DARK-EYED WOMAN, BLACK-EYED REVOLUTIONARIES—THE BIRTH OF FACTSHEET

(Spain)

It’s high noon and we’re roving the range, flying top speed somewhere in between the breathtaking Spanish Alps and the Bay of Biscay. Spain is the strangest countryside yet: dilapidated houses and shacks alongside newly built hotels, beautiful meadows, and beaches next to random ditches and abandoned construction sites. Rural graveyards with no more than twenty plots line the highway from time to time, with no rhyme or reason. It’s sort of like the area in between Tijuana and Rosarito in Mexico combined with Carmel in Northern California, completely disjointed. There is the distinctly pungent smell of sewer almost everywhere. We’ve only just arrived, but we’re curious: will all of Spain smell like this? It’s beautiful, though, and compared to the places we’ve been so far, it has a truly foreign feel. We’re finally experiencing something completely unlike the U.S.

This is true for everyone except Kike, who is from here. He snores loudly in the front seat. Simon’s at the wheel, commandeering us across the countryside at Mach two, when he abruptly steers the van into the highway shoulder. “Photo op,” he hollers to us back seat denizens.

Z and I hop out to take some snaps of the Alps, while Tim runs around, burning off excess energy while trying to butt into our shots, as if either of us want souvenirs of him.

“Move it, Dorkboy,” yells Z, whose Tim tolerance wanes increasingly each day.

“What about the Master,” mumbles Rat, indicating Dahl, who rides on the shelf in the van’s back storage area. The back of the van doesn’t get any heat, and he is wrapped in a sleeping bag for insulation.

“Oh yeah,” remembers Simon. He yells at the side of the van, “Jeff, you like to pop out?”

“No, that’s okay,” came the muffled yet cheerful voice behind the van’s metallic wall. “Let’s just get moving as soon as possible.”

“Right. McGruff, my love,” says the English redhead, immediately forgetting his employer, “snap a picture of me in front of the mountains.”

“Christ, Simon,” I grouch. “You’ve had me take rolls and rolls of photos with you in each one; you’re the only person or thing you have pictures of.”

“That’s all I want. I’ve seen bloody Europe.”

“And you haven’t seen yourself? Save on the film and buy yourself a mirror. Give me the camera already.”

While I photograph Simon, Kike hauls his monstrous frame from the van to stretch his legs.

“You like Spain?” he asks no one in particular. He then growls a series of garbled sentences that no one understands. This guy is to be our interpreter, among other things.

“I’m hungry,” says Tim.

“There’s a news flash,” Simon cracks.

“Are we gonna eat today or not?”

“We’ll eat at the gig, there will be plenty of food when we get to the venue,” responds Kike.

Tim didn’t give up easily. “What about breakfast?”

“No one eats breakfast in Spain,” says Kike. “No one eats breakfast. You want some speed?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Don’t give him any speed,” warns Simon. “Although, mind you, it might cause him to do some work later on. Still, never mind. Right, back in the van. Time to move on.”

Back to warp drive in no time. “Play some Dictators,” demands Kike in a billowing voice that doesn’t invite argument.

“Whose got any?” asks Rat.

“I do. It’s in my bag. Must hear some Dictators.”

“Your bag is in the back, where Dahl is, Kike,” Simon politely informed.

“Dictators. Dictators.”

“Breakfast. Breakfast,” Tim chanted back. It was to no avail, within five minutes Kike had drifted back to sleep. I settle back with my book. Rat and Z nod off on each other with their sacred pillow. Tim chews his nails. Simon shifts gears and sticks ABBA in the deck.

“Gimme gimme gimme a man after midnight...” Not exactly The Dictators, but what the hell. I’ve heard this tape so often already that I can sing along with the song’s ridiculous synthesizer line. It’s pleasant enough driving music. It actually is growing on me. My book is making me drowsy, so I stick it in the seat pouch and lay my head on Rat’s back. The three of us sit in a makeshift lump. Tim sits straight up and stares out the window. He’s probably uncomfortable with his proximity to us in the backseat, fearing our fagginess will rub off, and he’ll soon have to question his own sexuality.

The three of us wake up suddenly and sit erect in the seat. Tim’s head spins around in confusion, Simon swerves uncontrollably.

“What the fuck is that?” shouts Simon, regaining control, at least partially, of the van.

“I’ve never smelled anything like it, not anything living,” says Rat.

“Where are we?” I ask, grasping for an explanation of what is without question the most offensive odor I’ve ever encountered. “Could there be an industrial accident nearby? Maybe it’s radioactive by-products or something. We’d better be careful!”

“I think you’re right,” gasps Simon, choking a little. “We must be driving through something awfully fucked up. Maybe a roadkill dumping ground, shallow graves...”

“This place is kind of Third World,” opines Rat. “Maybe there are open septic tanks nearby, like right under the van. Simon, roll up your window!”

Dahl bangs on the wall that separates us. “What the hell is that? It’s killing me back here!”

Simon dutifully replies, “We don’t know. We’re trying to sort it out.”

“Check it out. Kike has slept through it all,” giggles Z, motioning to the bundle in the shotgun seat.

We all turn to each other, and the realization hits. “Kike!” the cry goes up. He doesn’t wake up.

“What? Is it that bastard’s fart?” asks Simon.

“No way,” I interject. “Nothing human can generate a smell like that. Simon, roll your window down.”

It was truly indescribable, but I’ll try. A combination of cheese left in the summer sun for weeks on end, sewers spilling onto the city streets, and a million unwashed socks. It was unholy. Its perpetrator jerks in his seat wildly without warning, perhaps regaining partial consciousness at the insistence of his own pungency. He begins flailing his arms, and blowing gobs of mucus from his mouth and nose, loudly sneezing and coughing simultaneously. Huge chunks of snot fly around the van’s cabin like buckshot. Its potential targets duck and scream. A general hysteria has ensued, with cries of “stop the van” and “throw him out” being hollered in a panic. This terror has caught on throughout the vehicle; Dahl is now pounding furiously on the wall that separates us.

“What is it?” he cries.

“It’s Kike. He farted like a wildebeest from hell!”

