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Commando.
Back on the road, for the better part of a day. Weather was going in & out of squalls and sunshine while we were threading the needle out and around Antwerp & through the Netherlands.
We had said goodbye to our Belgian family. We left Bert on the platz in Temse, Slien on a train back to Ghent. We stayed with our new friend Reit, in her giant house in Bazel, and in the morning after coffee, she and Filip, and even Ginger the dog all followed us to the van to wish us happy travels to Berlin.
The logistics of getting to Berlin, -the time and trouble of crossing a patch of land so broad, can’t be rectified with any schedule or budget. At different points within the planning stages of this trip we had a gig leading either to or away from the show in Berlin. But that’s not how it went down. Newly blessed with the luxury of a full day to drive, and the potential of a full day of leisure and exploration in a major European metropolis, we found ourselves rolling onto the Hasenhiede a little after 10 pm, ready to soak up all that this city could throw at us.
—
I walked the Via de la Plata for several weeks last year, before making the northern detour to the Camino Frances. The sparseness of the trail down south forced an immediate collegiality between the handful of walkers on the same itinerary. Many close bonds came out of spending weeks or more in the same space & taking care of each other.
When I took the left turn on the Camino Frances, I was slightly overwhelmed by the sheer number of pilgrims walking the trail. The small family vibe of Via de la Plata was replaced by the total anonymity of a large, moving city. But one day at a detour on the trail, I happened to fall in step with an english speaker, -a scottish woman named Kate. We had a brief chat & a coffee and parted ways, only to find each other again at the next cafe, where Kate invited me to continue together a bit longer.
On a busy, overpopulated superhighway of pilgrims of every stripe, I had been unable to gravitate towards anybody on the same page. But we walked for the entire day, talked about basically everything & ended up at a hippie vegan hostel out in the middle of nowhere. We had a shot of bad blended scotch in the one bar in town, and in the morning we parted ways, after exchanging numbers and taking a fuzzy snapshot.
Kate went back to Glasgow after she finished the Camino, but her wandering took her to Berlin. (you might have been wondering where I was going with this). When we parked the van on Hasenheide, and trudged down the street with guitars on our backs & suitcases in hand at 10pm, it was Kate’s sweet Scottish brogue that called down to us from a third floor balcony, and buzzing us in to our home away from Lövenich.
It was good to see her. It was late. She had a busy day tomorrow, so she couldn’t join us for a drink just now.
Ok, maybe just one.
Down past the Hermannplatz, past the weird mushroom sculpture, there’s a row of bars -every one of them way too hip for the likes of me. Especially when I’m holding a paper bag with three big pretzels in it.
Kate meshes in with the band immediately. It doesn’t seem to matter where you are from, if you have seen enough of the world, you’ll always find a point where your story overlaps somebody else’s. This was the beginning of a recurring theme in Berlin.
—
Morning was dark, overcast. The street outside was puddled and the trees were showing evidence of bluster. I had Dee Dee Ramone’s “Born To Die In Berlin” playing in my head. I wished I had some decent gloves.
We had instructions to get to the best local bakery/coffeeshop, the Albatross Bakeri. Enough beautiful shining croissants, uber-cool statuesque baristas, and rich espresso drinks to make the Herkimer look like a Tukwila Starbucks. We could barely get a table, it was like we stumbled into a movie set without knowing what our lines were, or even what the scene was.
Leaving the Albatross, we headed north to the canal where we stumbled across an open market that spanned three blocks along the water. Sherri bought some oranges. At the next bridge we crossed over & took a turn to the right. We were crossing under the rail line when I think Sherri & I both spotted an awning on a shop across the way, which had a very deliberate-looking CBGB resemblance. We were drawn in, cutting across the median to get a closer look at what turned out to be a museum of Ramones memorabilia -The Ramones Museum Berlin.
