Day 6 (or so):

July 19. Day off (not really). Travel Day.

Today's adventure takes us from Offenbach, Germany to Ostrava, Czech Republic. In order to do that, we had to drive the Autobahn.(11+ hours)

Contrary to popular belief, the Autobahn isn't a free-fire zone, where one can act like Mario Andretti and just haul ass and go speedy crazy. There are rules and what are called control zones.

The best rule I observed while driving here is that people stay to the right, except to pass. A concept that completely lost in the U.S.

In the free zones, it's not uncommon to see Porsches, Ferraris and Lambos fly past you, like you are standing still. The wake turbulence is something to be felt, for real.

Since our vehicle is big, heavy and slow, we keep it to the right. But, we had the misfortune to pass cars in a no passing zone. Our lighting designer, Gregory Houston also doubles as our TM (tour manager).  He was driving when we blew through a no passing zone. Enter die Deutsche Polizei. They pulled us over, gathered our passports and detained us for a bit. They demanded cash for the infraction; 95€.

Highway robbery, yes, but legit.

It felt like a shady shakedown, but after some quick research, we found it was legit.

Ouch.

Once inside the Czech Republic, Gregory and I had to deal with a Czech policeman who seemed to be more curious than concerned about us.

More showing of passports.

I spoke what Czech I know to him, and he, of course, spoke perfect English (most EU residents do, when they don't, it's usually because they don't like you.)

We were set free and hurled down the motorway toward our destination, safe, a little tipsy, and sound.

Stay tuned.

—Winston Watson I Somewhere inside the Czech Republic




Go here to read Day 5 of XIXA's tour diaries.

Check in daily to keep track of XIXA's on-the-road shenanigans—the dirt, grime, and glory, and all the hangovers and warts—from the Tucson band's current Bloodline swing through Germany, France, Italy, the Czech Republic and beyond. Today's entry by drummer Winston Watson.

Monday, July 15: Day 5

Tour smells.

The sights, the sounds, the-smells of a hard-working rock band on the road.

Airplanes. "All train compartments smell vaguely of sh*t." - Al Pacino, Glengarry Glenross. It's true of planes, add jet fuel, add bad, stale food to that, and airports and you have an olfactory nightmare.  

Venues. If the venue is a club, add all the above scents, plus eau de vomit. Moving on to ...

Diesel. It's everywhere. Especially on you. 

Funk. In an all-male environment, funk happens. You can imagine for yourself. So, when one catches just the scent of a woman, it's heaven.

Hotels. Ooof. I could go on, all day. Anything below 3 stars and you are guaranteed 2. Mold and mildew.

Finally, there's home. The best part of Tour Smells. Makes all the above worth it. Stayed tuned.

—Winston Watson I Somewhere in Germany

Random road shots: 


Go here to read Day 4 of XIXA's tour diary.

Check in daily to keep track of XIXA's on-the-road shenanigans—the dirt, grime, and glory, and all the hangovers and warts—from the Tucson band's current Bloodline swing through Germany, France, Italy, the Czech Republic and beyond. Today's entry by Jason Urman.


Sunday, July 16:

The first show of a Europe tour always has its intrigue, especially at a festival. Limited time generally leads to a frantic load-in and quick line check. Then bam! You're on.

n the confusion, sometimes you miss things. In my case, I fell victim to an old rock 'n' roll trick that while amusing, is most problematic. My NORD Electro 3 synth had been tuned down half a step, most likely by the previous user. Guess who plays the melody on the first song of the set?
Surprise!!

Live music, baby.

-Jason Urman | Berlin, DE



Go here to read Day 3 of XIXA's tour diaries.

Saturday, July 15:
So I'm sitting here, backstage at the Transit Festival. The festival grounds are in Germany, about as far northeast as you could possibly go before touching Polish countryside. I've been to a lot of places ... but I've never been here. It seems like a dystopian hippy commune. The people are nice and friendly. I see a lot of hemp, Tevas, and dreadlocks (on white people—which, we can all agree, is a different type of dreadlock). The festival is humble in size and, consequentially, the ideal candidate for our first show—you see, we haven't been together on the same stage since our spring tour ended in mid-April. We will have to work out the kinks as we go.

It's the calm before the storm now. Gabriel Sullivan and Hikit Corbel (our French bassist) are re-stringing their guitars. I'm at the same table, writing this diary entry on my iPhone because my computer is being a punk-ass bitch. It's quiet. The festival continues outside. But we've chosen the serenity of our backstage room, to accomplish these tiny tasks at hand; the tasks that occupy 99% of our job. The festival goers oblivious to the sonic assault that we will soon unleash up them. Yessir ... it is quiet now. But, not for long ...

—Brian Lopez I Germany


Go here to read Day 2 from XIXA's tour diary.

Check in daily to keep track of XIXA's on-the-road shenanigans—the dirt, grime, and glory, and all the hangovers and warts—from the Tucson band's current Bloodline swing through Germany, France, Italy, the Czech Republic and beyond. Today's entry by Gabe Sullivan.