“Sorry, got some gas,” Kike grumbled, coming somewhat to consciousness. “Big dinner last night. Steak like you’ve never seen, to die for, sweet and juicy like teenage pussy.”

Thank God he skipped breakfast.

All of our dates have changed in Spain. Kike has put together four shows, and promises they will rock like Satan himself. Our king-sized guide is the promoter, and also the lead singer of The Pleasure Fuckers, a group of Spanish punkers. He gives us all promotional shirts of his band. He’s a jovial—albeit somewhat crude—individual. None of us really know what to make of him, but he’s part of the team now. We’re pretty sure our trek through Spain is going to be an adventure.

For our first date, we drive nine hours to a huge hall called Le Real, located in the town of Oviedo. There are three large bars in the room. They clearly expect a drinking crowd. The stage is five feet high, and a king’s crown hangs precariously over the drum riser. As I wearily walk in with my accessory bag and bass case, I pass in front of the triple-stacked P.A. speakers. They happen to go from complete silence to 120 decibels the moment I walk by. I feel like a cartoon character that’s been blown out of his shoes.

“Thanks,” I sarcastically holler to the soundman, who stares at the soundboard as if he’s never seen one before. “Gracias,” I correct myself.

I walk down the stage steps, and damn if he doesn’t blast me with the P.A. again. This time, I’m at arm’s length from the speaker bins. “I’m going to kill you if you do that again!”

Now, two guys are operating the sound system. They grin and fumble with the switches. For the next hour, random shrieks, squeals, honks, and bombing raids will emanate from the powerful equipment thanks to these two semi-comedic would-be sound engineers. This racket puts the whole band on edge. The fact that the food platter we’ve been patiently waiting for all day has nothing but rancid sandwich meat that looks like it escaped from the race track (horse or dog, you pick) doesn’t diminish the situation. Dahl, a strict vegetarian, almost passes out at the sight of it. The opening band—four locals doing their best teen version of Mudhoney—clean out all the backstage beer before we arrive. Aggravation.

After a pointless sound check, we return to our tiny hotel rooms, where, after much needed showers, Kike and the members of the support band—an all female punk affair known as Las Vivores—are meeting us for dinner. Down in the cramped lobby, we shyly talk to the girls—our Spanish is poor. A tall brunette bounds into the room, her beaded necklaces rattling loudly as she walks.

“Hi, guys. I’m Nora.” It turned out Nora, the band’s singer, grew up in San Francisco. “I though you might like to see this. You guys are in the local newspaper.”

The article had Jeff’s publicity photo, and seemed to be rather extensive for a club show preview. “Read it to us, translate.”

The article was the standard bio with the usual quota of inaccuracies, but one mistake stood out above the rest. The band actually had a name: we were Jeff Dahl Factsheet.

“Are you sure that’s what it says? Where would they get that?” Dahl wondered.

“Oh, I get it,” says Z. “The record company sends out these little information sheets to the promoters before the tour. They say ‘Factsheet’ at the top. They just got confused, and assumed that’s the name of the band.”

“I think it’s totally great,” laughs Rat. “It’s so original.”

Jeff Dahl would forever be Jeff Dahl. But for now, Rat, Z, and I were Factsheet, the most rockin’ trio, even if only a backing trio, in the whole goddamn world, and without question the heaviest thing to hit Ouledo all week.

“Factsheet—we’ve come to rock you.”

“Factsheet—total rocking destruction.”

“Factsheet—we have ways of making you rock.”

The slogans began to fly fast and furious. Though no one said it at the time, the fact that the three of us were unified in spirit and in name only served to separate us further from our leader. It was understood that Dahl couldn’t join Factsheet.

Our show that night was more rocking than usual. Maybe it had something to do with the Factsheet vibe, but most likely it had to do with the packed house of rock-starved maniacs, the surreal, blaring sound, the fact that we were joined onstage by the girls, Kike, and a few other geezers we didn’t know. They all danced around, bumping into each other and singing in unison to the Flamin’ Groovies classic, “Slow Death.” To hear Kiki sing the opening line, “I call thee Doctor,” with his brutal, guttural tone and strong Spanish accent, was in itself a mind-bending occurrence. It became our catchphrase—but of course you had to imitate Kike and his accent.

Or maybe it just had to do with Z buzzing like crazy on the cheap, low-grade cocaine he got from Nora. Z tries to play it cool, but I pick up on his altered demeanor.

“What’s with that swingin’ jaw action you got goin’ there, Bubba?”

“Ah, I had a little coke. It was bunk. I can get you some if you like.”

“That’s cool. I hate coke. I especially hate it when it makes you do that thing with your jaw, you know?”

“Yeah, well, it’s time to move the drums, so I’m gonna disappear.” He chuckles to himself, and somehow manages to dissolve into the woodwork. Simon, dreading having to move the drums himself, is soon seen trying to find him.

The drive to Madrid is another long haul. We pull over for gas. When Simon turns off the ignition, it sounds like the engine is still running: it turns out to be the sound of six hungry stomachs growling. Kike is supposed to feed us in accordance with our contract rider, which stipulates food at the hotel in the morning and food upon arrival at the show. This doesn’t seem to be happening so far. I figure, in an attempt to skim more profits for himself, he isn’t organizing our chow time. I use a little trickery of my own to figure it out.

At the gas station, Kike gets out to stretch and blow more snot from his nose. It seems he has an unlimited supply. Everyone’s outside the van except for me and Z. I say to Z, just loud enough for Kike to overhear, “So far Spain seems pretty happening. Too bad Kike can’t quite get our rider together, the food thing has been a drag. Other than that, he seems cool. When we make our call into Camille tomorrow, I guess we’ll have to lay it on the line.”

Kike clears his throat and climbs in the van. “Say, I think I’ll take you guys for some lunch. I know a great place. The sandwiches are huge. You have never seen sandwiches so big. We go now. Simon, will you please play that Dictators tape.”

We all gladly groove to the Dic’s “Next Big Thing,” and think about those huge sandwiches. Imagine our surprise, when an hour later Kike shows us a Spanish McDonald’s. Hey, who’s complaining? Make mine a Big Marcos with Cheese.

