This, the Mollys' Italian Tour, is one of the stranger (and that's saying something right there) episodes in our career.
A couple years ago, a critic who thought very highly of the band and Nancy's songwriting wrote a rave piece for the U.S. roots publication No Depression. We were honored, but figured: "Prime stuff for the scrapbook...that and $2 will get you a cup of coffee." Not so, latte breath. Turns out, although the U.S. public isn't burning a path to the newstand to make No Depression a bigtime music rag, that some Europeans saw it as a great barometer of things coming from that place where they grow great music (that would be the United States of self-doubting-inferiority-complexed-don't-know-what-we've-got-right-under our-own-noses Americans. See: Dave Alvin, "American Music.") Hey, we may be guilty of McDonald's, tight-assed foreign policy driven by greedy corporate dweebs with huge lobbying budgets rolling us over for our pimp congressman, but we've got an honest claim to giving the world some fine music (and a lot of shit, too). Anyway, some Europeans decided we were worth checking out, based on the No Depression (don't even get me started on how that magazine got its name) piece. Next thing we know, we're getting wierd phone calls at strange times of the morning (about nine hours off my clock) at my house (Mollys International Headquarters - aka the back of my bedroom) and our U.S. record distributors are telling us that they're getting a lot of foreign orders for our "product," but they won't tell us from where. Turns out, the No Depression piece made a lot bigger wave over there than it did here in the US and (what am I saying? I'm over some chilly expanse of the Atlantic enroute to Milan, Italy) and they wanted to know more.
Paolo Caru, the publisher of Buscadero, the Italian Rolling Stone of roots music, was into our stuff in a big way. He was coming over to see us in Tucson. Sure, we thought. But, he did. He showed up in Tucson with his wife, Anna, and some friends, took us out to dinner and talked about music like he loved it (something damned near no one in the business end of the music business in the US ever does, or is probably capable of - since they're mostly talent and taste neutered erectile dysfunctional MBAs who, as we all know, "can manage anything.") Anyway, here we are a couple years later, a bunch of good European press and radio play (especially Italian press) under our belts, flying our cynical selves to Milan, Italy, for two weeks of trying to live up to our press.
There, in a few hours at an airport ominously named Malpensa (my combination of nun-inflicted Latin and public school and street Spanish tell me it probably means something like "bad" or "evil thoughts"), we're to meet our tour promoter and manager for two weeks of doing the road Italian style. (I wonder, does Ferrari make vans?)
To my left, Marx snoozes in the window seat of a bulkhead row on the Northwest Airlines DC-10 - - hopefully the last really lame meal we'll have for two weeks already under our belts.
Being that Italy is the land of the fax machine (they seem to do all business by fax, preferably handscrawled notes transmitted during an earthquake), I am not totally sure where we're playing and I don't know when this stuff will get to you. Maybe all at once at the end. Maybe as soon as I plug up to some hijacked modem line at some smokey Internet cafe in some incredibly atmospheric winding side street in some charming, ancient Italian inner city.
...A short while later...can't sleep, might as well write.
So, the screen, that I can almost see 78 degrees to my right on the center bulkhead, says we're over the Atlantic Ocean, just east of Newfoundland, ripping along at 693 ground miles per hour, it's 65 below zero(F) out there in the thin air, and we're 35,000 and something feet above the seafood. Interesting. I wonder if they had that feature on that Egyptair Kamikazi flight? I wonder what the movie will be, Airplane?
In my continuing effort to cover the greatest invention in human history (until Leo Fender came along in the mid-20th Century) I'll get right to the bathroom on this flying bus. It's too damned small, for one thing. And, you probably already know this, but that thing with the crew being able to watch one in the crapper via the hidden video surveillance camera is really annoying. Doesn't it bug you knowing that someone up there in the cockpit is watching you squirm, and worse, in that tiny flying outhouse? You'd think with the smoke detector they'd be happy. But, I guess they have to worry about terrorists in the crapper setting timers or assembling their plastic weapons. However, I can say that even on an antiquated flying heap like this ancient DC-10 (the Rambler stationwagon of the sky), it could be worse. At least it isn't an Airbus. (Honestly, tell me, if you had the choice would you fly on something that was made by a committee from the countries that brought us the Renault Dauphine and the Austin Marina?) So, anyway, it could be worse. (Just kidding about the video surveillance camera in the flying john...I think).
It's odd, our trajectory on that video map makes it look like we're on a bombing run into Russia. But, of course, our path is going to take us over Italy - I hope. (Hope the Italians have gotten over that ski lift blunder. Hope the mudslides in Northern Italy have stopped. Hope they don't hold us responsible for Brittany Spears and Mad Donna.)
Time for sleep.
I won't get heavily into the bad movie or the belligerant service on Northwest (what the hell did we do wrong? I thought it was America West whose motto was: "Fuck you.") I'll move right on to the pleasant stuff.
We arrived in Milan on time and met up with the tour promotors, Carlo Carlini and his partner, Maria. Nice folks. Felt right at home with them almost immediately. I do pretty well with signs in Italian, but my Spanish won't work in real time when speaking. And no one else in the group speaks any Italian. So, it was grunt and smile and wave from our side of the conversations, and be incredibly grateful that they spoke English fairly well.
