in my only birthday gift: “La Valse Magnetique.” One inch tall, plastic figurines with tiny magnets inside. One plays the accordion. He makes his partner twirl around and dance. It’s a marvelous thing. This little display becomes a highlight of every show as the crowd presses forward, straining to see the miniature action unfolding on top of my organ. For a minute each night, the whole room compresses into a set one inch tall and three inches square. Or so it seems. Except in Paris, where, the present being brand new and it being our first show of the tour—an opening slot and lingering nerves, my new, little friends remain buried in the pocket of my big, white suit. From Delphine I retrieve my organ, as well as a toy piano which chimes a particularly dark sound--an octave lower than any other Schoenhut or Jaymar of my acquaintance.
The next day, (after numerous messages to Keith explaining that the club has changed our hotel 3 times in the last 24 hours), all of us coming from different cities at different times, we manage to assemble at the Fleche at the appointed hour. Traveling like Philleas Fog in Around the World in 80 Days. Tonight we open for the reformed Woodentops, fellow 80s legends of Bauhaus and The Jazz Butcher from the fertile soil of Northampton England. It’s their first tour in 15 years. Giddy, high-energy, grooving, post-new wave, Creation records style party music. With an elegant, Texan keyboard player added to the mix this time around.
Rolo, lead Woodentop, looks up at us as we soundcheck, tells us how great we sound and then instructs our drummer to "stop moving around so much while he plays." Keith is not your typically understated Brit. But everyone always cheers for Mr. Crupi's theatrics. As they do for Rolo, who doesn't exactly sit still himself in front of the packed room—-bouncing souls from wall to wall for them and us. Unfortunately, the merch doesn’t arrive in time, setting a pattern of musical fabulousness and economic woe that would dog us for the rest of the tour. Rolo, ever the rock-star over dinner, sporting a stylish foulard and jacket, an elegant cap and herringbone shades. All of which he jettisons for the stage in favor of a green polo shirt and jeans. Very cool. No accessories, no pretension allowed. Pure drive, charisma and energy would get him by. A wonderful guy, Rolo—and he left us with lots of compliments and a sweet note taped to the Korg that I only notice in the middle of the next show. The night ends early in the A.M., all of us and the extra lovely Fleche d’Or staff sipping mojitos on the VIP deck courtesy of our dashing host Sergei “I don’t touch money” Balmayer. Yes, the Wurlitzer had arrived. They bought one.
In the manner of the lovely, yet dishevelled Fleche d’Or, we’re told after our show that instead of playing at 11:00 the next night, we’d be on at 8. They had double booked. After a couple whiskeys with Sergei, however, it’s arranged for midnight, allowing for ample time to check out Nick Cave at the Grand Rex. Bearded wonder Warren Ellis, (who Nick introduces at least 15 times during the course of the show while neglecting everybody else), manages to produce the tonality of a bunch of guitars and organs along with his singular Paganini cum Hendrix violin performance, and Cave even plays a bit of Telecaster, (a birthday gift from his wife), in addition to elegantly attacking the grand piano. Cave’s drummer Jim Sclavunos, Queenie on the drum throne in Congo Norvell and the tallest man in rock, (not to be confused with Bill Bingham, America’s tallest musical saw player—featured on Botanica’s debut “Malediction”), comments on me and my white suit: “Either you’re going on a cruise or you’re playing a show tonight.” A festive air is in the house with birthdays and anniversaries all around. And our magnificent colleague from New York City, Joan—AsPolicewoman—Wasser parachutes in from somewhere wearing white boots and a Wonderwoman quoiffe. Christian calls around 11 to say we’re now going on at 1, so around midnight, I leave the festivities to go join our own party. The chef at the Fleche whipps up a spectacular midnight dinner and then we tear the roof off what’s left of the house. Coming up to give me a hug just before we go on is Alain Volta, guitar player in an eighties band of mine, Fish on Friday. Havn’t seen him in 12 years. After curfew, with the late-night revelers crowding the stage and chanting for more, I come out to sing Jacques Brel’s “Voir Un Ami Pleurer”. Unfortunately, there’s already somebody on the stage, many sheets to the wind and all too eager to play along. “I am a great improviser, what do you want to play?” he slurs. After I ask his name, introduce him as my new friend and tell him to go to the bar and get me a beer, I start the song, but he’s still there. In fact, he starts a different song. Game over for the singing. We say our goodbyes to the smartest, the sweetest, the loveliest—the staff of la Fleche d’Or.