On Friday night, we arrive in Madrid during rush hour. The city is the closest thing to a big, overblown megalopolis we’ve yet to see, sort of Manhattan slowed down slightly by siestas. The club, Revolver, is obviously the CBGBs/Whisky a Go-Go of Madrid, with a funky interior, pool table, DJ booth, two huge bars, and show posters from cool bands all over the world. It’s very agreeable to our collective mindset.

Rat and I walk through the club to the dressing room, carrying our battered guitar cases and looking ever so cool. “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Ratboy,” I proclaim, feeling a slight euphoric lift for no apparent reason, at least not one I can identify. “Tonight, things are going to turn around in the road romance department. Tonight, I’m going to meet a beautiful girl who’ll be normal, happy, full of life, and ready to follow me to the ends of this here world.”

“Is that right, Mr. McGruff? What makes you say that?”

Clearly, the answer lies with whatever energy is causing this sudden, unnatural state of well-being. A chemical imbalance, perhaps, an errant hormone run amok. “I don’t know, exactly. It’s just a feeling. But it’s going to happen. I know it.”

I stop myself from jumping onto the cocktail table and belting out “Something’s Coming” from West Side Story, but instead opt to relax with a fruit soda in the dressing room, where Dahl patiently gives yet another interview to yet another fanzine. Sound check follows, featuring another stellar drum solo by yours truly. It’s getting to the point where the rest of the band is abandoning the check altogether. They’ve come to realize I’ll check all of the instruments to fend off boredom and lessen my restlessness.

Eventually my brothers join me onstage. It takes us a while, but we eventually work out a New York Dolls song we’ve added to the set. We then lock up our guitars and head to find our hotel, a place romantically called Hotel Paradise. As we pull up to the five-story edifice, no lights are on, except for one lone beacon illuminating from the front desk. The silhouette of a bald head with pointy ears hunches over the naked light bulb. I spot this creature and it sends a chill down to my toes.

“Christ, it’s fuckin’ Count Yorga!”

Everyone laughs.

“Count Yorga!” Dahl exclaims.

“I didn’t know anyone else remembered Count Yorga.”

“No, McGruff. You’ve got it all wrong,” claims Ratboy. “That’s Nosferatu. Just look at the ears.”

“Let’s go give a pint and get our rooms,” says my roommate for the evening, Simon.

Yorga barely acknowledges us. He silently hands us keys and points a boney finger up the stairs to our rooms. A former ambassador he is not.

Following a short break and a shower, we meet Kike in Yorga’s small lobby. Kike has, once again, promised us a feast beyond our simple Yankee comprehension. “You have never had pizza like this!” A native of Madrid, he’s accompanied tonight by his wife. We’re all a little taken back by her. Kike is a huge, crude, foul-mouthed, unshaven, truck driver of a punk rocker. We certainly didn’t expect his wife to be a stylish and sexy beauty, complete with perfect jet-black hair, and curves that would overturn a race car. But here they are, Madrid’s fun loving couple, and off we go to dinner.

We walk for many blocks, and Kike assures us that we’re “almost there.” I flashback to the Dutch quest for hash. Finally, we arrive at a pizza joint just slightly larger than the Renault van. All the seats are taken, but we can wait a half an hour if we want to. Dahl is getting antsy, maybe a little pissed, and everyone looks to be pretty hungry. Kike tries to calm the rising tide of anxiety.

“I know another place, a few blocks away.”

Everyone is milling around in the street, waiting for someone to make a decision. Dahl heads back to the club alone, without saying anything. Kike is inside the pizza joint, trying to get the owner to kick people out so that the important musicians from America can sit down, but no one in the restaurant is buying it, and we’re getting embarrassed. Finally, we move toward Revolver.

We decide on the Chinese restaurant next door to the club. Securing a banquet table, we settle in. While no one else seems to notice or care, I excuse myself to go look for Dahl. I figure he’s probably hiding out or back in the dressing room.

Revolver is an all-purpose club. Although our rock show is in two hours, an entirely different crowd is there, dancing to the latest industrial gothic dance music. Strobe lights flash, music blares, and everyone is dressed from head to toe in black. Most of the crowd has pancake makeup on—heavy, dark black eyeliner, mascara, and eye shadow. Bauhaus and Sisters of Mercy live. Dahl must feel alienated. As I enter the dressing room, he’s alone, slumped over on a bench, moping.

“Hey,” I shout above the racket right outside the door. “We found a good place to eat, right next door. C’mon.”

“No. I’m just going to stay here.”

“Man, you didn’t eat today. You gotta eat. There’s all sorts of veggie stuff on the menu.”

“No, really. That’s okay.”

“Dude, you must be going crazy in here with this noise. I know you hate this music.” He nods in agreement. “Well, c’mon then. We’ll go have a good time and relax. You’ll be glad you did.”

He finally stands up and follows me out. I don’t know why I insisted that he join us. I haven’t pushed him at all over the past two weeks. This is Jeff’s tour. Shouldn’t he try to enjoy himself? It seems like he just hides himself away all the time. I can’t help but feel like Jeff has changed since the times we used to go up the coast and rock the Bay Area. Maybe his time spent out in the Arizona desert has changed him somehow. I must try and sit down with him and talk about it, talk it out. I must remember to do that.

Dinner is pleasant, everyone settles down, exchanges stories, and has a laugh or two. Kike tells a story about getting so sick on tour that he puked in the support band’s bass drum, didn’t tell them, and then helped them pack the drum, puke and all, into a road case. He is an unending source of amusement and amazement.

The gig fully rocks. Wild kids bang their heads onto the stage and maniacal, Spanish guys leap from table to table. Some very rock ‘n’ roll (i.e., sleazy) girls are up front, grooving with us and shaking their approval. The New York Dolls cover, “Personality Crisis,” is a mess, but “Dirt” reaches heights of free jazz liberation, hitherto unexplored by us. Toward the end of the number, all three front musicians lay on the stage and jam. I position myself stomach down, draped over the monitor speaker, with my bass dangling off the front of the stage. I play it while fans gently stroke the strings along with me. Ratboy is on his knees, serving up a sacrifice to a god only he sees, and Dahl is flat on his back, scratching out power chords while staring, spaced-out, up at the brightly, colored lights. The show finally closes to rapturous applause.