My path through music goes in a lot of directions, but the reason I am here is the Ramones. I grew up nowhere near NYC, and I never heard them until long after their heyday, but hearing the Ramones sealed my fate for basically the rest of my life. The mythical characters and the songs worked their way into my being.
In the back room of this coffeeshop in Berlin, we accidentally stumbled upon handwritten lyrics in Joey’s OCD scrawl. Early posters & photographs. Joey’s pants. The pinhead mask. Odds & ends that I could spend days studying.
Near the back of the first room was a worn out Ampeg amplifier & cabinet. -Dee Dee’s bass amp. Like, the amp that Dee Dee plugged into & stood in front of every night. Most of the numbers were worn off of the faceplate and a couple of the knobs had been replaced with Rickenbacker-style guitar knobs. I don’t get affected very often by musical instruments, and I am rarely starstruck, but standing there in front of Dee Dee’s amp, I felt actual chills. He was always too much of a mess to be a real kind of hero to me, his personal and addiction issues defined his image so much and I couldn’t relate to those parts of his persona. Dee Dee was the one guy in the band who was swept up by what he was doing, the real working artist in the band -the guy I have the most respect for. Still somehow it was always easier for me to commiserate with Joey’s internal neuroses than with Dee Dee’s self destruction, but I loved his songs. He was the dark cloud that balanced out Joey’s pop and rainbows. They were both uniquely poetic and silly as songwriters, but Dee Dee was what made the Ramones heavy.
We hung out in that place for about two hours. I had forgotten the strong tie between the Ramones & Germany, specifically Dee Dee and Berlin.
Only in this city could I leave a place like this, that hit me so far inside of my own identity and understanding, only to walk a few blocks and be in the shadow of something that was a ubiquitous menace to half of the world, for decades of the cold war. I don’t have the perspective to find even half of the emotions still contained in the stretch of Berlin Wall that currently hosts the East Side Gallery. The feeling is just as overwhelming standing there looking at an old bass amp as it is walking next to an old concrete barrier, but the difference is, here next to The Wall you can’t escape it. It’s not a feeling that you keep inside of yourself, and you can’t just step away from it. Somebody put this here, to keep people where they wanted them to be. A million different people have looked at this wall from both sides for decades and have felt a million different things. The energy directed towards this structure over the years is still palpable as you walk by it.
The Wall ends half way through a block, giving you time to reset your bearing with a few retail shops & some new construction. You’re feeling almost normal again as you reach the next canal to cross back. We paused at a photo booth, and I popped into a ranch-style compound to get a beer to share while the pictures developed.
—
Aimee & I headed up in the van to the venue. The tech rider from the club insisted that drums were not allowed, but we would see about that. The first band was already loaded in -just a 2-pc, but with tons of gear, mostly electronic. Aimee had a short conversation with the sound engineer when he showed up, and before I knew it we were loading in the snare & hats. We spent about 45 seconds on soundcheck & ceded the stage to the other band. The room sounds good, we know what we’re doing, we’ve got a ton of drink tickets in our pockets.
—
On the Via de la Plata there’s just a few cities that I can remember by name. Zamora is one of that I’ll always recall, because it’s a beautiful city, and also because that’s where I met Ina & Jenny.
Jenny lives in Hamburg, she’s the younger sister, and Ina, the slightly older sister lives in Berlin. We walked from Zamora to Benevente, with a zig-zag along the way, spending almost every night in the same houses for a little over a week & a half. They were the last remnants of the southern crew of walkers that I fell in with before I joined the Camino Frances, and we all took the last diversion to Benevente together before they departed the camino. They were a great team -I enjoy watching families interact with each other outside of their inner circle. They would walk together all day, arriving leisurely at the hostels late in the afternoon, still arm in arm. We shared lots of cervezas on the patios in the evenings with the other peregrinos, talking about what the world looks like from the shoes we’re in, while Ina would draw little masterpieces with pen & ink on little blank index cards. I still have two of her original creations on a windowsill at home. Geometric & ambiguous, evocative symbols waiting for you to affix an emotion to them. -to me they’ll always look like cool overcast evenings, that Tracy Chapman song, damp stone floors and news from back home, from when Steve was still with us. That’s a lot of weight for a few lines of ink to carry, but it’s all still there to this day.
