I arrived at last in Paris Monday morning, and came home to unpack almost three weeks’ worth of travels—knowing that I was merely preparing to pack for this weeks’ travel. I had sent the bulk of my stuff home with Dom, so I wouldn’t have to drag a huge suitcase full of dirty stage outfits all over Norway (thank you Dom). Monday night I had the pleasure to have an after dinner drink with Joey Waronker and his wife Elizabeth; I knew Joey from the first three years of my tenure in REM, where he was drumming; Joey was in town this month to tour and record with Air. The following night I made a rare appearance at Le Motel, entertaining an American couple, friends of a friend, and showing them hipster central, my neighborhood! It was fun each night to have some Americans grooving on Paris, and I took great delight in telling them all the disfunctionalities that France operates under, and how this still didn’t deter me from living there, so it must be great.
Wednesday I went as early as possible to Orly airport, not wanting to repeat the debacle of July, that caused me to postpone the show that I was now making up. I was up at the crack of dawn, before Aden was up for school, to get my flight at noon. I had packed and repacked, commando style, the night before—everything was accounted for, ready, clothes ironed, merch counted, no room for mistakes. And none were made. It was a huge relief when we touched down in Barcelona.
My host, the promoter of my show, and my friend, Nacho, was rehearsing with his great band Poet in Process—for a festival appearance this weekend, their first show since vocalist Lynne Marti underwent vocal node surgery this summer. Evidently she is sounding better than ever, with improved range and command of the upper register of her voice.
But, as they were rehearsing, I had nowhere to go, which suited me fine. So I parked myself at the pizzeria on the corner by Nacho’s flat, and tried to forget the awful sandwich I had eaten for brunch in Orly, which I was almost certain had given me food poisoning right after I ate it. My sides ached, and I broke out in a cold sweat. But, nothing more severe materialized, but I felt like such an insult to my innards should be avenged. In furthering my conceit that Spain is kicking the shit out of France—in Sports (Roland Garros and the Tour de France conquered by Spaniards), in cuisine, in wine…Spain is hungry (very hungry, it seems) and ambitious—France is often guilty of resting on its laurels—this little pizzeria offered a salad of wild mushrooms and sautéed foie gras that was absolutely perfect—perfectly cooked, extremely fresh ingredients, and looking good on the plate. It was moderately priced, delivered quickly, and the server was very friendly. Soyez attentif Les Francais! (Pizza Piccatta is the place I lunched at.)
Eventually I was joined by Hugo from Naïve Rec (the Posies’ and Big Star’s label in Spain) and Nacho, and Nacho’s lovely g.f. Carolina. We had some wine, and talked biz.
I settled into Nacho and Caro’s flat, and then I headed to the offices of Rockzone mag, where I was interviewed and did a bit of acting—I did a short performance of ‘Best Mistake’ by the Disciplines on acoustic guitar, but it was part of a skit—well, you just have to see the thing. My work done, I was able to eat a big slab of meat at a very friendly Argentine restaurant opened by a former Arola employee and call it an early night.
BARCELONA, 9/18
The day started with me coming out of the shower and seeing a text message on my phone from a Discipline who shall remain nameless: “Flights not convenient for me, have to cancel the show.” Meaning the show TWO DAYS FROM NOW. Meaning a MAINSTAGE FESTIVAL APPEARANCE SECOND FROM HEADLINING. Er…I called and found that one of my guys was having a meltdown on various fronts, but a phone call to SAS/500 Euro flight rebooking/loads of interband calls ranging in tone from angry to consoling later, and all was back on track. Now, this was all done as I was trying to juggle about 10 interviews with the biggest papers/magazines in Spain, and prepare for a show, but I did pull it off and I will put myself up there as one of the all time coolest managers/tour managers alive. I am very impressed with SAS for allowing the rebooking on such a short notice and only charging 500 Euros for that—I was envisioning thousands of Euros to rebook on that short of timeframe. I came back to Nacho’s flat to do the work, during my lunch break from my press day, and Nacho, seeing I was stressing, cooked me lunch, bless his heart.
Well. Interviews were done in the lobby of the Hotel Arts, very friendly people there, they were extremely accommodating and quite excited about my show, too. When the interviews were finished I headed up to the Arola Restaurant where the small PA was being set up. They no longer have the gumption to drag the Steinway out onto the terrace, in fact, I rather think this show was the last of its kind and all future musical guests will be DJs, but it was paradise while it lasted—these two shows at Arola have been wonderful nights.