Following the show, we sign a million things, from records to napkins, from jackets to this hippie chick’s arm cast. She begins to follow me around like a lost puppy. She’s pretty, but certainly not for me this evening.

We stow our gear and off-load to the awaiting van. I survey the club and sit down on the stage beside Simon, who’s rolling a cigarette. “Gimme one,” I demand.

Simon dutifully rolls me a ciggie and nods across the room toward Ratboy. “Looky there. Rat’s chatting up two birds. That’s one for him and one for me.”

“Simon, what’s the matter with you? Rat has made virtually no contact with the opposite sex this whole trip. He finally has it going on, and you want to horn in on him. I just hope you’re proud.”

“Oh, alright. I didn’t realize it was that big of a thing.”

He skulks off, leaving me to horn in on Rat’s action. The girl with the arm cast slides next to me. I smile and quickly walk away.

“Hey, Rat. What’s happening?”

“McGruff, meet my friends. This is, uh, I guess I don’t know your names.”

Rat was hitting on a girl with a leopard-skin overcoat and a huge black mop of Mötley Crüe teased hair. She was not what I would deem pretty, but she had the flashy/trashy rock chick look that Rat appreciated. She turns out to be Kike’s sister-in-law of all things. She speaks virtually no English, but her friend is acting as interpreter.

“Hi, I’m Sonny,” she says, giggling just a little, “and this is Zelda.” I get a good look at her and most definitely like what I see. She’s about five foot four, has jet-black hair in a sophisticated European cut straight out of a sixties Fellini flick—the epitome of style. Sonny has huge, dark eyes, a pronounced, strong nose, and cheekbones to die for. Wrapped in a fuzzy black coat, she is quite cuddly looking. As our pointless conversation progresses, I move closer and closer to her, and find myself becoming transfixed by her deep, dark eyes.

Running back and forth to the DJ booth to request songs, the bar to nab whiskey, and to the girls to laugh and dance, I keep myself busy until departure time. Simon admonishes me for doing exactly what I told him not to do, but I laugh it off. I’m having too much fun to worry about Simon.

Dahl is doing yet another interview, but finally it’s wrapped, and we can leave. Kike has arranged for us to hold court at Agapo, a bar across town that he promises we’ll like. First, we have to return the van to Yorga’s garage below the Paradise. By now, Sonny’s hanging on my arm. As I walk out with her, my other arm carrying my trusty Fender bass, we enter the brisk Spanish night wrapped in our blacker-than-black attire. I forgive myself for selfishly feeling like total hot shit. I realize it ain’t no big thing, but after two weeks of no kinda thing whatsoever, it’s good to feel like somebody; it’s good to feel something, anything.

Lost in my own thoughts, I swing open the van door to see something that resembles a college prank. The van—which seats seven uncomfortably—is filled with the six of us, Zelda, Kike, his wife, the guy who owns Agapo, and two other random females including the girl with the cast. I laugh—everyone is laughing uncontrollably it seems—and I shove Sonny by the butt into the van and somehow follow her in. This rolling sardine can wobbles precariously down the street. Simon is tipsy, weaving and snickering at how utterly ludicrous this ride back to Yorga Central is. Once there, we off-load and head on foot to Agapo—all of us, of course, except Jeff.

“Jeff, this night might be the most fun night of the tour, won’t you come along with us?”

“Naw, thanks. I’m really tired. I think I’m just gonna turn in.”

I expected him to say that, but really wished that he hadn’t. Factsheet or not, it was Jeff’s show and nothing would be happening without him.

Agapo is one of the coolest places I’ve ever been. It’s real small, but packed with nothing but cool, friendly people—music lovers, bikers, musicians. Our host loads everyone up with beer and liquor, and the room is filled with sweet marijuana smoke. Music is blaring—the young DJ is in his booth, located right in the middle of the floor. People approach him and request songs. He grins and nods his head in an ambiguous way that doesn’t betray whether he’ll play the request or not. The word going around the bar is that the DJ is flying on acid. Whatever the case, he’s playing excellent sixties psychedelic music, from Hendrix to Big Brother and Pink Floyd.

“Help me with my drink, little angel,” I say to my newfound love. I hold her close, and she looks straight into my eyes, not smiling. She lets her eyes do the smiling. She looks to be nineteen or twenty, all youthful exuberance, tempered by the kind of worldly wisdom a person gets from growing up in a big city.

The DJ kicks in a riff I don’t recognize immediately, but by the fifth bar I’ve got it: “Dark Eyed Woman” by Spirit. How perfect. I look at Sonny and pull her close again, gently moving her to the sensual music.

“Dark eyed woman on a hot summer night / Dark eyed woman are you burning tonight?”

I can’t resist it any longer. “I think it’s time you gave me a kiss.”

Her expression doesn’t change. Standing smack-dab in the middle of the bar, she rises on her tiptoes and tightly clasps her arms around me. Her mouth opens, and her tongue slips in-between my lips. However old she is, she knows things about kissing that I sure as hell don’t. Her tongue seems to magically wrap around mine and manipulate it in a way that I can only assume she knows the secret inter-connector between the heart, soul, and tongue. My head is reeling. I’m actually feeling dizziness. The kiss seems to last days, nights, weeks, months. I’m sure the tour will be over by the time we’ve finished this kiss.

My head rolls back. I feel the power of the Almighty himself surging through my veins. I have never, ever been kissed like that before, and I don’t know exactly what made it so goddamned special. Best not to overanalyze magic.

“But dark eyed women, we both been there before, yeah before.”

I light another cigarette, and Simon comes up to me. “Well, at least you’re having a good time, you bastard! I’ve been chasing around this older bitch, but I think she’s giving me the bum’s rush.”

“Simon, just have fun. Look at these people. They love us. It’s not about getting laid. It’s about grooving with these totally cool people in this great city.”

“Fuck you!”

