LEEF art

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the cover of LEEF:



The art on this mofo was expertly executed by Alan Kahler (whose design is even more impressive when you consider that I was operating under pretty severe budget constraints). I would highly recommend Alan for any art project ya got.

"LEEF," by the way (I may as well explain it now) is an intentional mis-appropriation of one conjugation of the Dutch word for the verb "to live" (as in "I live," or simply a command: "live!"). Of course, since this is mostly a concert recording, I'm using "LEEF" as a way to play with the American word "live," referring to a performance in front of an audience (apparently this word doesn't translate very well into Dutch). Why embrace this linguistic slippage? I guess I liked the extra dimension that the (proper) Dutch usage brought -- cuz this album has basically been my life (though not my living) for almost two years now.

To complicate things even further, the Dutch word is actually pronounced "layf" -- though the picture of a leaf on the cover is meant to suggest the "long e" pronunciation.

Confused? Consider Läther as an inspiration.

(I must thank Steve Munley for helping me to understand some of these nuances of the Dutch language, by the way.)

What else? According to one urban dictionary, "leef" also refers to "excellence" (in American slang).

Oh, yeah, and there is also the Chaucerian word "lief," which, if I'm remembering correctly, can refer to "beloved," "dear," or "willing." (Too tired to link it right now.)

Why all caps? I dunno, I think it looks cool.

Take your meanings where you will.

Catching up, part three

Continued from part two. (And here's part one.)

Another so-so night's sleep on Thursday, but no worries. Friday (May 18), the day of our last show for this tour, was more or less guaranteed to be a frazzle-fest for me anyway. As it turned out I made a half-hearted attempt to explore the city with my family during the day, but at some point pre-gig panic (the malady I usually come down with in the 12 hours or so before a performance) drew me inevitably back to the hotel room, where I paced, triple-checked our performance details, and took, like, three showers.

I finally emerged at about 2:30. The lobby of the hotel was abuzz now with other performers, some of whom I recognized. At one point I almost tripped over some of the dudes in Ladysmith Black Mambazo, but was too shy to follow up on my email request that they join us for the choral section that ends our closer ("Fuck the Muck"). I still think that would have been an amazingly absurd moment, but whatever. (Actually, I later learned that they were performing at exactly the same time we were, so it wouldn't have been possible to follow through on this hare-brained scheme of mine.)

I checked the group in at the lobby registration desk (wristbands and dinner passes and all that), and a little before 3 PM we all headed over to the World Forum Convention Center, which is where the show was going to be happening later that night. That's right -- two sound checks in as many days! The stage manager, Rene -- a really affable dude with a strong British accent -- had to deal with a few sudden changes to the stage plot I had provided ahead of time (we tend to improvise the physical configuration of the group based on the space, so stage plots are always approximate), and thus the check turned out to be a little rushed. One might even say that there was no room for "jazzytation." (Sorry, inside joke there. Consider the Dutch pronunciation of "j" as "h" and you'll get the drift.) But no matter -- in the end, there was pretty much only one "musical" consideration from the POV of the sound amplification folks: mic everything and make sure it's fucking loud.



Sound check over, we dallied until dinner (which turned out to be a kickass meal just like the one we had had at the Bimhuis the night before), and at some point I decided to take a stroll through the building. By this time (6 or 7 PM), the place was a madhouse of sorts (I would later learn that there were seven thousand people at the festival that evening). I was surprised to discover that the Convention Center was actually charging people to use the bathrooms (thankfully, I learned later, we artists got free access to same -- which is fortunate given the amount of beer we would end up consuming before the night was over). I was also surprised to discover the number of mannequins observing the proceedings, many of them stealthily dangling from trapezes. Yes, trapezes:





Apparently, in Holland, jaunty mannequins = jazz. I will assume that this choice of decor was not intended as a wry comment on the stiff, robotic quality of a lot of the stuff that passes for music nowadays. I will assume this even though our set was preceded by a band that (in my humble opinion) epitomized this stiff, robotic quality. I didn't catch their name, but let me describe them for you: picture five or six very handsome, well-groomed young gentlemen doing what I can only guess was their best impression of an eighties metal "hair band" playing fusion jazz. It was absolutely priceless, and "Miles' Home" (the name of the performance space we both appeared in) was chock full of people all digging on this particular groove. I ducked out of the green room and into the crowd several times, and each time found myself wondering if we could possibly compete.

