Barcelona Concrete Lesbians, The Big Spanish Blank, French Industrial Park Ice Dens!

by David Urbanic
Tour Documentarian, Casual Observer

Friday night brought the band to Barcelona, but did not bring Barcelona to the band. A menial turnout, a bizarre sleaze-lounge in the basement of a skyscraper with a hidden entrance, and a venue that claimed ignorance to the contract that guaranteed us complimentary food and beverages were just a few of the continuing problems that plagued Zelazowa in Spain (sidenote: Kyle confirms no forthcoming Spanish tourdates!). Despite the ongoing Curse of Spain, the band enjoyed a good turnout from some high school friends who happened to be in Barcelona, a sensational wireless Internet signal, and a legendary bi/curious/lesbian encounter on the part of none other than Terry Sharkey.

To say Spain as a whole was a disappointment would be an understatement. To recap; the trip to Spain included a gig that never got booked in Madrid, followed by another night in Madrid at one of the largest concert venues in the city. Despite the superior venue, the show was plagued by poor planning on behalf of the organizers, a lousy slot in the billing for Zelazowa, an indignant crowd, and a smashed Heneken bottle mouth that nearly resulted in a tour-halting injury for Ian Sharkey. This was followed by a relatively good gig and sleeping accommodations in Gandia that was marred only by Gandia being a resort town and this being the “off season”, and of course, Kyle Weber’s ill fated sleeping/swimming and toilet paper excursion.

The gig in Barcelona started with Bryan and Terry going on a 3 kilometer walk through the heart of Barcelona to find an old high school friend at a bar called Berlin. After walking this tremendous distance Terry and Bryan arrived at the Berlin bar only to find it empty. With the help of a bartender who spoke decent English, it was established that they were really looking for the other Berlin bar that just happened to be on the same street, 3 kilometers back from where they came from, and consequently right next to the venue where they were to play later. They made the wise decision to hop a cab back to the other Berlin bar only to arrive and find their friend waving wildly to them from the front door. It so happened that Kyle Weber had been calling their friend, wondering where they were, because Zelazowa’s set had been surprisingly been moved up to an hour earlier than expected and everyone at the club was waiting for Bryan and Terry to arrive so they could perform!

Zelazowa played a particularly stellar set, geared up by the benefit of a large stage and excellent sound in the venue. Upon completion of the set, with little else to do and a club unwilling to provide free beer to the performers, Kyle and Ian retreated to the city street where they drank wine from the bottle in the backseat of the van. Terry found his way into the netherworld of the Barcelona booze scene, accompanied by “Soups” Campbell, one of their old high school friends.

Terry’s bar tour took him to a series of late night establishments, each wilder and with a more eccentric clientele than the last! Finally Terry found himself in the company of Amelie and Celene at what could only be described as an S&M “theme bar.” Amelie and Celene were, in a manner of speaking, “best friends…with benefits”, as Terry soon found out from his unique perch directly between them at the bar. Soon Terry found himself up to his eyeballs in absinthe, tequila, and lesbians. Amelie and Celene did not seem to find any discomfort of inconvenience in Terry’s position between them and as the night wore on, continued to escalate their level of physical satisfaction, never quite giving Terry the attention they heaped upon eachother, but also never really asking Terry to fully move or really become a part of the passion. Despite this confusion and lack of real payoff, what could a man in Terry’s position really do but stay put. “Altogether it was pretty cool,” said Terry Sharkey. “Until I really had to pee, but there are some situations where you just grit your teeth and hold it.”

Perhaps the only thing more interesting than Amelie and Celene’s physical attraction and lack of inhibition was their personal dynamic. Though they did not know eachother as young girls, they were both French twenty-somethings living in Spain, and employed in a working class factory town on the outskirts of Barcelona. Amelie worked at one of the large, local sand plants. Basically a sprawling complex that specialized in crushing dirt and rock into sand. Celene worked in what Amelie referred to (numerous times, in English) as “the irony factory.” There seemed to be some malcontent from Celene in that she worked in a factory that took rocks and made them into dirt, while her lover/friend worked in a factory that took dirt and made them into new rocks. Perhaps the humor and/or sarcasm coming from them was lost in translation, but even in the lust of their passion this tension came to a searing boil from time to time. French concrete lesbians. What else can you say?