They took us to a decent hotel in Sesto Calende on the flooding River Ticino near Milan. We checked in and went to sleep. Woke up a few hours later. Went out to a decent meal on our own, after we finally found a place that would take U.S. credit cards. Don't believe the horseshit about VISA working everywhere. We couldn't give the damned things away. Bank machines wouldn't even take them, and Milan isn't exactly the outpost of civilization - quite the opposite. Ditto for my Amex and the rest of the band's Master Cards. So, we finally found a nice restaurant in the Hotel David, where they'd take our lousy American plastic money. Had a fine meal at a bargain price. Got treated very well. Went back to our hotel and ... slept yet again.
Next morning it was hook up with Carlo and Maria and fetch the borrowed amps and drums. Kevin and Marx went. I went walking. Found a bank, fortunately one that was open and would exchange my U.S. bucks for Italian money. Gotta say, those dead presidents go a long way over here. $100 U.S. these days will get you 225,000 Lira, or something like that. Yup.
10-19-00 Thursday - SARZANA
Drove down to the sea (Gulf of Genova over on the lace side of the boot), hung a left at Genoa (ancient port city) and made our way down into Tuscany and into Sarzana for our first show at a huge joint named Jux Tap (don't know what it means, but it was huge and had a fine sound system, friendly people and a competent engineer, the accommodating and gracious Francesco). Had a large crowd, really, a couple hundred people on our first night - a Thursday - in another country. I'm OK with that.
We got cries for "Rosie" (sorry folks, not on the current set list - the new guys haven't played it out, yet) and "Kathleen" (we probably should have done that one) and some others. How do these people know our material when we've never been here before, when the songs aren't even in their language? We played a 90-minute show and got a howling, screaming ovation afterwards. Came back and did a couple more for an encore. Same deal. (I hearby forgive the Italian people for Roberto Bwhatzhisname.) Even though we didn't have a particularly hot night, we sounded pretty strong and were off to an even better start. We suddenly felt over the jet lag.
By the way, these folks could teach most of the club owners in our country how to get the most out of a touring band. Before the show, they served us dinner - a couple decent bottles of red, bottled water, bread, some pasta thing followed by a course of salad and thin slices of rare roast beef. And, they ate with us. Like a big family. No leftovers thrown into a pot on the back stoop. Very nice way to get things going.
Joe Ely has played Jux Tap. David Lindley, too. Tom Russell was just here. A lot of the big names in roots music, or whatever you want to call all that other music that doesn't fit. We hear they love it here in Italy. Imgaine an Italian band coming to the United States and getting a crowd like this on their first visit? Not if the Pope was playing drums.
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We're working with an Italian promotion company, Only A Hobo Productions of Casteletto Sopra Ticino (I don't speak Italian, but it sounds like "castle on the Ticino" to me) near Milano. Maria and Carlo Carlini, whom I mentioned earlier, are Only A Hobo Productions and they do an amazing job. They brought us over, even handling airline tickets, picking us up at the airport, providing us with a van and - the always dreaded rental gear. Marx and I live in fear of rental gear. Even a good set of drums can sound like crap, if they've been abused or just set up poorly. Marx can spend hours trying to get a bad set of tubs sounding like his drums. But, we lucked out, and these Pearls sound pretty good. (OK, for reasons unknown to us, the band's name is almost on the front bass drum head: It says, under Pearl, "THE MOKKES." Later, we learned, Carlo had bought the drums used from an Italian band of that name.) Marx brought a piccolo snare, a thin drum with a piercing tone, but compact enough to stuff in a carry on bag, and a few of his many cymbals. Danny, who isn't very picky about amps, lucked out, too. He got a Fender Twin, a classic American tube amp that sounds pretty close to his Music Man. I got the short end of the stick - one of those damned Trace Elliot bass amps that litter the world outside the U.S. Toneless pieces of crap, heavy as if they were made out of lead. This one, which is back breaking heavy, has typical Trace weird tone. Getting it to sound like my SWR rig is probably out of the question. But, after a couple nights I'll figure out how to get something usable out of it. So, we're doing OK. As rental gear goes, this stuff is great.
Carlo and Maria are charming and helpful, really making things easy for us and apparently truly appreciating our music. At the airport, Carlo had tossed us the keys to his touring rig, a Fiat Ducato turbocharged diesel van. We had a couple days to get used to it. It's a boxy little rig with thinly padded contoured seating for nine and a cargo area in the rear. What with our accordions, guitars, the rental amps in road cases and drums in hardshell cases, it's packed to the gunnels. No power steering, so Kevin is grunting even more than normal everytime he has to manuever at slow speed. It's got a five-speed on the column - something that takes a lot of getting used to when you're accustomed to automatics or floor shifters. But, he's doing well with it. Danny took a swing at driving yesterday, too. He had the same reaction as Kevin when he first let out the clutch and it lurched foward - the kind of laugh you'd make it your were doused with a bucket of cold water. I can't wait. It's a tiny four cylinder, but it's turbocharged and gets up to speed and will hold 100 plus kilometers per hour - at least 62 mph - indefinitely on the autostrade, the Italian toll way. That sounds OK, but it's not the kind of thing you want to do in anything but the far right lane. It's nothing to see even the littlest micro car come up on your tail, lights flashing, to get us out of the left lane. They'll blast by at close to 100 mph. They even hotrod the mopeds and motorscooters here. It's a racing culture. They take they're automotive heritage seriously; there are Ferrari GP flags hanging all over. Gran Prix race results are front page news. The gas station attendants at one of the chains on the autostradde even wear pit crew-style jump suits in bright green and yellow to match the company colors. For the most part, the Italians seem to be good drivers, though we haven't been to Roma - yet. That, we've been told, is a whole other driving situation.