Sept. 21 Saarbruecken
This morning we go to the wrong train station, (my mistake), to take the train to Saarbruecken. After getting to the right station and trying to claim the tickets paid for on-line, I realize the machines don’t work with U.S. credit cards. The ticket line is at least 1/4 mile long. The French rail officials, with their uniquely helpful manner, do nothing more than laugh at me. We arrive in Saarbruecken where Huckleberry—(immediately re-christened Wilson for the new tennis cap that never leaves his head)—picks us up in the big, black van. Ah, home sweet home. Meanwhile, our soundman, Rene from the pig farms of Flanders, is making his way by train with 160 CDs and a VOX AC-30 amp under his arms, (as well as his personal luggage). Only 3 change of trains needed from rural Belgium. Sacrificing at the alter of Botanica! In front of a gigantic silo by the river—the Kunstsilo, or “Art Silo”—next to some very well kept, but apparently defunct railroad tracks, stands a tiny white tent, open on one side, with my Wurlitzer, the toy piano box and our lamp sitting in the middle. The opening of the tent faces the sound board and the door to the silo, while about 200 feet to our left is an outdoor bar and beer-garden. We play and hundreds of people collect by the bar and scatter further along the river and up into the parking area. Directly in front of us is a small space available where a few people wait in line for the bathroom. What a setup! The “house” sound guy, who’d already committed the double crime of playing Dave Mathews and insulting John’s sound, asks Rene if he’s deaf because the sound is so loud. As I wander down the railroad tracks and across the picnic tables with my megaphone, the sound of the band gets quieter and quieter. But I guess all these people just like to watch. They do hoot and holler and make us play an encore. On the road to Hamburg at 9:00AM.

Sept. 22 Hamburg
The Reeperbahn Festival. The Reeperbahn is one of the most famous red-light districts in the world. Prostitution is legal and regulated. Whores have unions and health insurance. Much like teachers in our country, though probably on better terms. The frat boy equivalents of all Europe; sexually repressed Neanderthals from 38 countries regularly descend on Hamburg for a taste of the action. Our benefactor, Rent A Dog label head Ulli Rattay, not a slight fellow at 6’2” and over 200 pounds, is twice threatened and nearly attacked walking back to the hotel after the show. We get lucky and play the Napster Night at the venerated Gruenspan, opening for one of Germany’s biggest bands, Tocotronic. (Produced by our friend and co-conspirator, the one and only Moses Schneider). The night is sold out and we must’ve all eaten our vegetables and said our prayers the night before, as a perfect show is enjoyed by all on stage and in the crowd. Though 90% of the audience has no idea who we are when we begin, we’re invited back for an encore by the cheers that won’t stop and we blast through “Waking Up” before it’s over all too quickly.
Earlier in the set, poised to play the last note of what’s become one of our signature songs, “Swimming in the Ocean at Night,” all four of us, eyes closed, hold back—not daring to end the song ‘til the audience starts clapping and coaxes us into a soft landing. And so goes another transcendent moment in Hamburg—to go with our “Castration Tango” encore at the Fabrik opening for 16 Horsepower, and Matt’s snare hit on “Diseases” at Logo. The next day the Hamburg Abendblatt, (the big evening daily), writes that “…with his stage presence, silver jewelry and white suit, Botanica’s singer exudes the aura of a 70’s, Italian talk show host. This is great entertainment.” The place is so crowded that two people who were stuck in the lobby and hadn’t even seen the show come by the merch table and buy t-shirts so they can change into something dry. The next day brings uncharacteristic mid-summer temperatures and bright blue skies as we lounge by the river with our herring sandwiches and cappuccinos. It’s time to go meet the Dutch and head down the road to Luebeck for night one with Stuurbaard Bakkebaard.