I played it lo-key. I didn’t push the promotion of these shows, kept it word of mouth, and thus had the seats filled perfectly on the terrace, but no SRO crowds like last time. With the smaller PA, and the fact that I wasn’t presenting much new, this suited me perfectly. The cool part is that many of the audience were hotel guests (unf. Pamela Anderson did not attend) – I had lots of non-Spanish guys in business suits buying CDs afterwards.
Now, the point of coming to Arola is to EAT of course, and this I did, Nacho and I at the chef’s table in the kitchen (where I had lunch with Sergi last year). The menu has changed, and although I can’t describe every plate that came by, there were so many intense and delicate flavors—from sea cucumber (which I have had in Chinese restaurants and just didn’t care for, but here was magical) to many, many kinds of flowers, specially chosen as herbs to complement the dishes. We enjoyed a bottle (on my dime) of the legendary latest release of the Vega Sicilia Reserva Especial, a blend of some fine vintages of roughly 7-10 years ago, that’s up on the list of best bottles produced in Spain of all time. Extraordinary cheese was served with a glass of Ordonez dessert wine—unf., not the SL Essencia ‘04 that WA gave 99 points to, but a lovely finishing touch nonetheless.
By taking our time with dinner, and by having espresso before and during the gig, I was actually clear and relatively sober by showtime. I played “110 or 220V” and “Even the Forgers…” two of my newer songs, a selection of the good stuff, and people were loving it. Prob. not my most intense show, emotionally, but also, I was respectful of the place and didn’t want to scare the tourists, you know? After I was done I DJ’d for an hour or so—I guess I played almost two hours, actually. And closed the night with a special song for one of the staff—it was her birthday, and I forgot to attend to that during the set, but after closing I sat her down at the Steinway and played a one on one “Here’s to the Future”. Other notes: not crying this time, I played in my set “At My Most Beautiful” by REM!
The next day I was up early to take a petit dej in the neighborhood of Scanner FM, and do some interviews in the area. At Scanner I recorded the voice for my next podcast, and dropped off the files, to be edited at their leisure! After a lunch with Paula from Bad TV, I hopped the train to Madrid, as the golden light of dusk swirled in the dust of the hills around Zaragoza. The highlight was a storm that clung to the ground, sunshine visible above it, and within it, that spattered the train and the countryside and was a memory within minutes.
Arriving in Madrid, I cabbed to my hotel, and checked in, and started to research online the particulars of the Long Winters show at El Sol. Turns out it was a ten-minute walk from my hotel. By this time it was about 10pm so I searched for a place to have some food. A lot of crap around Grand Via. I stuck my nose into a few places that just weren’t right. Eventually, I landed at a place called Galopin, and it felt right. Very friendly. I had grilled vegetables and a platter of jamon iberico. A half bottle of some very unremarkable Rioja, the house wine—the half bottle I wanted was out of stock. And some fromage blanc de brebis with honey, that was nice!
I walked up to El Sol (site of a legendary Posies show in 1995), and my nerdy appearance, air of authority, and American voice gave me full access to the venue, security stepping aside. I guess all Americans look/sound alike! I immediately asked for the dressing room, and was shown right in. Hanging with the Long Winters, mostly Eric and John, who are mostly the LW’s anyway, was wonderful, we had a great time catching up. During the set, I was called up to sing on “Stupid”, “Scared Straight” and “Cinnamon”; I managed to jump on the piano to play a bit of riffs and solo on “Stupid”. All in all, a very warm and friendly night. To my surprise, people were really jazzed I was there, lots of fans were excited about that.
I made the hang and headed out into the night, feeling very good and smelling appallingly of smoke.
MADRID, 9/20
I was up pretty early, partly with anxiety-driven nightmares of my bandmates not getting on the plane. I wanted to be prepped so I headed down to the festival site. The Festival Pura Vida is a free festival taking place on several stages in downtown Madrid; the festival is now in its 4th or 5th year, and is a very well run event. The organizers are a couple, Mariela and Diego; Mariela is HUGELY pregnant, so I am totally impressed that she has the energy to organize this event and the control of mood to keep cool at all times. They are both really cool, sweet people. And they have put together a world class event. Great production, great team, great bands/artists.