10.20.00 Friday - Chiari -
From Sarazna we drove north and east up to Brescia, turned left and went to Chiari (key-ahrr-ee) for the next show. The venue, a starkly modern building - a rarity in this country - stuck out glaringly in the old town with its winding, narrow streets and ochre, faded yellow and beige stucco buildings with their red tile roofs and brightly painted doorways and shutters. Inside, there was a brightly lit lecture hall with a theater stage at the bottom of the sharply pitched rows of seating. But, they had a competent and helpful sound crew and a good system.
I wandered off into town after loading in while the rest waited for soundcheck. I found posters for the show taped to shop windows. After window shopping at a motorscooter and bicycle shop, I walked back to the school, met up with the others and we went to check into the hotel.
Franco (a friend of ours from a couple years back when he came to Tucson with his friend - Buscadero Magazine publisher Paolo Caru) was the promoter on the show. He put us up at a very nice hotel and told us he was taking us out to dinner after the show. They eat late here (I prefer that anyway).
Then it was back to the venue for the sound check and the show. The opening act, cleverly named Acoustic Duo, was a great surprise. The guitarist was a fine player and his partner, who played harmonica and some percussion, was a virtuoso. He played harmonicas in several different styles - not just wailing blues harp or diatonic Dylanesque wheeze. In addition to the small harmonicas he had a strange triple harmonica with an immense low register and more scale options than a standard harp. Some of his playing reminded me of the great Dutch-American jazz harmonica player, Toots Thielmann. We were glad to hear that they got a hot reception from the crowd. Sometimes, a local act has a hard time going over no matter how good they are if they're in an opening act slot on a show.
We walked into a primed full house. We played a lot better than the night before. Danny was playing like a demon. We're opening shows on this tour, as we did on the last US tour, with "Sierra Madre," a favorite of mine and a real showcase for Danny. I missed having my Zeta upright for that song, especially (I couldn't bring it because in its padded gig bag it's a little too long for a carryon and its hard case is too large for a tightly packed small van.) Still, we got off to a strong start and built from there. It was an exceptional night.
The most memorable part for us was what came after the show. We went out to a pizza place (yup, they have pizza in Italy, despite what all the know-it-alls in U.S. will try to tell you about pizza being a rarity in Italy. There are pizzerias all over up here in the north, from what I've seen.) The promotor, Franco, and his crew and friends and Carlo and Maria and some folks I never did meet all went to this very classy looking restaurant just outside of town at about 1 am and occupied several tables set up end to end by the cheerful staff (no sulking about late customers - there were many others, too). We stayed until nearly 3 am, each ordering a pizza or some pasta dish and dipping into the communal wine carafes that seperated the long table like a median strip. Amazing how much conversation got accomplished between people who suppposedly didn't speak each other's language. Granted, there was far more English spoken by Italians than Italian by Americanos. (The pizza I learned to make at a class - yup, I did take a pizza making class once for a newspaper story back when I was a reporter. The real reason I did it was that I thought all the pizza in Tucson sucked mightily - that was in the pre-Brooklyn's Pizza days - and I wanted to make my own. Well, the pizza they serve here is just like the stuff I make, and not much like the crap you get in most U.S. restaurants. Even the best New York stuff has, as I've been saying for years, too much of that god damned greasy, soggy, nasty, heavy cheese on it. It's the crust, get that right or don't even start. And if you get that right, and it's not at all hard, from there you put a bit of whatever you want with some tomato sauce, if you want. And that "bit of something" can, and probably does, include some cheese. But you won't see any of those gummy Wonder Bread crusts smothered under a greasy dripping blanket of mozzarella - not over here. Thank you. And, by the way, none of those hot air conveyor belt ovens, either.)
What don't I like about Italy? So, far, not much. But, I'd single out their phone system for contempt. Let's just put it this way: If you've got family or friends over here and haven't heard from them, don't assume it's because they don't desperately want to talk to you. Calling out of the country is - so far - virtually impossible. I can't find a pay phone that takes any of the phone cards (yes, I'm including AT and T and every damned one of those those phone cards I ripped out of the airline mag on the way over) I have. I've seen one Internet cafe. So, the only thing that's really driving me nuts is I haven't been able to call or write home and I've been here going on five days now.
The toilets? They're merely amusing. A lot cleaner than the typhoid holes found in most U.S. truck stops and travel plazas. (They do have the modern version of the classic dung hole, however. Many bars and restaurants - public rest rooms in general - have two footplates with a hole in between. Use your imagination, and watch the angle on the dangle there. Have you ever wondered about the origins of the term "shit heel"?)
...
We're using the Audtostrade, the supertollway system of Italy, but it doesn't take one out of the feel of the country as much as our Interstate system. Today we're up in the northeast, coming back from that little town where we played a pub job last night. We're in the Dolomites heading for Modena and points beyond. But the scenery from the van, even on this four-lane, is amazing. Castles hanging from the sides of mountains, waterfalls and little villages of stone and brightly colored stucco buildings in every canyon or valley running perpindicular to the road. The road is following a river (Adige, I believe) and the immediate area, both sides of the river and road, are lined with vineyards. Speaking of vineyards. The grape is everywhere. Beer is sort of an alternative drink here. OK by me. When you order a glass of red in a bar, you don't get the foul slop that's nearly always served up in even most of the snootiest U.S. bars. And the stuff is cheap, too. I bought a decent bottle of an Italian cabernet in a grocery store in a small town yesterday (Pergine Valsugana near Trento in the South Tyrol) for the equivalent of $1.75 U.S. The whole damned bottle.