July 13. Day 2:
It’s like we never left. Like the six members and two crew have been in this van forever and a  day ... and right now, it feels like we may never leave this van.  Today we did the ceremonial dance of jumping in the van after our flights from Tuxon, hit the backline company here in Dusseldorf and grab the huge amount of drums, amps, percussion, and keyboards that it takes to make XIXA so violently loud, and drive the always seemingly endless drive to wherever the first date of our tour is.  This time around we have an eight-hour drive that will take us to Klempenow, DE where we will play the  Transit Festival tomorrow. You’d think that after 24 hours of  flying we would be in hellish moods about starting an eight-hour drive at five in the afternoon ...  but here I am writing this as everyone ferociously enjoys the reunion with our French bass player and sound engineer over beers, wine and joints. Here in the backseat of our home on wheels for the next 20-something days ... What was that Motorhead song again... WE ARE THE ROAD CREW!

—Gabriel Sullivan | Somewhere on the Autoban



























Go here to read Day 1 from XIXA's tour diary.

Recently I found an old box of cassette tapes—things even I could not destroy. I came upon a green TDK with the words “Giant Sandworms 1st Gig” scrolled on it. A neighbor of mine still  owned a tape deck—the old kind. I took it home and ran a pencil through the spools to loosen up 30-some years, sat down, switched off the light, pushed play, and for a second, I could almost make out the faces ...

Tumbleweeds Bar down on 4th Ave, ‘cross from Choo Choo's, stamping hands, a crowd, Giant Sandworms. The first four or five songs—a schizoid mix, stuff we must have been practicing, fashioned by an estranged anger, so necessary at that time.

The stink of the joint, P.A. beating the walls with sheets of noise, bursts of protest, beer bottles, young bodies moving through each other. That long urinal packed high with ice, drenched in the ache of impersonal chatter.

We finished an extremely loud song. A kid is heaving up his guts, a girlfriend whistling on two fingers, driving energy toward the stage, when all of a sudden, the whole place goes silent. Like a shipwreck, all of the oxygen sucked right out. Rainer steps up to the mic, “This is a tune by James Brown,” he says, “Has anybody heard of James Brown?”

It was not a rhetorical question or measured cool—it was just Rainer, excited and moved by the Godfather of Funk, urgently talking with the kids to vitalize the sincerity and reverence he held for the Man's music. But hardly a sound emerged. Rainer moved up, stomping his boot in time as he began two measures on the guitar, splitting a slow, unhurried groove.

East Germany, by way of Chicago, he cries “I can’t stand it.” A piece of my drumstick flies as Dave Seger and I jackhammer that thing, leaving not one fraction of space. Howe, to my far left, looks stunned, hitting the downbeat, entranced, but returns to further attack this number alongside us. Rainer, primal, and “oh you make my body wet,” with all his might, tries to wrestle “Cold Sweat” back to its original soil where the highest notes are reborn.

He had this thing. It was as if he’d chipped away at some private sculpture, his calling set a high bar as a man and a musician. His greatest achievements, his sons Gabe, Rudy and later, daughter Lily. He was a Cleveland Indians fan, worked down in the acrid pigeon artery of Joe's Chicago Store, filled with guitars and amps from a different era, often with opera playing as he carved, varnished, the deliverance of musician’s instruments. Everybody took their guitar to Rainer.

After he left the band, he formed Das Combo. With it, many great records and a loyalty to Nick Augustine, his side man, electric bass slung like a machine gun on one shoulder. On drums there was Will Clipman, then Bruce Halper and Ralph Gilmore. They would harness his power, achieved well beyond what most will ever hear as a white man’s blues. The website" Rainermusic.org " is a work in progress. David LaRussa and Fred Mills have liner notes and really cool pictures/videos. In November of 2017, Fire Records will release Rainer’s Worried Spirits and The Texas Tapes, both with bonus tracks and an astonishing audio restoration.

When I first received Worried Spirits 25 years ago, the song “Stones Throw Away” stopped me dead. It was Rainer with nothing but his soul and body. It is hard to pull away from, even as I listen today. It is so stirring, astoundingly full. The steel and the voice are one. “Stones Throw Away” is more profound than ever. It all but bruises the listener, trapped in the will to live. I leave you with the second verse; "Tell the men in Tel Aviv/We won’t go and we won’t leave/All the armies and all their tanks/And their homes and all their banks/Are only a stone’s throw away.”

Perhaps it is a lullaby to a world that has dug itself deep. It ends with an outro where the strings are tangled as they fade away in burning resuscitation.

I knew then and know now that this song and so many others are magic. This man will never repeat, not in this or any other world he felt under his feet.

Rainer Ptacek
R.I.P.
-Billy Sedlmayr

The Tucson Weekly Range is continuing its Tour Diaries series. Check in daily to keep track of on-the-road shenanigans, dirt, grime, and glory, and all the hangovers and warts. All artists are asked to tell it like it is. This time it's the monolithic Tucson badasses XIXA, swinging through Germany, France, Italy, the Czech Republic and beyond.