—
We were sitting at a table upstairs at the gig, having a beer, when a hazel-blonde woman bundled in a felt cloak walked to a table across the room. She scanned the room as she unwound her scarf, and her eyes eventually settled on our table. It was Ina, looking exactly like the urban version of the pilgrim I met on the trail. Cooler in her general understatement than any of the precious hipsters in the joint.
The convergence of two emigrants from the upper Mississippi valley, one native of Oban, three peregrinos, two Berliners, and one child of the GDR settled in around our little table -Just me, Aimee, Kate & Ina.
I’m not an incredibly outgoing personality, in opening up & making friends out of strangers, but here we were, a gang of travelers loosely tied, all in the van, cranking Big Star while traversing the streets of Berlin, picking up Sherri on the way, imagining producer credits and guest star billing being superimposed on our windshield somewhere in post-production.
Back at the gig, we returned in time to catch the opening band. Heavy on the loops and reverb decay. Ina & me & Aimee sat in a row of stools in the back, enthralled by the not-so-subtle theatrics.
I like following a band so different than us. The room sounds so good, we were able to play it like another instrument. I could hear every nuance of our singing, and the guitar could get nearly silent, giving us plenty of headroom for building up when we needed to. The little room was nearly full, and the people gushed their approval after each song. When we finished, the first four dudes who approached me had their phones out asking “are you on Spotify?” -Berlin is not a place for sales of hard copies. But they ate up the stickers and I helped them all find us on their favorite streaming platform. The times they do change.
2am, the ranks had thinned down. Kate & Aimee & I were at the Burgermeister, eating burgers & fries we didn’t even know we needed. A dude walked up to us & says “excuse me, were you just playing music up the street earlier? I really enjoyed your music.” We’re huge with the Burgermeister crowd. Long day in Berlin, so many directions, so good.
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Hair Of The Dog
Hold the phone. Stop the presses. All of that.
It turns out there actually are famous Belgians. Tons of them. All blue, with no shirts on, 3 apples high.
The Smurfs are Belgian. How was this overlooked the first time we took up this line of questioning?
We rolled back through Antwerp, heading toward the one town I know best in all of Belgium. -Looking forward to seeing old and new friends once again, converging on Temse, a river town that has hosted me enough times that I have officially lost track. But I know the Plaza, and the main streets between all of the relevant bars and junk shops. I’m still learning the history and the town’s relationship with all of the neighboring villages. I’m beginning to sense that Temse tries to take the lead in local civics, -needing to wrestle the crown from literally none of the apathetic surrounding burgs, who would rather live their lives than convince you of anything.
I like Temse, but it might be because I don’t hang out with any of the people who are in charge of things.
We hang out with Bert. He lives over in Rupelmonde, but he works at de Gulden Cop (the Golden Cap), a swanky bar on the main square, under the shadow of the purposefully-majestic clock tower. The drinks are expensive, and the food is amazing.
I had a rare moment of clarity when Bert asked us what we’d like for supper. I asked “what do they do best here?” -and I was rewarded with a phenomenal Coq au Vin that I would have skimmed right past if was reading a menu. The bar’s once-seemingly-random chicken decor all made sense now -it was excellent. Falling apart in the dish, super salty. It would have easily been the best thing about any normal evening..