This morning, after hitting the road we stopped south of Trento at one of the ubiquitous Autogrill service plazas that pepper the Autostrade (at least every 50 kilometers, it seems). Nothing could be further from most U.S. truck stops. These places are spotless and have fine food and coffee. Damned near gourmet food and kick your butt and knock your hat off espresso drinks. And champagne. I saw a couple order champagne for their Sunday morning breakfast at the Autogrill on the A22 south of Trento near Rovereto this morning. And there are great pastries, an espresso bar and no "go cups." You have to drink it there, at marble stand-up, cocktail-style tables. And you have to order your espresso drinks a shot at a time. You wanna get wired? Order five or six to get the equivalent of one of those 16-ounce Americanos I pump down over at Raging Sage in Tucson every morning with Jim Miller and Greg McNamee. (By the way, I was told the other night that this thing about drinking cappucino with dinner or after dinner or during most of the day is "an American thing." Italians seem to reserve it for breakfast. That's about it, from what I've seen. I've only seen one drip coffee pot. You want a cup a coffee, you order an Americano (I know that one by heart) and get a couple shots of espresso watered down with hot water, if you're lucky. Someplaces, they dose it with sugar, figuring, I guess, that Americans like everything doused in sugar. Yecch.
Maria, who has been drafted to ride shotgun as navigator and tour manager, is giving us Italian lessons in the van. We're up to dieche (the number 10, that's how it's pronounced, I'm not sure that's how it's spelled) so far. (I've got to say, there's some highly questionable pronounciation amongst my fellow students. I'm hearing the equivalent of cowboy Spanglish but, unlike the French, the Italians seem to tolerate even the ugliest assaults on their language by well-intentioned or desperately hungry/thirsty gringi.) It's only day two; we should be up to a hundred sometime before we're done in 10 days. I've been getting by on my Spanish to understand a lot of Italian. If I just relax and don't concentrate on the individual words I'm hearing, I can usually pick up what's being said in context - letting all those words between the ones I know tumble into context and make an impression. It's easier to do when listening to some other people's conversation, however, than when it's a stream of it directed at me.
Some guy in a 3 series BMW hatchback just blew by us fast enough that his pressure wave moved us over a couple of inches.
...
Attention lovers of freedom: They have virtually no liquor laws and, from what I've seen, very few drunks and not many accidents. Granted, I've heard things get hairier down south. We'll see. But, up here so far we haven't seen any lousy driving to suggest too much alcohol and speed.
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The scenery is endlessly compelling. Can't stop gawking. I think - just guessing here - that being part of an ancient culture puts things in perspective far better than our situation does. In an ancient culture known for creating beautiful objects nobody, it seems, wants to be remembered for doing something ugly. There's a lot of beauty, even in everyday and mundane objects. They've even got cool looking factories. Some of them, at least. And they don't tear down their old buildings, from what I've seen. They just let these ancient looking old farm buildings slowly, gracefully fade into the fields and vineyards. Most of all, I love that the Italians, for the most part, don't want to be Americans - moreso than any place I've been. They seem to love being Italian. What could be better, ay? Congratulations. They seem to revel in their individuality. Except for the occasional McDonald's and Blockbuster, there's not much U.S. pollution - nothing like what we saw in Australia, where they continually complained about the U.S. and then lined up at those palaces of shit on a bun.
(While I'm at it, I'll repeat one of my favorite rant and raves. It seems especially fitting after being here. What will our last two U.S. generations be remembered for in the near and distant future? Throwing up ugly buildings, eyesores, thumbs in the eye of future generations? Blame the cheapest is bestest approach to public buildings that has dominated U.S. public construction for many years.
Well, since I'm on a roll here, and you no doubt want specifics, let me rave on. There's this radio talk show host in Tucson, John C. Scott. I wouldn't say we're big friends, but we were certainly friendly the last time I checked. I filled in on his show once (don't quit your night job Dan) and was a guest on his show a few times when I was still a newspaper reporter in Tucson and a few people mistakenly thought I had opinions worth considering. Anyway, John still makes his living herding and prodding these lunatic grouch callers who light up his lines to gripe about damned near any progress made since the turn of the last century. (Come to think of it, I'm surprised these Luddites don't object to the use of electricity and radio waves - thank you Mr. Marconi, by the way.) I can remember them whining and snivelling about the public library in Tucson (about as adventurous as a Seattle grocery store) and the sculpture in front of it, and damned near anything anywhere else for that matter. Now, many of these people are pinheads and there's no changing that. (It's not even enough to stop one for running for president.) And John can't be blamed for making a living. But John, a bright guy, spends a lot of his vacation time - guess where - in Europe. He loves it. He absolutely loves it. Now, why do you think he loves Europe? I'd guess it has something to do with the architecture, the antiquity and all the fine stuff that comes with cultures that think beauty has value (immeasurable though it may be) and don't grind their ugly K-Mart cowboy bootheels into the artifacts of their culture. But tell his listeners you want to spend a few bucks on making a beautiful public building instead of another cast concrete bunker and they'll blow a freakin' gasket. Better yet, consider telling them that builders shouldn't be allowed to crap in the public eye by building anymore houses that look like Taco Bells and they'd get out the rope (nope,check that, they'd use those guns they cherish above all else). They won't even abide a legal vote by our elected officials to ban Home Depot and other big box eyesores from a neighborhood where the populace has said they don't want the damned things. If you don't think art and great architecture are good for the soul and the general well being, come over here sometime. And then go home and take a look at that by which future generations are going to judge us.