Sept. 23 Luebeck
Returning to the Stern Hotel, the parking lot is occupied, on one side, by a huge, ancient red van disgorging a never-ending parade of…parade instruments, furniture and a double-bass case; and on the other side by a rather lubricated gathering of Elvis impersonators in various stages of costuming. After having my picture taken with the fattest Elvis, we go about the business of fitting all of their stuff into the relatively tiny cargo area of our van. We have lots of comfy seats. They have a warehouse. After judiciously eliminating all doubles, (we take my accordion, their guitar stands etc), and reluctantly parting with our beloved light show—Enno’s mutti’s lamp—we take pictures of the pack job and slam the door. The final indignity is taking the front head off the kick drum so we can fit the rest of the kit inside, Russian doll style. The bottom bass cabinet goes in the front, a foot-rest for the one passenger with room to stretch. Thinking we’d maybe reached the outer circle of hell, we soon realize that these Stuurbaard guys would actually save us from purgatory. This was a real deal band. Three sit-down comedians masquerading as a helluva rock band. Christian—aka Bangers, (a vestige of the Bangers ‘n Mash days with Matt on drums), asks “Why do they have songs called “Crackhouse, Mayday, Suicide” and we have songs called “Fragile” and “Carousel?” “Not afraid to rock,” says John. As it turns out, they’re not afraid to rap either. Somehow, they conspire with Rene in that common Flemish code of theirs and we don’t notice anything odd at sound check. We’re up front watching what appears to be the end of their stupendous set and thinking that the outro music is a bit loud and a bit strange. The lights go down and it looks like they’re taking their bows. But then they stay on stage, all three of ‘em fisting the mics and slipping on dark hoodies. Then they start that funky limp around the stage and launch into this space-alien, French Rap. Here is the whitest band from the whitest land getting all black on us and it works. Loud, in your face and fun. In French—hard by the North Sea in North –East Germany. I’m on my knees—we go nuts along with everybody else. Bangers is sure they’d paid Rene an extra 25 clams. Amazing. Good thing we played first.

Sept. 24 Greifswald
This is the first time heading to John’s adopted hometown that we’re within reasonable range the night before. Last time it was Paris-Greifswald, about equivalent to Denver-L.A. The first sign of things amiss is the promoter having left the date off the flyers. Never a good tactic. But nevertheless, we think we own this town and tell the Dutch to expect a packed house. In three times here, the Klex has never been less than packed. Not that it’s saying all that much in this tiny box, but the last time around I was on my back crowd-surfing on “Eleganza & Wines,” the megaphone pointed at the ceiling; the crowd placing me back on stage for the last chorus. This time, let’s say the people abstained. I tore the set-list up into little strips, put ‘em in somebody’s hat and passed it around the audience. Pick a song—we’ll play it. Made for an interesting running order. We start with Eleganza. Everybody in the room feels part of the band. We kill. All 25 of ‘em! The night ends early in the morning as I’m confronted by a girl who wonders if I feel guilty about the American Indians. She gets really angry when I say that I don’t. But really she just wants to make out. I do feel guilty about that, though, so I finally go to bed. Manifest destiny has brought us to the Polish border.