July, 12. Day 1:
God laughs when you make plans. So do airlines. The weather had its way with Chicago and us. In typical fashion, we got it together, got to the airport early, got upgraded to first class only to be turned around by an alert notice on my AA app. "Flight cancelled due to storms, we have accommodated you on another flight, but your class of service will be changed." Translation: Put in a sack, and thrown in the back. 
Even the weather channel conspired against us with its scary radar reports. Three uneventful, non-bumpy hours later, here we are at the ORD Admirals Club, with an almost eight-hour layover. That's a lot of free hummus, soup and Bloody Mary's.  All of this was a blessing in disguise, because according to Chicago Admirals Club staff, yesterday was such a nightmare, half of the staff wanted to quit. They had been overrun by surly, entitled, angry passengers ... hundreds of them. So, in leaving a day late, we actually came out better for it. I think. One hour until we board our 787 Dreamliner.

Europe?

You ready?

We are about to do it all over. Again.

Stay tuned.

-Winston Watson | Chicago, IL

Quick band refresher:

The importance of a free press, now more than ever, is immeasurable. Who’ll carry the torch next?

Why, it’s ... the Tiny Town Times, a newly launched quarterly community newspaper, offering a blend of “fiction, poetry, opinion, comics, illustrations, artist features, science and nature writing”... plus a really cool piece of foldout art.

TTT publisher Jeik Ficker got into printing young; when he needed t-shirts and stickers for his band. Ficker is also the proprietor of Tanline Printing the press where TTT is made by hand.

Tiny Town Times proudly celebrated the release of their handsome debut issue with a mad bash at Saint Charles Tavern this past Saturday night. Emceed by the effervescent Frank Powers (Comics Editors at TTT and host of "After Hours" on Downtown Radio 99.1 FM), in his best made-for-radio voice with good-natured banter between bands. The shindig featured performances by The Rifle and Phoenix’s inimitable Treasure Mammal with locals Good Times Great Oldies kicking things off.

Good Times Great Oldies

There were bemused expressions at set’s start.

At the foot of the stage, one musician hammered on percussion instruments, creating an exotic Middle Eastern-tinged rhythm. He was joined by a drummer and guitarist—whose low, grungy tone took things in a different direction. Settling into a rhythm-heavy experimental jam, it was at first uncertain if the fourth person who jumped on stage mid-song was part of the band or not. He began manipulating effects boxes and creating wild oscillations, and unleashed hellish noise into a mic with otherworldly vocalizations. The band didn’t succeed in imparting a sense of musical organization or that they even bothered to rehearse much. But, tossing the rulebook aside embodied the spirit of the evening; and that’s what made GTGO’s performance pretty glorious.

Before leaving the stage the guitarist quipped, “The next band is going to be nothing like this ... ummm. They are really good.”

The Rifle

Performing material predominately off of their new, debut full-length album, Anabasis.  The vibe was decidedly ’70s.

Silence filled the room as Angie Barkley sung and played her ukulele. Nina Mary performed three original poems—And Mary is a regular so the crowd was respectful and quieted down to listen to her newest pieces. A band performed three light-hearted love songs followed by poetry from Kiana Hamilton. And each had a generous eight minutes to show their skills. If the artist went over time there was no cutting them off, they finished their performance. More, this coffee house was packed full of poets and musicians.

This was the scene at the last Cartel Coffee Lab open mic, which they host on the last Wednesday of each month. It's one of those events that doubles as a social, so only the showstoppers could silence the room. Think of it as an open mic for performers who are to crowds and can handle performing a busy room. The Cartel invited all ages and all types of acts including comedy, music, and poetry.

Performers and artists knew each other from attending these open-mic shows regularly. It was all friendly and talkative. And though the crowd was rowdy at times, they gave each act a healthy round of applause. It can be intimidating to perform at an open mic—there's little to hide behind, sometimes not even experience. Bring a pal perhaps, a way to blend into the subtle madness of an open mic.

First, Tempe's Draa silenced the room. The poppy openers didn't put people to sleep, instead put them into a dream. People closed eyes and swayed, only slipping back into reality between songs to applaud. The next two acts were minimal two-piece synth outifits. Sun City, Arizona's Body of Light was up next, and the center of the dancefloor fully erupted. It was heavy—if you'd covered your ears it'd could've been a hardcore metal show. It's a group super loyal to 80s-styled synthpop, with no shortage of 'verbed-out vocals and heavy bass—heady vibrations made your heart skip a beat. The tunage brought out eccentrics going apeshit in front of the stage.
New York Black Marble Brooklyn headlined and folks drunkenly perched on the edge of the stage, heads bonging to the duo's warm sonic chill. In fact, Black Marble conjured up that most difficult of live-show juxtapositions, the kind mostly seen at Dead shows of yore: people jamming hard to soft synth. No wonder they signed to Ghostly International.