On the way to the location—our stage, the maintstage, was on the Plaza de Vazquez de Mella, just above Gran Via in the area up GV from Malasana. Walking down the Calle de las Infantas, I saw a bar that was open (address is number 9), and made a note of it—this was just 100 feet from the edge of the square. At the square, headliners Delorean were soundchecking, so, I knew I had time to kill (as it turns out, our soundcheck and stage times were exactly as they were told to me—again, this is extremely impressive especially for loosely-clocked Spain!). I double-backed to the bar, El Pezcador. Enter one of my favorite discoveries in some time! Just a typical Spanish bar in many ways: shabby décor, cramped space, no mood lighting whatsoever--unless your mood happens to be relentlessly fluorescent at all hours. However, sipping my café cortado, I noted that the case on the bar—most Spanish bars display their ingredients rather in the same method as a sushi bar, and this can often be more of hazard warning than an enticement to stay—was displaying a very nice variety of really fresh selections---the chipirones were clear and shiny, not glazed and murky; the meats were luscious and red. Many times a Spanish bar will display ingredients that look like they have been handed down by at least two preceding generations…slathered in olive oil in the hopes that the flies don’t learn how to snorkel. But that was far from the case at El Pezcador. Notes were further taken. And I was introduced to the Spanish method of serving croissants—it was offered ‘buttered’, I thought they were asking if I wanted butter—but they take the croissant, cut in half lengthwise, and grill it with butter AHHHH—like Homer Simpson, who won an award for inventing a meal between breakfast and brunch, this takes indulgence to a whole new level. Outrageous.
Heading back to the venue, having gotten word the guys had landed and were headed to meet me for soundcheck, I in fact timed my arrival with theirs, and saw three guys in black overcoats getting out of a cab. It was high noon, and about 30 degrees C/86 F. I helped get them sorted, the overall chief of production spoke French, so we figured out the game plan, and eventually Delorean was done and we took the stage for soundcheck. Again, the team was ultra professional, and whatever small issues arose, they were quickly sorted. Even the fact that somehow Claus’ stickbag hadn’t made it back from Stavanger was compensated, the backline tech had some extra sticks.
After the check, we stashed guitars in the festival offices, which overlooked the square, and where there were dressing rooms—each artists had their own room, but not for the whole night. Delorean and Disciplines had one of the rooms for their own after a certain time, but til the end of the night. In the meantime, there was plenty of office space to leave our guitars and what not, and we went straight to El Pezcador.
We ordered tons of food, some things didn’t come, and some things came that we didn’t order—but this was caused by 3 non-spanish speakers talking alongside my Spanish translation to the waiter—and it didn’t matter, everything that came was delicious. I ordered light stuff—a few slices of ham on toast, and a salad—but Claus, not used to Spanish generosity, just about keeled over when he saw how big his steak was. Anyway, with so much food, wine, water and café to work thru, we had plenty of time to discuss strategy for the years ahead—we need to plan way in advance to know what to prioritize, and how to fit in the things we want—touring the USA, touring Spain, lightning strikes on other markets—with everyone’s school and job commitments. There’s not quite enough Disciplines biz to support 4 guys full time, plus two of them are serious medical students. The fact is, we have serious limitations, but we have managed to do amazing things within those limitations. And everyone is still into it as long as we can respect the individual needs of everyone’s daily lives.
After lunch, we all went for naps.
Then I snuck out to bring down the merch and check on things. Believe it or not, by 7pm I was hungry. I couldn’t resist my favorite hearty foods, tho this was prob. a mistake on show day, I went back to El Pezcador and had callos—the tripe and god knows what else stew that is Madrid’s signature dish—and morcilla (blood sausage). A little intense to eat that two hours before the show, but what the hell! I café’d up, and went off to do an interview with the local TV.
Show time was drawing near. I paced the VIP bar, started running into friends around. I managed to get paid for our show.