—
The vast space between each of the players up on stage in Landgraaf was replied to in Temse by the 6 foot by 10 foot elevated ledge at de Gulden Cop. We were set up on top of each other, amps turned sideways to accommodate our feet. Absolutely perfect. I played the acoustic from the top of the set, and we were quiet & punchy -dynamics were smooth and effective. We got a read on the room and picked up on what the locals were getting into. It was a packed room of tables, with just a narrow aisle down the middle. All of the seats were filled with people who had been drinking for upwards of 4 hours at the minimum. The room was loving it, but when we leaned towards shit-kicking country sounds, you could really see the Belgium coming out in them. -I mean, there was no dancing involved due to the close quarters and for actually being in a fancy chicken restaurant, but the whole room clapped along emphatically to the fast numbers. (not even on the 1 and the 3, more like on the “&” of the 1 and the 3, creating a whole new flavor of that jarring, groove-sapping, pocket-dropping challenge to all musicians) I think all three of us on stage take different methods getting through or around this phenomenon, but this time I embraced it & tried for some real-time analysis of what was actually happening -just for a couple measures, then I had to tune it out.
We were just about to take a break for beers, when I caught sight of some sort of supernatural hallucination walking in the door. On second glance, it was actually Slien, who took the train over from Ghent. Twice on this trip so far we’ve had friends from earlier in the tour taking a trip to come & see us again. It makes us feel like we’re doing something right, not just to cross paths with good people, but to build bonds and make impressions strong enough to return to whenever we are able.
I had just enough time to hand my fresh beer to Slien, and we went back to work. The proximity of the crowd, and even more importantly of ourselves to each other, brought the evening into a warm, close focus. The songs were gelling, and the sounds of the amps and the people and the drums were hanging in the air with the cigarette smoke. It’s a small town, back in time, standard-issue evening in Belgium. There’s a little bit of Jackson County in this part of the world, and I have been comfortable here since the first time I set foot in this town.
—
We took the only open table to sit with Bert & Slien after the show. Aimee was relishing a giant snifter of nutty brown ale, talking beer with Bert until the conversation drifted back to famous Belgians. Smurfs, man. Los Pitufos. An entire race of creatures with one patriarch and one woman, and a weird friar-looking man who wants to eat them. How did this become a thing? They are Belgian, though. As was Peter Paul Rubens, -the painter who was famous for his depictions of sandwiches. Oh, and Audrey Hepburn was born in Brussels, no big deal…
—
I’m always down for a walk, and we had a line on another bar that might be open late on a Sunday night. So we said goodbye to Bert and headed off traipsing through the streets of Temse, well past midnight, as one does. Our path took us past Weiza’s old bar on the long street next to the highway bridge, down across a smaller plaza and past the doors of an “American Pool Hall” themed place that was closing up shop, and two other beer joints that were totally dark. But the walking was good. The mix of people, and the setting was a lovely lesson in counterpoint and perspective. I have walked stone streets at all hours with Slien, with unknown friends in Andalucia, and now in her home country with my people from back home who have been looking out the same windshield as me for three weeks. We all walk with an easy understanding and deep comfort in being where we are, at that place in time, and with these almost random humans. The night is quiet far away from the platz, the air is damp and a few puddles are still on the street, it’s still not cold yet, just cool enough for a jacket & a scarf.
We close the loop back to de Gulden Cop, where most of the same people are still inside, still drinking. It’s a more affluent crowd than most of the places we’ve played in Belgium. The inherent stuffiness that we busted them out of was now completely abandoned -looking in through the windows we watched as they were doing some sort of dance (in their chairs still, mind you) involving the giant cloth napkins and a square dutch folk song. After that they played a Barry White song.
Our quest for a hipper bar apparently dashed, I sheepishly went inside to buy a round while the band & Slien waited outside on the patio. Bert caught me at the bar -“you’re back, eh?” I invited him to join us outside of the fishbowl, and we all stood and talked of the future while watching all the people inside doing the thing they do on a Sunday night in Temse. It was a great night, a great show, and another great time in Belgium, thanks to Bert.
In the end, the crowd beat us out. Some of these people were sitting here when we showed up at 6. It was after 2am once again (how does this keep happening?) when we finally gathered for a round of photos, and Sherri fired up the van for our five kilometer drive home. De Gulden Cop was still hopping, still pumping out the disco/folk beats and keeping the heart beating in this otherwise sleeping town.