I glance over at Tim. He’s at the bar, drinking alone, talking to no one. Z sits against a wall doing the same. Only Rat and I are having any fun. Sonny and I approach Rat and Zelda, and the four of us dance to Hendrix’s “Crosstown Traffic.” The girls are digging us, the music is great, the booze is flowing, and the gods are indeed smiling on us. If only it could never end.

Sonny suddenly grabs me by the arm and pulls me toward the door. “I can’t breathe!” she exclaims.

We walk outside into the freezing cold night, and she wheezes for a moment. “The smoke, it’s too much. Oh, that’s much better.”

After a minute, she continues. “I was supposed to meet my roommate at another club. What time is it?” I tell her that it’s 5:00 a.m. “Oh, I’m so late. She’s going to be angry with me. I don’t know what to do.”

“Where’s the club?”

“It’s about five blocks east.”

“Can we walk?” She nods. “Let’s go get your roommate and bring her back to party with all of us.”

“Oh, she’s a student. I don’t know if she’ll do that.”

“You’re a student, aren’t you? Hell, we’re all students. Take me to her, and I’ll make sure she comes back with us. You leave it to me. Now, lead the way, darlin’.”

We walk quickly through the cold night, holding hands. We exchange minimal small talk, content to get where we’re going. Soon we’re in front of another bustling club, this one cranking Soca music at top volume. In we go.

Women bounce around in frilly, very low-cut dresses. Guys dart around in razor-sharp suits and hats. It’s like something out of a Carmen Miranda movie, incredible. Tequila literally drips from the humidity in the room.

“There’s Elvira!” shouts Sonny, spotting her roommate.

Elvira was pretty, but didn’t look as Spanish as Sonny. Turns out she was born in the Midwest, and had been living in Spain for four years. With long, dark brown hair and sultry green eyes, I can see that these two made a terrific twosome of terror.

“Listen, Elvira. You gotta come back with us to Agapo.”

“And why is that?” she asks, teasing me.

“Because if you don’t come, Sonny won’t come, and I’ll forever suffer a savagely broken heart. Not only that, but I have the perfect guy for you. He’s dark, handsome, debonair, and he just happens to be the drummer in the same rock ‘n’ roll band I’m in.”

She bought it. Much as I like this place, the drinks ain’t free. The three of us head back to Agapo.

Elvira and Z immediately hit it off. Within ten minutes they’re making out in the same spot where Z had been sulking only a little time before. I return to romancing Sonny, and pretty soon the sun is starting to come up. The bar is still open, the liquor is still pouring, but we’re all starting to fade, so off to Paradise we head with our newfound lady friends.

Walking lazily down the street, arms around the girls, life seems relaxed, and the hassles of tour seem miles away. The walk takes a long time, and I’m sure I’m not fully awake, but rather in a semi-dream state, abated by the alcohol consumption, the wonderful music that’s still ringing in my ears, and the warmth of the bundle of gorgeousness I have attached to me. Tim left the bar a good two hours earlier, but Simon is still with us. He’s walking along, odd man out with the three couples, darting in-between all of us, and babbling endlessly about his aborted attempt at a pickup.

“Fucking bitch was teasing me, she was! She came on to me heavy, grabbing my dick and all. Then when I told her she should come back to Paradise—I thought that sounded good—she winked and said she’d have to bring her husband along. Right, I said ‘fine,’ and she’s started saying something about wanting to be the meat in a stud sandwich. I started getting a knobby just talking about it. Think I’m getting one now...”

“Shut up, Simon,” demanded Z.

Finally, back at the Paradise, we all grow silent. The three of us—all of whom live with girls we professed undying, faithful love to back in the States, are now ready to take three brazen Spanish ladies up to our rooms for a night of ongoing romantic contact. The fact that I’m sharing my room with Simon really doesn’t cross my mind at this point. We walk up the stairs to the Paradise’s front door, when, no, it can’t be, motherfucking Count Yorga is still on duty.

“No girls, no girls! You may not bring girls in here!” he proclaims. His ears cast an eerie shadow as he wags his boney finger at us.

This can’t be happening. It’s not like Coat Rack, where we can merely hide the contraband in our luggage and drag it up to our rooms anyway. These are living human beings we’re talking about.

He continues to shake his finger in front of us. His pointy ears doubling as roadblocks to Paradise beyond. Inexplicably, and I’ll never understand this ‘til the day I die, none of us argue with Yorga. We say nothing. It’s been suggested that perhaps Yorga merely provided the easy out, an out that our three increasingly guilty consciences were looking for. But I don’t buy it, not for a minute. We say nothing.

We separate from the girls and begin to walk inside, as Yorga holds the door open. The girls stand there with their mouths open.

“Bye,” says Rat. “Later,” says Z. I say nothing, perhaps still in shock. I look back, and, I might be wrong, but it looked like a lone tear was trickling down Sonny’s cheek. I would have been ashamed the morning after, cheating on Gina, but I think I was just as ashamed right now, for the way I treated Sonny. More than anything, I feel instant remorse and anger for not standing up to Yorga—none of us did. Simon, I’m sure, would have if he was preparing to become the meat in an abstract deli platter, but since that was not the case, he probably figured if he wasn’t getting any, no one was getting any. Case closed.

“We are such losers,” Rat chuckles, shaking his head as we started for the stairs. It was becoming a familiar comment from him, and it certainly was true at the moment. Still, the night was far from being a washout. I’ll never forget Sonny, how pretty she was, how she kissed. Hey, I said I’d meet a nice, normal, beautiful girl, and it happened. “Life is basically good,” the eternal optimist dressed in white said, perched on my right shoulder. The Devil, dressed in red and hanging out on the left, stopped laughing at me long enough to break down and cry.

In the morning, Count Yorga isn’t anywhere to be found in the hotel lobby. Kike’s there, grinning. “Ah, I guess we’ll all be in-laws by the end of the tour. Ha ha ha!”