Travel, they say, is broadening. And this, as they used to say, is "preaching to the choir." Mollys fans are not, from my experience, pinheads and probably don't need a lecture. Consider these, instead, observations. And maybe, just maybe, consider that you wouldn't be alone if you did the occasional polite, tiny revolutionary act by "voting with your feet" (and checkbook) and not doing business with those that cheapen our lives nor vote for those who do their bidding. End of lecture.
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10/21 - Saturday - Pergine Valsugana - near Trento
It's Sunday (I think) and we're heading up into the mountains (the Dolomites - I recognized the stone before I could find it on the map - hurray freshman geology) near Trento. We make our way out to a little roadhouse in this (to me) very German-looking countryside with tall mountains and fast flowing rivers. Mr. Gulliver's Pub has the look of a Bavarian roadhouse. Stucco and crossed timbers. And there are plenty of tight leather and helmetted squids on tricked out superbikes heeled over zooming past outside. It's motorcycle heaven. Turns out to be pretty good for music, too. It's a young crowd, but they listen and rave. We even got that sing song chant you hear at international soccer matches. Never thought I'd be on the receiving end of that (and I don't mean, "Haul 'em off.")
Next morning, we hauled butt for the unbelievable Castiglion Fiorentino, an ancient fortified city on a mountain top a bit south of Firenze. No shit, they could have filmed a movie here. Curving, steep and narrow cobblestone streets winding between medieval buildings. (Screw up here and they may just boil us in oil.) The club, The Velvet Underground, dates back several hundred years. It must not have changed much; it sure didn't look like anything I'd ever seen. We didn't have a great night, but we weren't bad. The place was packed. They gave us a thunderous encore. We were pleased. What can I say. (As Marx put it, "Hey, it ain't Berky's.")
Heading back, we passed (ouch) Firenze from a distance. It seemed to be buried in pollution. I couldn't see much. It was a killer not being able to stop. But, we're not here for our amusement. I hope to come back for that, or have more slack time - if there is a return tour.
We blast by, heading up the coast to Genoa again, where we'll turn inland for Milano.
October 23. Sesto Calende, our home base near Milan.
We play The Wall, a beautiful club (yet more beauty, yawn) in Sesto Calende near Milano. It is near the home of our tour promoters and fairly close to the home of the man who started this Italian thing rolling for us, Paolo Caru, publisher of Buscadero Magazine. Well, tonight was a memorable night. We were to play a much larger club, but the club was flooded in the torrential rains that tore up Northern Italy and Southern Switzerland last week, just before we arrived. When we got here, there were places in Sesto where the water was still several feet deep. The beautiful Ticino was many feet above the banks.
So, instead of that venue, we play a smaller club downtown. The street we took to get here looked like one from a scene in which Vic Morrow and his GI "Combat" buddies were tearing through town in a Jeep while scanning the windows for German snipers. Scenic as all get out. Now, the only danger to us is from crazed Italian drivers in cute little cars and motorscooters.
The club was packed, again. A Monday night. Amazing how many people they can wedge in a room here. And the response... Ahhh. Bruce Springsteen wouldn't have been any more loved playing for free on a streetcorner in Asbury Park. We had 300 people, I was told by the promotor, in a room the size of a 7-Eleven .
Tuesday, Oct. 24, 2000
Today, after the long drive to make last night's show, we slept in and tried to make up for lost rest. All that was on the schedule was a rendezvous with Carlo and Maria for a trip over to Gallarte to hook up with Paulo (Mr. Buscadero) and Anna Caru. We needed a night off. All this adoration and beauty is tiring.
Paulo and Anna took us out to dinner at a country restaurant, a trattoria run by a couple that Paulo said used to run a very successful restaurant in Milano and moved out to the country (reminds me of a short story by John McPhee). We were seated in a large room in an apparently ancient farm house. The food just kept coming. First came a choice of pastas. I voted for risotto cabernet sauvignon (being not much of a meat eater and very much of a wine drinker). Staggeringly good is all I can say. Like a lot of Italian food, it struck me as salty, but the tastes were beyond my experience. I'd say it would have been a fine meal if it had stopped there. (Marx and Maria and Carlo and I did some swapping, and their pasta dishes were equally amazing.)
Then, I think, came a variety of meat dishes. This was not something to which I looked forward. But, when in Cuirone di Vergiate, do as ... There was this pork, and beef and I don't know what. And it all tasted like no critter I had ever tasted. I don't, as a rule, eat lamb. Period. But this. This. And there was more. (If you ever have the good fortune to go to Northern Italy, the place is Antica Trattoria S. Giacomo, Cuirone di Vergiate (VA) Via Matteotti, 18, (0331/94.81.94) (Chiuso il Mercoledi - They must rest sometime).
Then came a bit of salad, a bunch of cheeses. All during which the wine flowed. Then a variety of desserts (mine was a fruit sorbet with the kick of a mule). Then coffee (with a kick from the other leg of that mule). Then grappa (both legs and a stick of dynamite). Four hours later, we left, feeling satisfied but not stuffed.
This must be that sweet life they were talking about?
Thank you Paulo, Anna, Carlo and Maria.
Tomorrow (later today) we do laundry and get ready for Roma.
