In the Vise of the Grip in Roma...

Fanfulla 101 is a social club in one of Roma's few remaining liberal oases. In the wake of the recent mayoral election of dipshit neo-fascist Gianni Alemanno, cynics and depressives might expect the venue to be raised and its grounds cleared for gas chambers where "nomads" and other accursed immigrant scapegoats can be efficiently, "progressively eliminated." Oh, it's this fucking recurrent cough that makes me think of the very flawed human condition, and in a city as lovely as Roma, genuine rectitude can only be countered with the spurious indignation of craven ideologues... Anyway, the gig was killer, albeit performed under slightly stressful conditions (monitors the size of chocolate bars, a stand-offish, Chicago-style audience), and as I collapsed on the rear stage sofa in a wet, distorted heap I knew that I had found my second wind for the final leg of the tour. Only in exhaustion can one appreciate one's resilience. I hate that we have two days off in the next week, but these lapses could not be helped. A gig in Milano never materialized (the kind ministrations of Hundebiss and Nana Rape-Blossom notwithstanding) and the very thoughtful fans in Murders in the Rue Morgue did the best they could for us in Barcelona, but... If I'm going to be whipped half to death, then gimme the full complement of barbs...

Our host in Roma, Nick, the main man behind Spasticalia, housed Balazs, Dennis and myself last night after the gig. We spoke well into the night of Mendelssohn, Bach, Alessandro Moreschi, and the various international Idol variants. A great guy. Sickboy and Eva are decamped at Valerio's apartment near the venue, where gallows are presumably being constructed even as I hack up another sliver of lung...

Off to the Colosseum in a half hour. Photos, as ever, to follow.

Love,

Tom