Saturday’s travel took Zelazowa to the gorgeous coastal city of Marseilles, France. After one of the most beautiful drives into any city, anywhere, Zelazowa arrived at the venue only to find themselves faced with a potentially tense evening. The venue itself was a real challenge to locate. One cannot overstate how far, not only in physical distance, removed it was from wherever the “hip, happening, heart” of Marseilles was. The venue was located in the darkest, furthest, hidden corner of an aging industrial park in a decidedly “working class” area of the city. The process of locating the club was not helped by the lack of any visible signage anywhere on the “building.” I use the descriptive word building in it’s most literal definition as the club was really, more accurately, built into what was probably a small warehouse or garage. Alarm bell number one.

Alarm bell number two rang when it was quickly revealed that the place was the home to local factions of several French motorcycle gangs and apparently a pretty lively heavy metal scene. The room had obviously seen it’s fair share of hard rocking and hard living, but shockingly had some very clean bathrooms considering the surroundings. The bathrooms were also stocked with another Zelazowa-first; tubeless toilet paper. Basically toilet paper that rolled all the way into itself, in one solid mass, with no cardboard tube in the middle.

As the night progressed we enjoyed free Guinness beer, while anxiously watching for an audience to arrive. The turnout was fair, but alarm bell number three rang when it became obvious that many of the people in attendance were not just there for the music. A steady stream of people made quick business of going into a private upstairs area, only to return with what I can only describe as “a bad case of wormlegs” repeatedly, throughout the duration of the evening. One may deduce from this observation (and a duffel bag of what looked like heroin) that there were some illegal activities going on up there, but who am I to say they didn’t just have a trampoline party going backstage?

Zelazowa played another ballbuster of a set, to great appreciation of the French, heavy metal bikers who scrambled to buy CDs and DVDs after the set. Despite the alarm bells, the awkward location and suspicious business practices, everyone was extremely nice as we have become accustomed to during our travels in France. The owner and bartenders were so pleased with Zelazowa’s unique brand of imported intensity that drinks were suddenly being thrust into all of our hands faster than we could drink them. During one ten minute period Ian, Terry and me were given three Jaeger-bombs and two very expensive, very potent French beers! The alcohol continued to pour like a massive waterfall and we soon found ourselves enjoying glass after glass of what the owner described as the “nectar of the Gods”, a unique and smooth liquor that he simply identified as “honey wine.” From there we enjoyed stories and photos from his motorcycle trip across the United States, and found out that at that point in the night, he had actually been awake since Wednesday (three days prior). We clarified this, suspecting a miscommunication due to the language barricade, and also learned, proving our wormleg suspicions, that this was achieved by the massive physical intake of Crystal Meth. Then we enjoyed two delicious, free pizzas!

One of the additional major downsides to the evening was the fact that Zelazowa played for free. The venue simply did not pay the band because they said the crowd was not big enough. A reasonable excuse, except in the case of legitimate businesses having a cover charge at the door that the band would reap, this venue paid no attention to such things. Later we learned that it was a good idea to take all of the free liquor and pizza. A recent performer, angered by the club’s refusal to pay him and unwilling to back down from his insistence of compensation, found himself with a broken spine and a mouthful of gums. Everyone knows it’s hard to eat free pizza with a mouthful of gums, so in that case it was a lose-lose scenario for the poor guy!

The night was spent our friend Pascal’s apartment, drinking the free case of Heineken beer that the club had given us. The morning was spent getting berated by a furious French grandmother who was extremely dissatisfied with the level of noise we conjured up in her normally silent apartment building. A four hour trip to Lyon, France was spent nursing hangovers and digestive systems tortured by the French diet of 100% all foods made with ham and cheese. The jubilation we all felt welling up within us upon our arrival to Lyon was quickly and fully quelled by the discovery of the next venue. A big concrete room in the dark, back corner of an aging industrial park, apparently home to the local punk and heavy metal scene, closely resembling the Neo-Nazi punk concert scene in the film American History X, and presided over by a father-like figure resembling the similar character in that film. The delightful lack of swastikas and a delicious spread of Heineken beer and home-made quiche was countered only by the lack of running water, a backstage littered with graffiti (56 genital illustrations that I could see) and lit with one flickering lightbulb.

After a stressful week on the road, and some rather bizarre experiences, the night’s performance left something to be desired. Despite an off night and a fairly poor turnout, once again we are being treated (as this post is being written and posted) to more gracious French hospitality! At the moment Terry Sharkey is eating cheese he describes as “straight mildew” and our hosts just arrived with three large grocery bags full of wine, beer and liquor. It should be an interesting night.