Wednesday, October 25, 2000
We had the day off. We all slept in after that feast last night. We needed the sleep anyway. Nancy is getting sick. We needed the night off for other reasons, too. Morale is bad; perhaps the lack of sleep piled atop the lingering jet lag. Anyway, we needed the day off. I didn't do squat. We are far outside Milano and I've already walked the area thoroughly. While it is beautiful, it's not particularly interesting. In late m orning, Kevin, Marx and I went over to the Carlini home with the plan of doing our laundry. But Maria and daughter Paula wouldn't let us. They did it for us. Ow. We hung out for a while, watching Joe Ely videos made by Carlo during shows he booked and, in some cases, promoted, in Italy. One local show, I think it was from 1994, featured Joe and then bassist Glenn Fukanaga, Donald Lindley on drums, Jesse Taylor on guitar, Teye on guitar. And somewhere in one of tapes, there was also a show with Eric Anderson, Townes VanZandt, and John ??? (a Scandinavian whom, I think, played with Rick Danko for a while, just can't remember the name right now) doing acoustic stuff. We went back to the motel, slept some more and then went back to the Carlini house for dinner. Maria and Paula put on a feast. There were vegetables (spinach?) and fish (salmon), cheeses, and sea critters of other types (seppia?) in a stew with potatos, pasta, fine wine, and even better company. A never to be forgotten meal.
Thursday, October 26, 2000
We rose fairly early, after sleeping off yet another feast (though we are finding we're eating only once a day, aside from a bit of knoshing and many coffee breaks - Marx declares he is losing weight - me, I don't know, I feel like a slug from lack of exercise and being cooped up in small spaces, but maybe).
Time to hit the road to Roma. We load up on espresso, throw our stuff into the beleagured Fiat Ducato, and pick up Maria. Kevin gets directions to Roma from Carlo and we're off. Down to the Autostrade for Milano, Modena (ciao Ferrari?), Bolonga (ciao Ducati?), and the A1 into Roma and the jaws of traffic like we have never seen, we're told. The club and hotel, gulp, appear to be deep in the bowels of the ancient city.
A few words about vehicles and driving in Italy: First off, let me confess. I am an aggressive driver; not hostile, but I control the vehicle and drive with determination. I like to drive fast, conditions permitting. I drive the speed limit in town, religiously on smaller streets and in residential areas, although I may push it a bit on urban multi-lanes. On the highways, I drive to conditions. I've been through some driving schools, including two sessions at the Bondurant School. I have driven at speeds well into three digits (I'm talking mph not kph). I enjoy it. I've never owned a really fast car. My family car, an old 740 Volvo Turbo, isn't exactly a sports car. But I've owned some hairy motorcycles, including a Ducatti 900SS, a BMW R90S and some other stuff that could more than double the old federal speed limit. So, maybe I'm not your average U.S. driver (oh, please, please). But, I find the Italian drivers very good. I haven't seen one accident (yet) other than a bumper kiss in a line of traffic during rush hour at a backed up light outside Milano. And these people shake and bake. No lollygagging on the slab. Get the hell out of the boogie lane if you don't want to dance. Kevin is doing nearly all the driving, doing a steady 120-130 kph (100 kph is 62 mph) and we're getting dusted by everything other than the semis, which live in the right lane (except for rare passing excursions into the center lane). It's not unusual to be doing 80 mph in the right or center lane and have a Fiat Punto (smaller than anything you can get in the U.S., save maybe a Geo Metro) come by fast enough to have its pressure wave move this van over a couple of inches. I know we've been passed by subsubcompacts doing well over 110 mph. I've only seen one seriously squirrely driving exhibition, and I have to admit the guy was skilled. He was in a tiny tiny Citroen or Peugeot (must have been hot rodded) and he passed us on the right, swerved in front of us, passed on the right again in a space that I thought had disappeared between a car and semi, then did the same lane stitching maneuvers until he was out of sight. The motorcyclists ride like my friends and I used to, back when we thought we were immortal. They all wear helmets and leathers - or those modern abrasion resistant synthetic riding suits.
The truck drivers are amazing. The lanes, even out here on the Interstate, appear narrow - three meters, I'd guess - and I haven't seen any of these guys falling asleep and weaving over the line. They do pull out to pass in shorter spaces than sometimes seems safe to U.S. drivers, but that seems something people here expect (no sleeping at the wheel) and is the kind of thing many truckers do in the U.S. almost beligerantly. And they're all driving cabover road tractors, none of those comfy conventional tractors you see in the U.S. The roads aren't particularly smooth and those cabovers must be beating those guys to death.
The cars are a riot. It's easy to understand why they sell so many micro cars. The parking situation, even in small towns, is often terrible. The roads are narrow (remember all those World War II scenes with GIs fighting their way through narrow winding streets lined with three-story buildings right up to the cobblestone? Same roads today. Some of them look too narrow for oncoming motorcycles to pass, let alone cars or trucks. Fiat Pandas and Puntos are probably the most common, followed by a wild selection of M&M-colored micros from Peugeot, Ford, Citroen, Toyota and, even, Mercedes, and some slightly larger cars from Opel, Lancia, Alfa Romeo, Volvo, and mid-size models by BMW, Mercedes, and Volvo, a few Saabs. I've yet to see a Ferrari or Lambo. I'm hoping.
10/26 Thursday Roma
Tonight, after living through a harrowing trip into Roma, we play at Club Big Mama, a mostly blues joint, a tiny walk-down on a narrow winding street just off one of the city's main drags - complete with modern street cars running up the median - and, it would seem, over anything that gets in their way - in the ancient city. The scooterati are nuts, by nearly any country's driving standards - throngs of zizzing and blattting motorscooters piloted by apparently fearless - or possibly terrified, it's hard to tell the difference from their behavior - Romans. They swarm around anything stopped or going slower, red lights be damned. Empty sidewalk, no problem. It's as if we are in a maze: the cars and trucks are slow moving, drugged cattle, stumbling along, some faster than others, and the motorscooters are turbocharged mice being chased around (I'm sure, if it were possible, they'd go over and under as well) the four-wheelers. They must have a patron saint, maybe Saint Lambretta, who protects them.
