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Tour Diary: 2002 (Eugene) > Page 4 |
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DAY 6: WELCOME TO BERN NOW GET THE FUCK OUT
So it ended with all hugs and kisses and I don't know whether the feeling that I'm having of dreading the loss and separation is because I'm going to miss the STEAMBOAT fellas or Michael Wertmueller or my briefest of dalliances with being treated like a real musical artist instead of a derelict, felon and suspected moron, but I AM feeling something. Sadness at leaving the hotel for a future of uncertainty with Manuel my trusty Swiss companion by my side complaining about his fucked up luggage, the state of the world, and existence, just goddamned existence. HOOKERS, HOOKERS EVERYWHERE AND NOT A BUCK TO BLOW So onto Basel and that nothing waiting that drives lesser men mad. Niko shows up in a few days and we do the HALF-OXBOW ALL ACOUSTIC deal in Milan but first we hang in Manuel's hometown (that is, hometown after he was driven from pillar to post by the Nazis out of Poland... well I don't mean HIM. Manuel's relations with Nazis are fairly cordial, but his grandparents of course) of Basel. Where all the great pharmaceutical companies are. But I'm staying with Chris who used to be in Mercury 4 and is now in a stoner rock unit I mistakenly think is called FACED but is really called PHASED. Chris is a Swede, his father writes books on reincarnation and he's an all-around good guy who gives me a room overlooking some backyards and just as I'm about to settle in to some diary writin' he makes the totally tragic error of explaining thusly... "If you happen to be sitting at the computer and you see a naked woman over there�" He points to a building kitty corner to where we are, "don't be alarmed. They're prostitutes and that's a, how you say..." "Whorehouse!" "Yes. A whorehouse." And it is ON. Like Poe's raven I sit and sit and sit and stare and stare and stare and wait for a sign of hookerage. There are a few scantily clad women loitering around but they appear to be housewives. They do a lot of cooking. Mostly for the guy who sits on the balcony smoking cigarettes and reading the sports pages (Euro Sports Page: SOCCER, SOCCER, AND EVEN MORE GODDAMNED SOCCER). He drinks a beer. Smokes a cigarette. Talks to the aging whores. He's got a great job and I'm guessing that job would be PIMP. Well we plan our spoken word/acoustic show, do a photo session for our sensitive Morrisey-esque pop project, go out with friends, hear those self-same friends marvel at Niko's ability to take incredibly long showers, walk all around Basel, hang out with the members of the Motherfucking Cocksucking Ass Orchestra (real name, I swear to God), drink, bother Alex Buess, and finally after we resolve to leave despite my waiting, waiting, waiting for Godot, the hookers, or something, anything to happen. Manuel's calling from downstairs. It's time to go to Milan and as I'm walking down the 5 flights of stairs I stop off in Chris' bathroom to take a leak and look out the window and see two women, naked, and eventually doing each other's hair as they stand out in the sunlight of the fading day and prepare for work and I'm damned near, near tears standing next to my luggage, pissing and of course, moaning. Goodbye Basel. I still hate you AND Switzerland. |
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SWITZERLAND END NOTES:
*The woman in the audience who after I came out to do STEAMBOAT's fourth song sat up and exclaimed after having finally realized, "Fuck. That's the guy from OXBOW." *Sandro the Great's appearance. Sandro was the only guy to want to book OXBOW in Bern back in 1995 and our appearance there rent the community in half, turned brother against brother, and had the sum total effect of getting Sandro's ass in a sling and us banned from Bern. He came up to me after the show and said "I know you all hate Switzerland but..." "Well it's not that we hate it. The money's great. People actually turn out for the shows but the Swiss are just a nervous and trembling people who want to like OXBOW but fear us instead and it ends up just being a drag for us to play." "Please, please, please, please come back." "Okay." Goddamn it. I gotta work on my bargaining skills. *Peter KRAUT saying "I saw you play in Bern. But what are you doing now?" "Well we just put out a record." "Oh." And away he walks. Immediately. *Yodeling, yodeling, yodeling |
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VIVA ITALIA
We ride the train, get to Milan and go to the house of the beautiful and talented Olivia. To Via Gennaro Ferrari, past the tranny hookers, and upstairs to her 5th floor apartment where we find here being all cute, amusing and Italian, which is like saying the same thing. There is no such thing as a too broadly drawn caricature of an Italian. Cruising around Milan in the coming days we see a scene that is repeated often. A car accident, a man standing by his wrecked scooter sobbing, the car's inhabitants standing by smoking and laughing. It's a genius city and I think of Hitler's dismissive comment about parliamentary politics being like a "country run by Negroes." Milan is a city built by and inhabited by Negroes. I mean of course the funny thing is that Italians who have white skin THINK they are white and clearly distinguish themselves from ME, but that's only because they haven't been hepped to the fact that by American standards white Spaniards, Italians, and Frenchman are not fucking white at all. Maybe it's the language, maybe it's the handwaving, but whatever it is, I feel like I'm home. We go out, eat, young girls hand me condoms on the street, we go to La Scala, El Duomo, shopgirls waving at us the whole way over.
"They think you're Lenny Kravitz," Manuel says smiling but I believe he's right and so I ride the Lenny wave. In bars, stores and on the street I try to cultivate that insouciance that only comes from writing really bankrupt music. And it works. Especially if by "works" you mean "makes me hate my life... AND my haircut." |
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