Score so far: Belgium 3, Silverhands 0
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After Midnight.
I’m the first one to wake up today. This is a rare thing in any house. The ticking of the clock and the tapping of the letters on my keyboard are the only sounds. Rain is coming down steadily outside, but the sky is still bright, it’s easy to be in the kitchen without any lights on.
Every morning when I walk to this kitchen, I half expect Tommy to be in here -reading his book, pot of coffee started. Tommy being the designated early riser of Joy Mills band tours, his was often the task of putting the first kettle on. Today it’s me. I’ve got the press stewing on the table in front of me, waiting for the big hand to get to the 4, so I can drop the plunger & strain out a cup of precious elixir.
We’re at a place in our travels that doesn’t particularly coincide with what is happening on stage. I’ve reached that point in a trip where the most accessible feeling of normalcy is in the van. There’s a nagging fatigue in all of the days, -nothing strong enough to dull the edge of the the excitement of just being on the road, and nothing even coming close to lethargy, but more of an awareness of always being slightly hungry, always slightly too full, running in a cycle of consumption that squeezes every last drop of enjoyment out of each part of every day. We’re all drinking a lot of coffee.
Our day-to-day is in an easy flow, we know the drill when packing up the van, all of the things and the order in which they go. We’ve long forgotten the origin of the catchphrases & inside jokes we tell, but we keep saying them and they keep cracking us up. Sometimes it’s a little difficult to remember where we were yesterday, but then sometimes it’s the same at home, so maybe that’s not strange at all.
Life itself is currently a well-oiled and streamlined operation, -the difference right now is that on stage we’re starting up a brand new show. I have to crawl out of the shadows and be the face of the band for the next couple weeks. An abrupt shift happens in my mind when I come from basically any other task into singing my own songs. I have been enjoying just playing the bass -not “just” playing the bass as if it is an element of little consequence, but the singular focus and purpose behind doing something that I feel I’m good at, and more importantly, something that allows me to find my feet beneath me quickly when I go astray.
When I am singing, there are more variables, some of which I’m not as good at reigning in -which is why it’s important to have a band that can roll with anything I toss out. If I have any rule at all in my band, it’s that we play everything the way it comes to us naturally. If something doesn’t work, that’s probably a sign that it’s not a thing that’s meant for us to do. I’ve spent a lot of energy in former times trying to duplicate a phrase or a pocket from songs that are special to me, only to eventually realize that the most captivating part of it is how very different it is from my self.
I don’t know where the influence comes from, and what synapses between my memory and my hands are firing or missing to make things happen the way they do. It’s not just what you listen to, it’s how you have processed it. My favorite players are the people that appear as though the music is just happening to them -being a conduit for something bigger than themselves. The way Jack’s riffs can freak you out while simultaneously tucking you into the fluffiest, most comfortable resolutions you’ve ever heard. Or how Esme can play rests like Danko on the bass, while she dangles vocal melodies over both ends of a measure as though she’s got two people on the job.
I’m not someone who is good at directing musicians, but I think I’m smart enough to know something that works when I hear it. Silverhands in this incarnation is not a wall of sound, we’re a vessel for the songs. I’m playing the guitar, and sometimes I like to leave holes in the guitar part, or just let a particular chord finish what it has to say for several measures. This is where the rhythm section keeps things glued together. I don’t try to analyze it too much, it just works.
—
We rolled back into Lovenich, the serene low rolls of the hills and lazy windmills beautiful now in their comforting familiarity more so than in any feeling of exotic landscape. It was still early afternoon, and it was a clear day, so we opted to postpone rehearsal and head out for a bike ride through Rurich & Baal and through the woods back to the house. Our bodies were feeling the constriction of a day in the van, and a little bit of air & exploration was in order. In the end, we managed to put off any kind of rehearsal until the next day, about two hours before the first gig. We wrote out a rough set list & ran through a few of the fresher numbers -all in all, about 100% more rehearsing than we did when the 2016 tour came over here.