The city is choking in blue exhaust. It's as polluted as Los Angeles or any big Eastern U.S. city was in the days before pollution controls. Wash your face or blow your nose after a couple hours here and you get soot. The people are not unfriendly, but neither are they gregarious. They wear the game face common to the citizens of most of the world's big cities. On the other hand, they drop the aloof thing and go straight to charming and accommodating in a few seconds to a few minutes after introduction - in most cases. We have been treated so well, with no exceptions I can recall, since being here that I think it would be safe to say that everybody probably hopes to come back to Italy. I know I do. So, don't take the aggressive driving personally - it's the way it's done. It's a laid back culture, but they don't want to spend a minute more on the road than necessary, it would seem. Contradictions abound: Great and plentiful wine and no liquor laws, to speak of, yet apparently no booze problem anywhere near what we have in the U.S. The virtual inventors of plumbing, but we didn't find a hotel bathroom drain that worked until we'd been here 10 days. A feasting tradition with fattening food, but not many overweight people. Beats me. I love it.
The Rome show is a blast. Again, we score big with the audience. I had been thinking, "Big city, one of the coolest city's in the world, they're going to be a tough audience." Maybe so, but they loved us.
Here's the set lists for the Italian tour (subject, as always, to audibles from the line by Nancy):
Sierra Madre
Odessa
Don't Come On Strong
Youngest Daughter
Moon Over the Interstate
This Is My Round
On We Go
El Bandito
La Llorona
Strike Me Down
I'm Not As Willing
The Man in Question
Piggyback Rider
Say Nothing
Mother, Mother
Pride Over Dollars
(We also worked in Rosie a couple times, along with some other oldies)
10/27 Predazzo near Trento and Bolzano in the northeast of Italy, in the Dolomites (mountains) not far from Venice and the Austrian border, for that matter.
This is the mystery gig, added at the last minute. Kevin gets us from our downtown Rome hotel to the beltway that rings the city. We stop at a Autogrill, grab some coffee, some of those grilled sandwiches and some courage for what's to come. I drive out of metro Roma, in the insane Monday morning traffic (no truck traffic on Sundays, so it's "gentlemen, start your engines" on Monday), on the twisting jam-packed roads out of Roma, in the rain. It's nuts. Maria, riding shotgun as navigator, looks a bit tense. I'd show her my Bondurant card, but I don't think it would make her feel any better. I do have a tendency to let out whoops and hollers when things get really hairy on the road (the automotive version of yelling in your helmet on a motorcycle going through the twisties.) I don't doubt that it can be disconcerting. She's a sport. But, it is a bit hairy. They have these hairpin curves like you'd never see on a U.S. Interstate, no kidding, even coming out of off-camber sharply curved bridges with narrow lanes and cheese guard rails, even tunnels with bridges at the end - in the rain - with trucks just inches away and S Class Mercedes and 5 series BMWs blasting up behind you with their high beams phasering away to get you out of the way. Sometimes there's a 80 kph differential between the truck traffic and the four-wheelers. You don't just pull over into that left lane to get around a truck doing 40 mph, because there is probably some disciple of Enzo coming up on your bumper at close to 140 mph (roughly 6000 kilometers per hour - or something like that.)
Anyway, it was worth the hairy ride. Kevin took over near Trento and drove us up to the gig in the mountains at the little town of Predazzo where we played a rustic ski lodge. We had a good night and made a lot of friends. We went to some local folks' house for dinner (joyfully stuffed again) and for breakfast the next morning.
10/28 Colere (near Bergamo, north east of Milano, again in the mountains) Club Palatenda, actually an immense show tent at the bottom of a ski slope in this picturesque town in the Italian Alps or Dolomites. The weather was uncommonly mild for this time of year. We were told that it wouldn't be uncommon to have snow by now, but in this case, it was still balmy by day and only chilly at night. The stars jumped out like a star show at Flandrau Planetarium. This was the one slow night, in terms of the size of the crowd, for the entire tour. Still, despite a cavernous sound and plenty of audio problems, we played alright and the crowd was very supportive. We didn't suck. A good time ... etc.
10/29 Ferrara between Padua and Bologna at Club Renfe, Via Bologna 217.
What a beautiful town. Like a picture postcard (which, oddly, we can't seem to find anywhere in Italy - beautiful place, you'd think they'd have postcard stands on every corner). We played a hip, modern looking club. A couple of us suspected this place might be too young and "disco" for our kind of music. We can do no wrong, it seems. Place was jammed and the crowd was crazy for us. We had a superior night. Almost thought we deserved those encores. Guido, by the way, the sound engineer, was amazing. The sound was incredible. Nice guy, too. He just "made it so." Forgot to mention that the promotor, another Carlo, took us out for dinner at a local restaurant, probably not the kind of place you'd find as a standard tourist. The wine was fine. For the most part, I've found that Italians, though wine lovers, tend to drink their home product before it has time to get much character. But, this stuff...it was a party in my mouth. Not much of that oak you get from many good California reds that have been around a few years, but lots of berry. And, no, I don't remember what the hell it was.
10/30 Italy Milano Club Nidaba, Via Gola 12
Kevin drove into Milano at night, in the traffic, in the rain. Very hairy. Club Nidaba is on a narrow, winding side street - much like Roma's Big Mama and a few of the other big city clubs we've played. Parking is a stress out. Carlo, who came along, isn't sweating it. He just points at the sidewalk and Kevin slides it onto the curb in a short space, diagonally, up on the curb. Nobody seems to mind.
