Writing from the day room of a surprisingly luxe budget hotel in Torino. In the background, a mega-annoying DJ takes calls from local feebs; interspersed, hoary Tears for Fears and Rolling Stones singles. Homicidal rampage? Still an option...
Last evening's gig at the United Club was the least attended of the tour; our host, the great Fabrizio Palumbo, informed us with a sagacity doubtless born of bitter experience that a Monday night in Turin would likely only yield ten bodies. That we sold six CDs from such a meager mob speaks well either for their desire to alienate their flatmates or their enthusiasm for our increasingly malignant take on TLASILA. Hubris suppression medications (and this fucking unending splitting headache) prevent further rumination.
Met three especially cool people last night - the aforementioned Signor Palumbo, Luca and Tom from the superb Harshcore (who performed a great set of crawling process musique), and Nana RapeBlossom, erstwhile Suicide Girl and peerless sexual provocateur, who gamely drove from Milano with a photographer pal to witness the slow roil. I was genuinely shocked to find Nana backstage intoning my unholy moniker (she'd threatened to attend, but sent no confirmation), but regained my composure long enough to enjoy the expected brain-peeling conversations before and following our set. In the photos taken of us I easily adopted the role of il brutto...
(Bellezza e la bestia...)
(Missi/Nana and her companion were convinced that our Hungarian wonder, Balazs Pandi, was Nondor Nevai in the flesh!)
Collabs beckon for all of the above - they'll be some sort of Nana/Shave artifact in the near future, as well as a studio collab between me and Fabrizio or Fabrizio and TLASILA, or both, and a soon-to-be-issued split 3" CD from Harshcore and the Laura Ashley Ultras. It's good to be alive.
Strange dreams yesterday morning in Roma - the ever-spiraling mystery narrative of an ex-wife (the woman who inspired Wigmaker) consumed the greater part of the night. Awoke early to take in the Colosseum. The tourist queue to enter its grounds stretched into infinity, so we instead took a leisurely orbit about its base and sped away into the morning. We got lost somewhere around Genova, par for the course for a tour too poor to afford quality GPS but never afraid to blow 40 Euro at an Autogrill... Fuck it. Gotta eat shit sooner or later, and you may as well pay hard cash for the privilege.