The first gig was back at the scene of the first Del Vox show, two weeks and several lifetimes ago, at the Kultus cafe in Grevenbroich. Veronika was waiting for us -actually since 6 pm, due to a lapse in communication somewhere, but I made it up to her by not asking for any kölsh beers all night. Hien was ready for us with the sound, and I was itching to bust the rented Fender Twin amplifier out of its case. The room was starting to fill in, so we busted out a quick verse of soundcheck and laid down our instruments until showtime.
When we finally went on, the place was full up. I had the expected variables of playing a borrowed guitar through an unknown amp, but any jitters cleared up quickly. We were solid right out of the gate, busting through our openers and feeling the warm approval of the room at our first pause. The amp sounds great, a lot like my Music Man twin back home, with a little more of a bark, but also with a really great functional vibrato. Having this at my disposal while I’m here is gonna make me really want to get the vibrato fixed (redesigned) on my own amp when I get home.
At the break we ran into our Irish friend John, who came down from Rees to see the show. The gig went by like several blinks, and we were hanging out in a room full of friends that we had acquired in just the last two weeks. Veronika made me promise that we’ll come back next year, -there’s a lot of talk like this.
—
At Nagelhaus, breakfast turns into conversation that burns through no less than 4 pots of coffee every morning, and often runs straight through to lunchtime. Saturday was a morning much like this. (I enjoy the times when I notice that I have been in Europe long enough for the English spoken by the locals to impact my phrases as I write) It was another brisk fall day, but free of precipitation. The gig is only an hour away, so the band headed to the stable and saddled up the bicycles for a ride up to Erkelenz. We can only go roughly 45 minutes at a time without eating or having coffee at this point, so the 30 minute ride was safely within our window.
It was chilly, only Aimee was wise enough to pack a pair of gloves on this trip, so when we locked up the bikes our interest was first drawn to any store that might have some handwear to sell us. First up was a fancy clothes joint that offered some really nice leather gloves, -which I considered, even at an asking price of 80 bucks. As it happened, a drugstore-looking establishment down the street sold me on a pair of $2 garden gloves.
What I find amusing (about myself) is that both glove options had an almost identical chance of being what I went home with. Ultimately it’s not that I ain’t prone to drop a chunk of money on a random accessory that I didn’t know I needed, it was more that I just can’t be trusted with gloves and things that get stuffed into pockets and lost before I even get home. Whichever direction I go, I go all out -I’m riding with a pair of bright green, plastic-dipped knit gloves, the cheapest and ugliest in the store. Sherri opted for the $5 mechanic’s gloves, in a stylish black & grey. Aimee bought a can of wine.
Back in the square we met our daily soup needs, and broke the seal on lagers, before heading down the street for coffees at a little bakery with a familiar-looking poster in the front window. By the time we’d topped off our tanks, it was time to get back home & get ourselves to work.
—
Maartje and Ronnie are two of the longest-held friendships I have in the Netherlands. We shared a gig in Landgraaf on my first visit here in 2013. The bands have changed a bit, but tonight we are back at the Theater Landgraaf, where we all first met.
We rolled up right on time. Ronnie had his many Gretsches all out on display, framing a persian-style rug front & center on the stage. There was much discussion with Wick, our engineer for the evening, over how to set up and backline the drums & bass amp. Eventually we settled on drums at stage left, forcing me & my guitar to the center. Not my favorite place to be, but I can roll with it.