Sept. 25 Oberhausen
Finally, a nice, long drive with all of us 9 smelly friends. Since there’s nothing really remarkable about the town or the gig, let’s take a moment to talk about the traffic. Oberhausen is in the middle of the Ruhr—Germany’s equivalent to our rust belt, except that in Germany there’s very little rust. At least on the surface. What there is, is “Stau.” Stau is one letter away from “Staub,” which means dust, and that’s what collects on your car as you wait in the stau, or “traffic blockage.” As one criss-crosses Germany in the Star-of-David pattern the local bookers inevitably impose on touring bands, the only constant is the traffic report continuously interrupting whatever music somebody might have attempted to slip in the stereo. The traffic report is an endless listing of the Autobahn “Staus” and their length. The Ruhr is typically one big stau. There’s even worse: “Stoppende Verkehr,” which means, literally, “traffic has come to a complete standstill.” (This, in a country where there is no speed limit on the autobahn and late model BMWs and Mercedes’s rattle your windows as they blow by while you’re already doing 110 mph). Sometimes the “Stoppende verkehr” is 30 kilometers, (20 miles) long. Germany, land of extremes—the autobahn as metaphor for heaven and hell on earth. In any case, it’s our first time playing Oberhausen. There’s a café. There’s a beergarden. There’s great vegan food that everyone else hates and I love. And terrible lights, that we finally make them shut off midway through our set. And that would be it, if it weren’t for the fact that Marc, Stuurbaard’s drummer, decides to go completely insane, hopping around the garden, screaming about pussy for half an hour. Apparently this is a normal occurrence and his band-mates soon quell the mayhem by spitting, punching and finally wrestling him to the ground. All in a very gentle, slow-motion way. Similar to certain aspects of their stage show, actually. Meanwhile, outside parties summon the police, but a good time is had by all and Marc is really the sweetest and gentlest of fellows. When he drums, his mouth is perpetually open in an ecstasy of childlike elation. A review of the show says that “although Stuurbaard Bakkebaard look like they should be in a David Lynch movie, Botanica actually sound like they should be writing and performing the score.” A perfect bill.

Sept. 26 Zurich The Ziegel Au Lac at the Rote Fabrik is one of those mythically swell venues, (along with Bern’s Reitschule, Bielefeld’s Forum, Groeningen’s Vera and a few others), where everything’s perfect and the inconveniences of touring are left outside of the oasis. The Rote Fabrik is the grand-daddy of urban, (if Switzerland can be said to contain anything urban), squats and the first major punk venue in the country. I screamed into a mic here in 1982. The Ziegel au Lac is the adjunct facility for us older, more wrinkled punks. Backstage is the shore of the lake of Zurich. After a spectacular meal and show, we walk to the hotel, Tim having left earlier to get his beauty sleep. A pleasant 1 hour jaunt along the lake and through various parks before Onno meets us in the city to guide us home. Day one of the three day Swiss tour. Short drives, tall mountains, the friendliest people on earth. What kind of a rock ‘n roll tour is this anyway?

Sept. 27 Lausanne
By day two, we’re growing tired of the snacktacularly Heidi scenery, the perfect weather and the warm welcome. It only gets better, though. Le Bourg is a tiny art-deco movie theater with café tables replacing the seats. All green plush and elegant chandeliers. An upright piano on stage. The old projection room serves as dressing room from where we can open the tiny, metal doors and peek out at Stuurbaaard wooing the rapt audience. Dinner is served at the home of Bernadette and co., a place where Christian, upon entering, says, “I’ll burn all my furniture and move in here tomorrow.” If I were to conjure up an ersatz family, these are the people I’d chose. Before dinner we make an appearance at the headquarters of French-speaking, Swiss national radio, Radio Suisse Romande, to perform on Gerard Suter’s “Radio Paradiso,” (La Coulture de Notre Tamps—“The Culture of Our Time), yup, that be us. After setting-up in the gorgeous studio—Steinway concert grand included—we share the hour-long broadcast with a stunning, leggy blonde from France named Elodie, (Francoise Hardy meets Bob Dylan), promoting her hit record with earnest charm. The show closes with African fusion guitarist Lionel Loueke. And sandwiched in the middle I do an interview and we play “Someone Else Again” in which I only screw up one line, but promptly laugh, exclaiming “shit” live on the air. Nobody cares. I guess it doesn’t get bleeped ‘cause I didn’t say “merde.” We close with a barely worked-out new song called “Carousel”—the words taped to the piano and I still got a bit of it wrong. Still, it sounds great, (til I change the last chord on the fly… A world premiere for 100,000 listeners.