We drive onto Barcelona, where we’re to play a dump called the Garatge, which means garage. Along the highway, there are more of those tiny graveyards, one every few miles. I conclude that it’s sort of a convenience store approach to undertaking. The theory seems to be no one should ever have to transport a corpse more than a couple of kilometers before disposing of it in its final resting place. The problem is, you’re reminded of death every few minutes. Oh well, you get used to the Grim Reaper riding along like a monkey on your shoulder, especially on this outing, which Z has christened EuroBlur, a take-off on Dahl’s ’93 EuroTour shirts.

On the drive, Tim sits by me and reads my William Burroughs book, The Western Lands. He laughs at it profusely. I think he may be getting more out of it than I did, which causes me to question my own comprehension of the nearly impenetrable novel. Ah shit, he’s just bluffing, I conclude. I borrow a piece of notebook paper from him and scratch out a song about my darling Sonny (maybe it was Sunny) with completed music and lyrics in about ten minutes. I’m still reviewing last night’s surrender to prudent hotel rules with some remorse.

“I can’t believe we just went into our rooms, letting the whole thing go like that. Damn, she was so fine!”

Rat rolls his eyes. “Get over it. Besides, you have to think, what kind of girl goes back to the hotel room of some lunatic rock ‘n’ roller the first night she meets him? It’s nothing to get a broken heart over, believe me.”

What kind of girl, indeed. Sonny’s face faded in my mind. It dissolved across a canvas that sprouted portraits of numerous other women, women who have shoved their nails through the ventricles of my wounded heart. Gina, my ex-wife, and all the other would-be starlets and harlots came to mind. Before they settle into my nest and under my spell, these women are known to share their time with the occasional traveling musician. Groupie was the operative term that would tumble from the mouths of those who looked down on such ladies, and, in turn, looked down on me for spending time with girls of such questionable moral fiber. I viewed it this way: these girls preferred the companionship of musicians, and, after all, I was a musician. What was I supposed to do? Chase around girls that were into lawyers or ballplayers or short-order cooks or stock brokers, for God’s sake? It all made sense to me.

Once we load-in our gear in Barcelona, Kike takes us to a small diner within walking distance. Everyone goes except for Dahl, who will survive on the backstage platter, thank you very much. The joint is small and homey, and Kike obviously knows the proprietor, who seats us immediately in the back. Menus are distributed, and we begin to order right away.

Waiter: “So, everyone ready to order, then?”

Simon: “I could use a minute, as I haven’t opened my menu yet.”

Rat: “Yeah, I might like some kind of sandwich. I don’t know.”

Kike: “I’ll have the usual.”

Waiter: “Of course.”

Z: “I’d like to get this Italian cold-cut sandwich, with a salad.”

Waiter: “We can’t make that. We don’t have all the meats available at the moment. How about a ham sandwich?”

Z: “Uh, no. Lemme look at the menu a bit more.”

McGruff: “I’ll have the ravioli, with garlic bread, please.”

Waiter: “No ravioli. Would you like some mostaccioli, perhaps?”

McGruff: “Yeah, maybe, but I don’t see it on the menu. Where is it?”

Waiter: “It’s not on the menu, but we have it.”

Tim cuts in: “Can I just get a burger and some fries, fritters, or whatever they’re called here?”

Waiter: “No, no hamburgers. We ran out. We can make you a grilled cheese.”

Simon: “Grilled cheese? That’s not on the menu. Where do you see that?”

Waiter: “You’re right. It’s not on the menu, but we do have it.”

McGruff: “Is there anything on the menu that you actually have available for eating?”

Waiter: “Yes, many things.”

Z: “Can I get a grilled cheese with a salad?”

Waiter: “What kind of salad?”

Z: “Any kind ya got, with lettuce and Italian dressing. I don’t see where it pays to be picky around here.”

Waiter: “Excuse me. Let me check on that.”

Weary, confused, low on patience, we all lower our menus and frown at each other. The waiter returns.

Waiter: “I’m sorry, there’s no more grilled cheese.”

This goes on for an indeterminable amount of time. At some point, somehow, we agree on stuff to eat, and eventually it is brought to us. Before Simon, Tim or any of the Factsheet Three eat, Kike is served a huge, double-sized platter full of delicious looking grub, including a char-broiled steak, baked potato, mixed vegetables, soup, salad, pastry, and wine. All of our mouths drop open. Some of us begin salivating involuntarily.

“What’s up with that? Look at all that food! I sure as hell didn’t see that on the menu. Damn, that looks gooood!” we all seem to chant at once.

“Well, you have to know how to order here,” says our well-fed Spanish compadre.

At the show, we play with metal punk ruffians El Legado, whose singer is a bizarre cross between El Cid and Glenn Danzig. Muscle-bound and intimidating, he approaches Dahl: “I sing ‘Search and Destroy’ with you, no? Ha ha!” he laughs.

Who’s to argue? The acoustics in this place are so bad that the sound bounces around like metallic ping-pong balls. I’m so deaf after our gig that my own voice sounds like Daffy Duck inside my head.

Conveniently, all of us who have dined with Kike get the runs, so we all vie for poll position to the one stall in the whole Garatge. Eventually we overflow the lone toilet, leaving the last in line, Simon, to improvise something outside the venue, which none of us choose to inquire about later.

The next morning, Z and I take on the town, eager to spend money in one of Europe’s most famous and fashionable cities. We both buy hats, and I get Gina a frilly, floral, translucent blouse. I wonder what’s on my mind.

The following day, we leave civilization and enter a world known as the Basque Country, headed for a town called Deba, (or is it Itziar??) and a rock outpost known as Txitxarro. (I have no idea how you pronounce that.) Kike has promised to finally feed us well. “I take you to a place to get a steak. You’ve never had steak like this, I guarantee!” Before the proposed feast, we drop our luggage at a farmhouse, which Kike has arranged to be our respite for the night. It’s a pleasant surprise. The caretakers—a wholesome looking family, a man, wife, young son, daughter, and a chained-up German Shepherd that barks from the moment we arrive until our departure twenty hours later—show us their home as well as ours for the night.

