Seventeen:
A small angel pissing on your tongue. It’s a saying out here Belgium way for when you think something is delicious. It’s funny, sweet, and a little dark and strange, which gives a small insight into my relationship to this place. The show in Antwerp was one of my favorites of the trip. It was pretty crowded in there, but the people were dead silent during tunes. But it wasn’t an easy silence, I felt like I was working for it and earning it. Good friends around always helps too.

They have brothels out here on the smaller roads between cities that pose as pubs. I’m told they operate like the ones I imagine in the old west. We didn’t visit one, but back in Leuven I went to one of my usual haunts was sitting alone at the bar when a pale faced, frightened looking girl sat down next to me with a small drink. She was staring at me, but but without actually looking at me. I tried to ignore her and when she finished her drink a guy came in from outside and led her out. I didn’t realize what was up until the next morning when I couldn’t shake the strangeness of that stare.

Eighteen:
Coffee and cake. One of the strangest shows I’ve ever done. At a cultural center near the Dutch border at 3 in the afternoon on a Sunday I played my weird songs for people eating cake. There was an 80-something year old woman celebrating her birthday and some little kids who looked mortified when I asked them if they’re rather be outside playing. They paid me really well, and afterwards we had a meal, during which they explained to me that taxes paid for my visit; and they work hard to use up all the Belgian tax money on people like me so there’s no money left over for fighter jets. Good move, fellas.

Nineteen:
Beat down the breakdown. Back in Amsterdam to do a show with a great bunch of people going by the name “Alamo Racetrack.” Same folks I stayed up all night with here last week. It’s an unpromoted affair in a great little word of mouth kind of place. There aren’t enough of these underground spots out here. So, we’re expecting an easy, quiet night with 50 people or so, maybe not using a PA even. Instead we wound up with a couple hundred folks who did not fit. The owners set up the PA in the downstairs area to maximize the amount of people who could see, or at least hear and we pulled off the show the best we could in the chaos. I really enjoyed the show, and it felt like the underground scene was alive and well, which is always good.

Now, I’m claustrophobic. The new location for the show put me in a corner totally surrounded by people including people packed onto the stairs. I had no way out and I felt like a caged animal. I held it together and got myself out of there but back in the hotel I spend all night shaking, sweating, and my heart racing like it wants to pop. No sleep.

Twenty:
A shake and a twist. Still reeling from the night before, the next day is another press day. I spent all day answering questions, totally out of it. If I looked like a freak show back in Belgium, I AM a freak show now. I did my best and when it was over I was taken to see Vic Chesnutt at the Paradiso. I really love his last record with the Silver Mt. Zion folks, and it eased me so much seeing them do it live. I cried a little and laughed a lot….thanks Vic. On the ride back to the hotel I’m losing it again, and the fella giving me a ride has to grab me several times before I walk into traffic. Back at the hotel it all comes blazing back, and again I can’t sleep for the total attack that’s going on. Heart racing like never before, total anxiety and paranoia. I become convinced that there is someone else in my tiny room and I keep looking in the one closet, under the bed and in the shower over and over in that order, thinking they’re switching places just ahead of my looking. Like some morbid Bugs Bunny-Elmer Fudd routine.

Delirious, now I only sort of half remember this, I find myself wandering the streets of Amsterdam freezing with no coat, all my money in a sock, and no passport. I think I had it in my head that I was dying, my heart was going to explode, and I had to go home. I left all my stuff in the hotel; guitar, amp, luggage, records, and was trying to walk to the airport and just get on a plane like it was a cab. After what I assume was a couple of hours I find a nightshop and get some beer. I vaguely recall drinking one in the street, and some hazy encounters with doubly hazy people. I woke up back in the hotel having apparently drank the beer and fallen asleep. That’s about as close as I’ve come to a total breakdown on tour, and I’m leaving out some details that I hazily recall, because, dear reader, I hardly even know ye. It’s a fucking miracle that I wound up safe and inside. I don’t know how I got to be there.

Links:
WhipSpace
TimesBoldSpace

Photo: Whip in Leuven. Taken by Maarten Timmerman, who writes for www.gonzocircus.com.