Right about then, a woman in a red felt cloak walked in carrying two pans of lasagne and about a dozen jars of custard. She introduced herself & said “I have made your food for tonight, but I am going out for supper, so make of that what you will.” I appreciated her sense of humor, and in the end, I appreciated her cooking as well. We all took a break for supper & made ourselves comfortable at the bar, serving ourselves and hanging around on both sides, staff & artists alike. The room had an easy vibe of camaraderie to it. We took an interview for a local radio program, and I was still behind the bar talking with the DJ when a white-haired fellow with a collared shirt under his sweater turned the corner, speaking almost a full paragraph of Dutch to me as he slowly stepped closer & closer until he was right at my shoulder, looking at me sternly.
At a bit of a loss, I said “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch most of what you said there”
“oh” he said, & his face turned a bit. “you stay on the other side with your friends and not on this side of the bar”
It was only then that I noticed he had a sticker nametag on his sweater. Good thing he doesn’t have a badge…
—
Maartje & Ronnie soundchecked first, the venue has a new mixing desk & much time was spent in squaring up the monitor mix -which I appreciated when we got up to check ourselves & I walked right up to the lead vocal mic and immediately had a perfect balance -which never happens. Maartje & I are the same height, apparently, as I didn’t even need to adjust the mic stand. I was feeling pretty good about things when I saw Wick coming over to me with another mic & stand, reaching for the one I was singing into.
“You can’t use that mic, it’s the one I have checked for Maartje”
“but it’s perfect”
“it is EQ’d for her”
“but it sounds great. I’m really happy with it like it is. You can leave it exactly how it is”
“…”
I don’t like telling people how to do their job, but I also don’t like creating needless variables, especially when there’s new technology in play, and lots of options for producing more chaos than necessary. The fact was that it sounded great & I didn’t feel like taking the time to start again from zero to get a different mic to sound exactly like this one already did. In the end, I was able to convince Wick to just leave the same mic up. It was pushing 8pm, doors were in just a few minutes.
Both bands would play around 45 minutes, but there were no rules. We could play whatever length of set we wanted. Ronnie told me that the only important thing that was that we need to be out of the theater by midnight. I told him that wouldn’t be a problem.
—
They’ve got a nice new batch of songs, and a new album in the works. Ronnie’s got some great new folk rock numbers & Maartje keeps producing beautiful songs with universal truth and timeless settings. Her voice sounds like it comes straight out of the american experience, I don’t know how she does it.
Silverhands up on that big stage,.. we had a lot space between us. I felt a bit like I was on an island in the center, but the sonic support came in from both ends. I reckon I was in the sweet spot. There’s a couple of small differences between my electric guitar at home & Sherri’s guitar that I’m playing on this tour. The tone is coming from the same location on the spectrum, it doesn’t do anything unexpected. The things that I need to adapt to are purely architectural -the bridge doesn't lay down as low as my G&L does, and I find that the volume knob is a lot higher up the body, leading me to punch it when my downstroke gets too animated. As usual, the band held it down while I was cracking myself up over my unexpected antics.
We closed the night joined by Maartje & Ronnie for a couple numbers, and just like that another show was over. It was one of those gigs where you are in no hurry to tear down & pack up. Ronnie was doing an interview with the radio guy. Sherri, Aimee, Maartje & I were chatting with Wick & the equally jovial light tech on the stage, while we all casually wrapped up our business.
The crowd finished their beers & we had a round of photos on the stage, eventually talking about our influences & the paths we took to get here, standing around our piles of gear when Wick tapped me on the shoulder.
“Can you bring the van & begin loading? The staff would like to go home”
I looked at the time. It was after 12. How did this happen?
Hugs all around. Let’s do it again.
—
We were starving when we got home. Aimee made us popcorn & we cracked a couple of crispy Jupilers from the fridge. The nights get so long, even when they aren’t. The story keeps going, I’m sure I’ve missed a lot, but this brings us back to the beginning of this chapter.
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The Times They Are A-changin’
Bert says that there are no famous Belgian people. They had that one guy that won all the bicycle races back in the 70’s, but nobody since then. It’s an ambiguous little piece of land in a lot of ways. A bit more restless & threadbare than any part of Germany, like a cousin of the Dutch -the one who gets drunk & takes his pants off in the bar. Good people.