It’s quite charming, a utopian, pastoral setting. It overlooks a gorgeous landscape, a postcard-perfect valley. We all grab rooms, and I hook up the porta-stereo to blast my Deee-Lite tape (“The chills that you spill up my back…I couldn’t ask for another”). Simon and I dance in our socks on the beds. At this particular moment, it doesn’t feel like a tour, but a vacation in a spectacularly beautiful, secluded farmhouse, tucked away from the outside world. If only that dog would stop barking.

We off-load to soundcheck and eventually to the restaurant of steaks unlike etc. etc. Upon entering the restaurant, everyone that works there acknowledges Kike. Regardless of his standing in the Spanish independent recording biz, he seems to be infamous in any place that grills up a decent piece of beef. The food is so-so, but it’s location makes up for it. It’s situated right in a little cove on the Atlantic Ocean. After dinner, we frolic like young schoolboys in the sand, chasing each other, laughing, and generally acting like geeks. It’s so great to blow off some steam. The fact is, none of us, save Kike, have seen this kind of awe-inspiring beauty before. The night is black as satin, the froth of the sea dangles from the sliver of the moon, and it all is framed by rock formations that seem to cradle the whole scene in the very Hands of God. It’s sharply cold, but no one notices, insulated by the meat’s crunchy gristle and the wine’s incubation. To all present, it looks to be a great evening ahead, maybe the best one yet.

The club is setup, shall we say, very uniquely. From the middle of the stage on down, smack-dab through the middle of the club is a wall that perfectly divides the entire venue in half. The folks from Deba gather off to one side and those from Itziar collect on the other. Talk about segregation. Dahl had warned that we’d encounter some of the strangest and perhaps most potentially dangerous guys in this area of Spain. He told us about the revolutionaries—armed rustic guerillas ready to strike the unseen enemy at any moment. We were there to rock them, to give them a form of release from whatever kind of civil war they were locked in. I didn’t understand the politics of it all. Dahl just knew to be wary of it, and Kike kept his mouth shut.

At the club, we begin to get a little restless as we hang around downstairs and backstage. The backstage was a brick dungeon with a long wooden table with delicacies served up on it. In the room, there was a closet door that seemingly lead nowhere. Bored, Simon kicked it open and made a significant discovery.

“Fuckin’ hell, look at this!”

Behind the door was a room the size of the entire club. Bottles of liquor were strewn in random piles. They appeared to be ten feet high. It made no sense. Why would a venue, dependent on liquor sales for ongoing revenue, store their main commodity in such an impractical, haphazard, and unheard of way? They were mounds of unrelated and unsorted bottles of liquor. They were neither stacked nor organized, but merely arranged in giant, mountain-shaped piles that were taller than any of us. Our mission seemed clear.

“How much do we steal, and how do we load it out?”

“We gotta be careful. Dahl won’t approve.”

“Fuck it. Load it into everything. Gig bags, drum cases, hell, the drums themselves. We’ll drink our fucking per diem.”

It is, after all, a musician’s God-given right to steal any and all alcohol left unattended at any establishment wherein a musician might be providing services. It’s in the fine print. Check it out for yourself sometime, if you don’t believe me.

Meanwhile, Z has found another pastime. He calls it cold cut Frisbee. It seems harmless enough: merely take a few slices of cheap meat, find a random object, aim, and launch. Simon joins in and backhands a few choice hunks in Z’s direction. Soon the entire backstage area is covered with bologna and salami, garnished with freshly cut Swiss cheese. The circular wedges of pork hang off tables, chairs, instrument cases, and neatly hung coats, which resemble Salvador Dalí’s soft watches. It seems appropriate. After all, it was Spain.

Dahl enters and flips. “Who fucking threw food all over the place. Goddammit, I hate that kind of rock star bullshit. Who did it!?”

We’re all quiet. No one wants to tattle. No one really gives a shit. The people at this club seem a world apart from us, and truth be known, a little misplaced sausage is probably the least of their worries. But Dahl is bumming hard.

“I can’t believe you fuckers did this. Goddamn it!”

He storms out of the room, incapable of stomaching our presence another moment. Soon, it’s time to rock the good Basque revolutionaries.

“Well, shall we rock?” asked Rat with a smile. “I think it’s time. The kids are ready to rock!”

We march up the stairs to the waiting throngs of predominantly male Basque Separatists and deliver our most mediocre performance yet. It feels flaccid, unfulfilling, unrewarding, and forgettable. The best part is walking back and forth onstage—playing to the guys on this side of the wall, then peeking at the guys on that side of the wall. The crowd, who probably don’t get much entertainment in these here parts, is appreciative and spirited, and demand encore after encore, to the point of being ridiculous. We actually run out of material and must resort to “Louie Louie,” during which Kike and a half dozen other guys jump up onstage and join us.

Following the show, no one in the band or crew talks to each other. Downstairs and backstage, numerous locals have crowded into the small place to party with the traveling minstrels from afar. Pot is passed around, and the numerous running noses and grinding teeth indicate various forms of white powder, affectionately know as Spanish Breakfast, are in circulation. Chitchat goes in one ear and exits the other side. After much consumption and talk, we relocate upstairs and begin to move our equipment to the van outside.

We are amazingly disorganized tonight. No matter how much we talk to the locals, we’re not communicating with each other at all. Gear is coming and going with no game plan. No one pays attention to anyone else. Everyone, save Dahl, seems a bit high on something or other, and Dahl is drunk on a highball of anger itself, chased by pure hatred—a hatred for his own band, the Factsheet, those rock star meat-slingers. I’m moving across the dance floor of the club with a mountain of gear, trying to expedite our departure in any way I can. I have my heavy bass cabinet in its rolling hard case with the bass drum and some toms cased up and rolling on top. The whole pile is taller than I am. I roll it quickly across the floor, distracted only momentarily by an attractive girl who walks past, taking no notice of me. My eyes follow her, deserting what I’m doing, until I hit a crack in the floor tiles. My gear topples over, and, before I can regain control, tom toms are smashing on the head of this poor girl. An innovative icebreaker, wouldn’t you say? She rubs her head, and curses at me in Spanish. I apologize, but she walks away quickly.

The other members of the Dahl entourage move stuff around me, pay no heed to the accident, and don’t offer to help. They merely carry on like good little zombies.