Then the band before us finished, and we started to set up. And kicked it off. There were monitors at my feet, which I don’t use but were sure to cause me to trip, and a massive barricade, made of alternating triangles of barricade sections—essentially making a barricade six feet deep—VIPs/press etc. had access to the pit, so there was energy there, but it was hard to get to and from the crowd. Not that I was prevented—at one point I was singing from the merch table at the sound desk! The crowd, to whom we were strangers, loved it. They really grew in enthusiasm with every song. I was suffering. It was still 27 C when we went on, and even with just a week off, I was out of shape and gasping for breath. I felt like a fat slob, but I had to get my shirt off about halfway thru. I had to crawl like Spiderman on these tiny slippery barricade railings, but I managed to crawl in and out of the crowd, and get around. Not only crawl on them, but stand on them, balance on these slippery little metal things, covered in the sweat and moisture of the audience and the night. By the time we finished people were really into it, jumping and clapping along. Success. The entire show was filmed by a local TV, hopefully the footage will surface. For my part, I was cramped, sweating, in pain, out of breath, and of course, in song #2 of the set, I manged to plant two of the three feet of the mic stand on the monitor wedges, and put my foot down on the third, elevated foot. Result: blam! I effectively levered the mic stand straight into my teeth, and earned another nice chip on the incisors. I spit it out and kept rocking. And so on thru the night. I felt fat and our of shape, but I think in the end this was a great show, and certainly people loved it. I ran back to the sound desk after wards and sold shirts and CDs to the kids. I even made arrangements to meet a fan on Gran Via the next day to sell her a CD and buttons as she didn’t have cash that night. I had my picture taken and was recognized all over town that night…Mariela and Diego loved it, and my bandmates were elated. I went back to the hotel, dropped the merch in my room, showered, changed, and was back in time watch most of Delorean, who were incredible—dance rhythms with echo-y guitar and groovy, swooping bass—like if the Stone Roses actually played rave music when they played raves. The crowd was going insane for them too. They are lovely people, and I was very happy for their success. A perfect night for all involved.
My friends—Olivia from H Magazine, our intrepid fan and photographer Alison, our BCN street team leader Gemma, and new friends of mine—Raquel, who is the artist relations rep for Gibson guitars in Spain, and her friend Dario, who is a marketer/brand builder and all around whipsmart and hilarious and kind person—we all set out with my bandmates for a wonderful night of jokes, and for me, clean fun. I had one beer, and two virgin peach juices. Mostly I made great chat with Dario, and the others dropped off one by one. We ended up in the Honky Tonk, where I played covers with the Super Ratones this summer. Filled with smoke, it was a silly, preppy place—guys were dressed like Gordon Gekko and I don’t think it was a costume.
Eventually I had enough, my poor knees were begging me to go to bed, and smelly but sober, I retired and walked home, the last of us splitting up on Gran Via.
The next day I awoke when the phone rang, for an interview of some sort. I could barely talk, my voice was so ruined by the smoke of the night before. I was one in the afternoon. Claus, Raquel and Dario accompanied me to El Pezcador, for my 4th meal in about 24 hours there.
That night we all went to see the Hellacopters on their farewell tour (look, why do bands even bother with this anymore? We KNOW they’ll be back) at Sala Heineken, where the Posies will play next month. It was ridiculously packed—and somehow, despite the smoking ban, again, after three songs my eyes were burning. We stayed for an hour, and then fled the smoke and heat, which became unbearable, even tho the show was great, in favor of late night tapas, and a birthday dinner for Olivia. It was a lovely ending to the night. I was less sober this night, since I had no shows for the next week, but just with a delicious warm coating of Ribera del Duero wine on my synapses, which meant for a nice sound sleep.
On Monday I lunched at El Pezcador AGAIN. I had pig ear, yes, pig ear, chopped up and sautéed with garlic. Hell yes. Knowing I was smelly, I went without shame to meet with the Disciplines’ new home in Spain, 2Fer Records, a label in the PIAS family. Run by, yes, two guys named Fer, who also run operations in PIAS Spain, I am confident this will give the Disciplines a sustained release and promotion campaign for early 2009.
It was time to head to the airport, and in the meantime, now the second day of fall, the season went all literal and dumped rain like Sam Peckinpah distributes fake blood—spattering, spurting, splattering—and somehow, guys on Gran Via instantly switched from selling fake Rolexes to umbrellas (hopefully not fake). I grabbed a cab to Barajas, and lucked out that even tho my bags were overweight, no one noticed because the guy checking in next to me had the cutest baby ever and everyone was losing their shit over this baby, who was, in fact, adorable.
In duty free I grabbed some PX, which I’m enjoying tonight, and in a few hours I was back to being abused by my daughter (“you’re very ugly, papa” was her thanks for my back-from-traveling gift). Up at 7 this morning to get her to school, I needed a nap for like 2 hours today, and was incapable of getting any meaningful work done. I think I was exhausted not from the travel and the shows, but from digesting all the delicious food. No need to say, my return to pilates tonight was a necessary penance for all the sin I’ve indulged in. On your knees, boy.
Love
KS
Paris