Inside is a tiny club with more atmosphere than I can describe. It's an ancient stone row building with not a square or plumb line in the joint. It's bathed in red light and the walls are covered in very cool rock, roots and jazz B&W photos. Max, the boss, is a fine man. Friendly, music lover, willing to do whatever it takes. None of this bluff shit that you get in so many U.S. clubs (where the club owner probably is a music lover, but has to do a tough guy don't-give-a-damn act to keep you from feeling like you deserve to get paid). Here, I swear, love of the music is the prime directive. Nobody is making much money, even on a full house in a room this size. We jam the joint and shake the walls. Bruce Springsteen couldn't have gone over any better.
10/31 Cantu' (Como) Club All' Una 35, Via Ginevrina Da Fossano 20.
This is it. Last show. It's in Cantu', an ancient, very scenic town, about an hour north of Milano. I drive the van, that Fiat Ducato Turbo Diesel, in a mix of downpour and fog on winding almost two-lane roads. It's a tense 90-minute drive. When we arrive, things are just as tense. There's yet another tiny stage and there seem to be some problems. I'm just happy to be not driving in the muck. I let the others sort it out. (I never do find out what the beef is, though I suspect it's a stage space thang. Understandable. But, there's only so much room. And, most nights, most of us remember that. But, we're tired and I guess after being cooped up on these tiny stages for several nights, it's not surprising that there's a bit of puffing and strutting going on.) Everybody, despite the wonderful treatment and fine times, wants to go home. We're dreading the flight.
The show: After an abbreviated but delicious feast with Carlo and Maria, our last dinner with them (much sadness), we tear into it. The first set, I think, is a bit of a grind and seems a bit flat - a little off. The second set we hook up and we get it back from the audience. We've got enough gas to make it to the end at full speed, on this last night of the tour, and we kind of blow off the pacing, going balls to the wall throughout the second set. Danny is particularly hot, again, and has the crowd in his pocket. We get two roaring ovations.
...
Well, that's it. We're done. It's airports and the long grind home. Thanks to all the people who've come to the shows, helped us out, made us feel welcome, put up with our goofy signing and language mangling, the almost uniformly great sound engineers, friendly club owners (?!), and, most of all, Carlo, Maria and Paolo.
Later...It is, I think, Nov. 1, 2000. This is Minneapolis/St. Paul, by the sound of those familiar voices. I was in Milano just a dozen hours and a few thousand miles ago. Before that, no sleep in between you understand, we were playing that last show, in Cantu. I am sitting in the airport, an eight-hour layover before we connect to Phoenix and drive the two hours back to Tucson, trying to stay awake. Marx just had one of those revealations that those of us in the band for many years came to understand long ago. "Hey, what people don't understand is that it's not the playing that's the hard part." Yup, Marx, it's those 22 hours in between. No shit. Still, I'm grateful that he gets it. Sincerely. At this moment, the best I can do is this: Have you ever pulled a roast chicken apart? You know that connective tissue that keeps the "wings" connected to the fuselage? Know how it sounds and feels when you try to pull those auxilary parts off? Well, that's the way my shoulder blades feel - as if somebody is semi-successfully taking my arms, shoulders and shoulder blades apart.
Last night, after that hellish drive, we had to play on a tiny, tiny stage. Being that I'm the one who seldom moves, I parked my butt on a hardshell amp case (an Anvil-style case, for you gearheads) in front of my amp, off the stage left side between a PA cabinet and the stage and a table of four. I couldn't move six inches for two sets. Glad it was the last night. I'm trashed. Time to work out, loosen up and get in shape for the next few little tours. I haven't felt this hammered in a while. I was feeling better after six weeks in Australia and New Zealand this time last year. I'll bet Kevin, who did the lion's share of the driving, is just about as stiff and sore.
The flight home turns into a much worse grind than we anticipated, even after many bad experiences flying. Not only did we have an eight-hour layover, just as we boarded the flight to Tucson, the gate clerk called us up to the counter and took all our boarding passes away - the aisle seats for which we showed up at the airport three hours early. Without explanation, just a sneer, she issues seats for the last row - which is in a section already boarded, so there's no overhead storage - in this flying bus. I'm stuck between two people, wedged in after 20 some hours without sleep or shower. Thanks Northwest. You really suck.
Little did I know. Although they had already misplaced our luggage and instruments - they were supposed to arrive with us in Minneapolis so we could carry our stuff through Customs - Northwest let us stand around for an hour before making us stand in line to be told, they didn't know where our stuff was. Then, when we got to Phoenix, we stood around again - eventually learning that none of our stuff was there, and they didn't know where it was. Didn't seem too damned concerned, either. Two days later, after many phone calls and a lot of shit attitude from Northwest ("you want us to deliver your luggage to your homes, not just one?"), we learn they have lost Danny's Telecaster. Though they tore the back off my bass case, the tough Music Man Stingray inside was intact. We'll be trying to get some compensation for the lost and damaged stuff. I'll let you know.
Let none of this take the glow off this tour. I'm frazzled from the hectic pace of the tour and the flight. So much so that I'm not sure I've given you any idea of how good a time we had, what an impression the Italian music fans and their country made upon us. We're all very happy and look forward to returning. The preliminary word is that Carlo and Maria want to bring us back in July for a tour with some festivals. Sounds good to me. Yup.
Ciao (or, however you spell aloha in Italian)