Outside, it’s windy with the stars and moon creating as much light as the club’s fading fluorescent lights. I roll my pile toward the steps that lead to the van. A tall, drunk guy approaches, grabs the rolling cases from me, and starts pushing them toward the steps. I yell at him to watch it, but I could just as well be yelling at a piece of wood. Trying to catch the gear, which is about to tumble down the five or so steps, I end up getting sandwiched between the falling drums, cabinet, and the passenger side of the Renault. The bass hits my hip, crunching the bones, and throws me against the van. My head ricochets back and hits the car. Now I’m pissed.

“You stupid fuck! What’s the matter with you!”

“What’s up, Bruce?” asks Simon, sticking his head out of the van’s back door, where he’s stashing gear and dozens of stolen liquor bottles.

“This farmhand just tossed my amp down the steps!”

It’s safe to say the guy doesn’t understand English. He doesn’t come after me following the farmhand remark. He just stands there, dazed, staring at me like a freaking moron. I notice drool coming out of the side of his mouth, and he begins weaving on the steps, waving his arms, and shouting at me.

“Bloody, fucking stupid idiot,” reiterates Simon on my behalf. “Let’s try to get out of here as quickly as we can.”

Whatever the guy is shouting, it’s starting to draw a crowd. The steps fill with crazed-looking Basque Country killers, drunkards, and anarchists of all stripes. They look pissed off. They all weave and wobble like their de facto leader, and leer at us with expressions of hatred. Damn, aren’t these the same characters we were just wailing “Louie Louie” with? The girl who I’d just bonked on the head with Z’s ride tom emerges and points an accusing finger in my direction. Tim appears carrying the merchandise, and they all began to grab at it as he hurries past. The whole incident is beginning to resemble a scene from a George Romero zombie picture, with hordes of black-eyed, emotionless stiffs lurching toward us, slobbering, arms outstretched, and threatening. Their eyes—that’s the scariest part—they’re all black, cold, unfeeling, desperate, and dead looking, perhaps a bit hungry even. They’re capable of looking through you and past you, but not directly at you, not so much a mean look as heartless and soulless.

We all finally climb in the van, and Simon revs it up. They seem to surround it. As he starts backing out, they grab on and begin rocking the van as it moves, punching at it with their fists. Kike has missed departure, but we are outta here. Simon guns it, and the black-eyed zombies scatter, as if a bigger fear has come along. We ride toward the moon back to our safe, secluded farmhouse.

“I’m glad to fuckin’ be outta there,” slurs Simon. No one responds. I decide it’s time to clear the air.

“You know, I know we play all these shows, we never listen to tapes, we never talk about the music, but we really played a lackluster, shitty show tonight. I was starting to feel like we were really getting to be a pretty damn good band, and then we go and suck like we did tonight.”

“Yeah, and I just wanna say that I was really pissed off at whoever threw the food around the dressing room. That’s such petty rock star, Van Halen bullshit. This is my tour. It’s my name that’s on the line, and I won’t stand for that shit!” Dahl had spoken. I had spoken. No one else had a damn thing to say.

Back at the ranch, everyone scatters to their rooms silently, like cockroaches. Simon and I are sharing, and together we make our way to the front balcony after everyone else has apparently turned in. We light up some cigarettes, and turn in the direction of the chained dog that’s still barking nonstop. We bust out a newly acquired bottle of rum and begin drinking it straight from the bottle.

“Fucking Dahlby. I pour out my heart about the music, which is by and large his music, and what’s he going on about? Literal baloney, that’s what. He cares more about appearances than how we sound!”

“I see what you’re saying, but I see his point, too,” says Simon, working toward a future position in Parliament. “It’s his band, and you lot most likely won’t come back over to go through this again. He will. And if he feels it’s getting all messed up, well, he probably feels it’ll require more repair work from him to get it back up to snuff in the future.”

“Simon, that so-called dressing room hadn’t been swept since the seventies. What difference could a few pieces of headcheese possibly make in the overall scheme of things?”

“Look, I see both sides. Have a drink.” He hands me the bottle and continues. “I’ll tell you this. Dahl mentioned to me he’s having serious second thoughts about taking you lot to Japan. Me, it doesn’t affect me at all. I’m not going anywhere with any of you psychos following this expedition. But you guys, well, I would think going to Japan would be a big deal. He may just pick up a band there, now.”

“The bastard! He wouldn’t do that to me. We’ve been through thick and thin, together, damn it! We have history together. We have roots. He’s never had a band this good. Ditch us for a bunch of Japs!”

I’m seated on the edge of the balcony, balancing wildly and swilling liberal gulps from the rum bottle. I teeter over the edge, and begin to fall backwards toward the ground, some three stories below.

“Simon!” I shout as I lose my balance. My legs shoot up, beginning to dump me on my descent to the ground below. I toss down the bottle and barely grab the edge of the ledge, saving myself from an inevitable crippling tumble.

“Why’d you throw the bottle? I didn’t steal that many. Be more careful in the future,” admonishes Simon, who’d had his back turned while rolling yet another hashish spliff, not even noticing my near fatal fall.

“To hell with the joint,” I say, starting to lose my grip on rational thought. “Let’s sneak down and kill that fucking dog!”

“Are you serious?”

“Why not? I’ve never killed an animal before, not even a frog, but that bastard deserves to die. He’s barked nonstop since we got here, fucking organic car alarm. He doesn’t even have a decent watchdog. He’s the wolf that cried burglar. Let’s kill it! C’mon!”

“You know, McGruff. I have a lot of responsibilities that have come into play since I started this road-managing charade, yet, fortunately, animal extermination hasn’t become one of them. I think maybe it’s time we get you off to bed.”

I suppose he was right. Still, between the warring Basque zombies, my apathetic rock band, and the mindless cretin that keeps making unrelenting noise for no logical reason, I felt the uncontrollable desire to cause harm and pain. It seemed cathartic, purgative, cleansing. Still, no doubt about it, Simon was right. It just wouldn’t be polite to kill this nice family’s pet, no matter how much it truly deserved to die. Better to just go to sleep. Forget. Dream. Darkness.

Yeah.