Sept. 28 Basel
The venue in Basel is “Das Schiff”—the ship. Accurate as hell. On the Rhine. France on the opposite bank. The parking is about 1/4 mile from the gang-plank load in. Bell-hop chariots and shopping carts are supplied as we start the train of gear, me screaming after Bangers to watch out for the Wurlitzer legs clanging off the shopping cart and coming inches away from falling in the murky water. Before playing, we’re fed an elegant meal at a long banquet table in the ship’s restaurant, after which I lounge alone on the observation deck, enjoying one of those rare moments of absolute peace.
We know there’s been a bit of a fuck-up with the booking here, but the situation only becomes clear upon arrival. We’re supposed to headline, but we aren’t on any of the monthly advertising. Kate Mosh, some serious kids from Berlin with Marshall stacks are on the posters, but they have no following in Switzerland and anyway, the music doesn’t fit. The promoter barely knows Stuurbaard Bakkebaard and makes it clear he doesn’t care for them. Actually tells them he’d prefer they didn’t play. In the end, they go on first, showing off their spitting skills with particular splendor—showers of love and venom emanating from Marc ‘n Co. and beautifully lit on the Schiff’s ample stage. They completely charm the sparse audience, (in the huge room). Kate Mosh comes up next to bludgeon the Baslers with a poseur set that doesn’t rock half as hard as Stuurbaard. After I throw my only fit of the tour when the organ plug self-destructs minutes before we go on—(Rene fixes it in 5 minutes)—we play a surprisingly wonderful set with the still sparse crowd nevertheless at peak density for the evening even though we go on at 1:00AM. Merch is sold. Fans, promoter and band are all happy. Gerard, at the radio the night before, told us that Greg Dulli played Das Schiff and complained of the rocking boat throwing him off his game, but I don’t notice it ‘til well after the show’s over and I don’t think the sensation has much to do with the river.
Then comes the hotel. The “Easy Hotel” run by Easyjet. Everything is orange. “A tiny, little loo,” it says on the door to the toilet in orange lettering. One, über bright, flourescent ceiling light killing the vibe. John removes the cover and gets rid of the bulb. The TV costs extra. We go to sleep dreaming of the luxuries of Etap.

Sept. 29 Regensburg
We head north and east—to Regensburg, home of the undisputed Scarface of Bavaria. The Galerie Graz located in an abandoned rail-freight station on the wrong side of the tracks at the edge of town. It’s our third time here and we feel at home. The first time, the promoter spilled beer all over the sound board minutes before we went on. Made for a super snap crackle pop of a show, but we love Sven anyway. The second time we were amiably harangued over dinner by an ear specialist who told us we’d all be deaf within a few short years. After that, the transformer powering my Wurli and John’s pedals broke and Sven bought us another one and gave it to us after the show. We still use it. Finally, the megaphone died and Scarface appeared on stage with a gorgeously sleek all-white model much better than the damaged horn. Everything is possible in Regensburg. John and I also came here last winter while Christian was stuck in the hospital having his Achilles tendon mended. Sven picked us up at the Munich airport at 10:00AM for the one hour drive to Regensburg. 20 minutes after cracking open the first beer from the case occupying the back seat, we surprisingly pull over to the shoulder of the Autobahn and Sven announces that we’ve run out of gas. He was sure we’d have enough, but evidently misjudged. Having enough money for either beer or gas, he naturally opted for beer. It was snowing. But anyway—I digress. Fast-forward 11 months and here we are again with the band. And Stuurbaard. This time no beer in the board. No need for gas. A great show; a packed house; and it being our last night with the mighty Dutchmen, they join us onstage for a raucous free-for-all version of “How.” Regensburg—rock city Deutschland.