I think I have always enjoyed the time I’ve spent in Belgium. Some of the kindest & welcoming people I have met are from here, also a few of the most complex characters you’ll ever try to get a read on.
We had a little bit of free time in Antwerp, with a little side trip to Brugge to see my old friend Slien, who I met on the Via de le Plata back in 2017. We all had supper at a little restaurant away from the square & talked about how marvelous the world is, and how amazing it always is to find yourself in a place at a table of strangers who are good friends.
In Antwerp we spent a day dodging rain squalls & browsing the secondhand store, looking for a beer & a snack, and eventually deciding on a cafe that specialized in Jenever liqueur -no thanks- but had a tap of chilly pilsner. Outside the front door of the place in the stones of the sidewalk, I saw (and for just a second didn't notice) a gold scallop seashell marker of the Camino de Santiago.
We’ve had talks in the van about certain roads that we find ourselves on and have to fight the urge to just toss out all plans & follow the road to its final destination. We walked for about a block and the camino marker took a left turn. It was very fleeting, but that little bit of time back on the camino put my brain in a different place- especially just a day after seeing Slien again for the first time since we parted ways in Merida 2 years ago. It’s hard to go anywhere and not turn around & find a part of your own self waiting for you.
Just south of Antwerp is a little town called Temse. Above that is Rupelmonde, and even closer still to Antwerp is Kruibeke. They are stacked like the suburbs lined up between Seattle & Tacoma -you can leave one & enter the next and not even know it save for the street signs telling you. I have been to Temse maybe 3 times, Rupelmonde twice, and now the last stop of the Del Vox tour was putting me in Kruibeke.
Bert has been instrumental in keeping us playing in the area, -he’s a musician, promoter, all-around good guy to know. He booked us at de Stoomtram, a little bar on the main drag with a small room & a huge back garden. We’re finishing off this tour with the biggest PA so far, and the drums on a 3 foot high riser. My amp was up there too & I was able to lean back to into the groove all night. The guitar amps were on each side facing in, and I had a perfect perspective on the mix. Bert was telling me to turn the bass up all night. Right around 11, the folks really started dancing -Bert attributed this to the bass being finally loud enough, but I reckoned that this time of night might have also been the hour when the cumulative effect of all the 10% Belgian beers might have kicked in for most of the crowd.
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As usual, between the guitar amps was the place to be. The contrasts in Sherri & Michael’s playing, and the way they glue a song together is a thing of beauty. Michael is the anchor to many things in the world of Del Vox, all the parts of our day would not move half as smoothly as they do without his steady hand on the wheel. Michael operates on a different plane than I do in all things related to planning and execution. I take care of my shit, but Michael has already considered most shit in advance, as well as developed a plan & a back-up plan. Some of the human characteristics I admire most are the things I know I will never be well-versed in. (Like Springsteen or Haggard making a career writing songs singing praise to the blue collar class, despite living like pop stars for their entire working career.)
I feel like one of my best strengths is my ability to not be surprised or alarmed when things get weird or go south -which is important, because that happens a lot. I admire Michael’s ability to come at it from the other side -if he seems unflappable, it’s because all of the things that are happening are going as planned.
As the Del Vox tour winds down, the ranks of this traveling troupe thins out. Michael is flying back home to Seattle, to see the people & walk with Graycie. As we drop him off at Schipol, the empty space in the van is immediately felt. We love this guy. His impeccable guitar playing is the top layer of everything Del Vox does on stage, and his untiring vigilance and deep awareness is the foundation of all of our logistics & travels. We’ve just done a super fun string of shows, & all we’re talking about is when we’re gonna do it again.
But right now, the rest of us -the leftovers- have some more shows to play. It’s time for me to pick up the guitar, maybe we’ll even rehearse. I think I got a list of songs around here somewhere. Silverhands, tour 2019, let’s see what happens…
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