Sept. 30-Oct.1 Saarbruecken-Trier
A day off—what a concept! (Well, an 8 hour drive in the Stau). Spent the night with our booking agent in Saarbruecken. Provincial Oktoberfest time: Bad blues, cover band in the rain; at the playground. Across the street from the whorehouse. Ladies out front. Kids munching on pretzels. All smiles. All legal. (And everybody has health insurance). The next day, we wind our way north for an hour along the beautiful Saar and Mosel rivers to the town of Trier, which claims to be the oldest city in Germany. It’s our first time here and our first show with the young, French band Rhesus, who’re simultaneously getting used to playing in front of large crowds in their home country—and tiny clusters elsewhere. (This being elsewhere). The good thing about this large venue—a converted movie palace—is that the hotel is across the parking lot from backstage. The bad thing is the decibel limit is even lower than in Switzerland, i.e. one snare hit and it could be over. The 22 paying people that show up barely outnumber the pretty candles scattered around the bar. There’s been no promotion on Botanica. Rhesus has a giant banner behind the stage. Since they have their own lighting tech, the club doesn’t bother with us and we’re left with one, concentration-camp white light aimed vaguely at the stage and nothing else. After John and I scream about it between songs for the first half of our set, somebody shuts it off and we have an easier time roping everybody in. It’s become our specialty—the unforgettably intense and intimate show for a handful of people in cavernous venues. Almost everybody buys something when we’re done.

Oct. 2 Bremen
We head north to Bremen. It’s the first day the sky darkens and the temperature drops. It’s our first show here as well, though I’ve been through before with Firewater, and solo on the “Wurlitzer Rides Alone” tour. The promoter is a stand-up mensch who greets us with fine catering, fine whiskey, the Lucky Strikes on the rider and even the disposable camera, which hardly ever shows up. Hey—a nice guy and he can read too! Apparently we’re all over the radio here and the record shop next door has sold a bunch of our CDs. Even though it’s a Monday night, the promoter’s expecting at least 100 people at the tiny venue—the Roemer—Bremen’s oldest rock club. About 30 show up, but it’s a true rock bar and we don’t have to manufacture the intimate connection all by ourselves. The real highlight of the night, though, is hooking up with our former muse, best friend and volunteer tour-manager/roadie, Tanja Behrends, who we haven’t seen in 4 years. We pick up right where we left off.

Oct. 3 Cologne
This is day 2 with the French kids from Grenoble. We’re playing at the Kulturkirche—literally the “culture church.” It’s a large, functioning, evangelical church. With concerts on the weekends sponsored by a local brewery. We all know liquor holds an important place in testaments old and new, but the pastor pumping the keg at the door is still a novelty. We’ve requested a rental bass amp tonight and what they’ve gotten for us is a tiny, blue toy. An SWR for midgets. So the pastor takes us down to the basement of the adjoining youth center where the Christian reggae band is told they have to relinquish their bass amp for the evening. Bangers declines the offer, however, as their thing is not only an even worse toy, it’s painted with the same tie-dye motif as the shirt of the player plugged into it. Eventually, super-sweet and stylish bassist Laura of Rhesus lets us use her fragile, ancient Fender and we get to be as big and boomy as they are in the cavernous church. “All rise,” I intone as we walk out on stage, and the crowd gets up in their pews. We open with “Middle of the Night,” and I end by singing 2 feet off the mic, reveling in every note rising up a fifty meters above us. By the 3rd song, John, either intentionally, or due to natural blindness, has ignored the setlist and by the time we’re done, Bangers’ idea of managing the impossibly boomy sound by playing a quiet set is definitely 86ed. (A “nice” set he called for, actually). But we’ve gone over to the dark side. Even the raised pulpit gets used for directing the stomps and claps of “Eleganza & Wines.” There’s a large screen behind us, and while we play, images of our performance are manipulated in real-time and projected. (Also receiving a healthy dose of that European thing, cultural subsidies, the church boasts a state-of-the-art digital projection and lighting rig.) The best moment, however, comes when I look up and realize that they’ve pulled our old t-shirt slogan from the website and are projecting in huge, green letters across the apse of the church “Let Them Eat Evangelicals,” while I belt out “The Truth Fish” and “How,” which I introduce as “a song I’m especially happy to sing here because questions are always more important than answers.” Spectacular, or as in Bangers’ newly coined idiom—“snacktacular.” (Um—that would refer to good catering—and everything else…) I guess the German evangelicals are a bit different from the Kansas variety. The night ends with a party in the Rhesus room at the hotel. Cologne and the Kulturkirche—definitely a highlight.

Oct. 4 Berlin
The Kulturbrauerei—“culture brewery”—(no pun intended). From culture church to culture brewery. (Seems as if these 2 venues are headed in opposite directions—the church in Cologne becoming a brewery…). This is where Huckleberry leaves us. And where we’re therefore forced to leave our lamp. It’s served us well, but as Bangers says: “it’s not really from the right period.” We’ll find another one next time. The Frannz club is on the other side of the Kulturbrauerei from the venue we’ve played the last three years, the Maschinenhaus. I take it as a promotion from a house of machinery to a house of culture. The Frannz is a much warmer affair—down to the fire-engine color scheme and superior sound. There’s a good crowd and with curfew looming, we play the hits and everybody goes wild, pressing up close to the stage to see the magnetic waltz. The whole Berlin family is here including Moses and crew, who’ve just wrapped on the new Tocotronic album that day. All is perfect ‘til I get into a fight with the asshole security guard who won’t let our friend Moritz from Uncle Sally’s backstage without a pass. It’s our show, but there’s no reasoning with this little monster, who finally makes me laugh by actually saying “I have orders to follow.” The promoter apologizes and all ends well. Anne deWolff, our 5th member and string star of “Berlin Hi-Fi” is in New York City at Keith’s apartment while we all stay at her place in Berlin—truly a home away from home.

Oct. 6 Cottbus
After a day off laying low in Berlin, we head to the Polish border in a van graciously offered by the wonderful Klaas, tour manager to our old friend David Judson Clemmons. It’s a spiffy, old VW with swivel seats and a wood floor. Planks. Like a mini dance floor. We manage to fit my stool in at the end of the pack—and that’s about it. Couldn’t fit an extra twig in the thing, but it runs great, if a little slow, and we make the short hop to Cottbus with plenty of time to spare. Last show with Rhesus and last show of the tour. Cottbus makes Greifswald seem like Paris. We play an enormous hangar of a building with cracked plaster, neo-classical columns peaking through the “renovation.” The promoter greets us by saying that we were added to the bill just before he left on vacation, and, having just returned, wasn’t able to put us on any of the promotion. He apologizes. We’re used to this shit by now, but it doesn’t really matter as it’s heavy metal night in Cottbus. Two “regional” bands—(the first, a headbanger Stone Temple Pilots Cover band)--rock the substantial crowd while we all, (Rhesus and us), sit back-stage getting steadily drunker on the lethal, green polish Bison vodka, (highly recommended), and playing a game from Bangers’ childhood called “Stadt, Land, Fluss.” (City, Country, River). We customize the game by adding Band and Drink. And playing trilingually--English, French German.
Please, do try this at home:
Ingredients:
     Pencils for everybody. (pens, sharpies, lipstick, eyeliner, blood, will do in a pinch)
     Paper. (tablecloth—or the table itself could work)
     Time (to kill)
     Alcohol
Rules: One person silently goes through the alphabet in his/her head, starting with “A.” The person to her right stops her anytime she/he wants. The counter then announces what letter she’s at. Then everybody tries to think of the name of a city, country, river, drink and band that starts with this letter and writes it down. The first person to complete all five yells stop and everyone has to put down their pencils. If nobody can think of all 5, the round stops after a reasonable period of moaning, groaning and squabbling. Score 1 point for every category you get. Score 2 points if you’re the ONLY person to put down a name for a particular category. Score 1/2 point if you put down the same name as somebody else. Play ‘til you have to go on stage, or you’re too fucked up to think of Chinese rivers.
And that’s how the tour ends. As I say my goodbyes to Rhesus—-still onstage at 2AM--both Laura and Aurelien bend down and plant kisses on each cheek. Au revoir—a la prochaine.