Not that we had much of a choice at that point; somehow it was suddenly 10 PM and we were off and running with our show.

Perhaps this is as good a place as any to delineate for all y'all who haven't seen our current set the various onstage characters played by the group members when they aren't playing themselves. (It's sort of a strange facet of the group, these costumes we wear. Though I get a huge kick out of it, I sometimes wonder why we do it. Then I remember: dada!) First we have the animals: the Queen Bee, played by Jill Knapp (who as the procurer of many of the other costumes is largely responsible for the sartorial directions the band is taking); the crab and lobster, played by Phil Rodriguez and Katharina Thomsen, respectively (actually, I can never tell the lobster and the crab apart, which is why I'm lumping them together here); and the chicken, played by Brian Walsh (who also sometimes plays a generic "construction guy"). Our two other characters: 1. the wretched creature played by Cory Wright (jumpsuited and be-wigged, one can only guess the provenance), and 2. the hot dog, played by Dan Rosenboom (this character apparently became the source of a bit of double-entendre-laden banter Dan encountered during the inevitable trolling that a single musician does at a big festival after a great performance). You can see some of these characters here:



The characters and the non-characters (and the music, I guess), were, as far as I could tell, throughly enjoyed by these good people:



By the time we were about halfway through our set, the room was very crowded. Once again, the Dutch proved that they needed no coaxing to get into our schtick. Throughout the convention center, the doors to each performance space were open, so that wandering festival-goers could overhear what was going on in each. In our case it seemed like a lot of them actually stopped in to listen. I had thought that we had already seen all manner of audience participation -- dancing, bobbing, hooting, and so on -- but during this performance I found myself pleasantly surprised once more when the audience started singing some of the tunes right along with us. This may seem strange, since nothing we were performing had been "officially" released yet, and since it's all fairly complicated stuff -- but at the same time there are portions of our music that draw on well-worn snippets of popular song (usually recontextualized in strange ways, but recognizeable if you listen). It's just that we've never met an audience bold enough to jump in with those bits on the fly. Bravo, brave people of Holland!

Anyway, at set's end we had gone over our allotted one hour performance time by a few minutes. It was one of those awkward situations where I got the "10 minute" sign as we were about two thirds of the way through our penultimate tune. It would have been stupid to just stop after said penultimate tune -- the audience was clearly into what we were doing, and our aforementioned closer, "Fuck the Muck," is the song with which we always "go in for the kill," so to speak. "Muck" is at least 10 minutes long (it ends differently from night to night, so you never know), and thus when we launched into it with about five minutes to spare, I thought there would be trouble from the powers that be. But afterwards, as we struggled to get off the stage -- a little difficult to do when the audience really wants you to keep playing -- Rene came up and enthusiastically informed me that we were the best band he'd heard at the festival. I don't know if we were that good, but I thanked him anyway. Then he asked us to get off the stage as soon as possible.

The next five or six hours were, in a word, carnivalesque. It was a little overwhelming, actually, what with the lights, colors, sounds, and people. At first I fell in with a pair of very gracious Dutch musicians who had seen the show and insisted on buying me beer after beer (after beer after beer). Caught little bits of some of the other festival performances in the process -- a little Percy Sledge here, a little James Carter there. (Nothing terribly inspiring, I must say -- though that may have been because I was too exhausted... and relieved... to attend to any more music that night.) Bid adieu to my new friends, and found myself back at the hotel, where an afterparty for the performers was in full swing. I will say one thing for the smooth jazz cats -- whatever their taste in music, they ain't no slackers when it comes to the ladies. I must've seen the bass player from Spyro Gyra hit on like ten different women in the space of an hour. (Incidentally, I recently learned that the latest Spyro Gyra album is called Good to Go Go, a title which (you may forgive me for concluding) sounds suspiciously influenced by our own Industrial Jazz a Go Go! And we all know that Spyro Gyra are big IJG fans. So, like, what the hell, fellas?)

Then, with a little coaxing, I went from the festival afterparty to the IJG afterparty, which was taking place in one of the hotel rooms (I forget whose). I commented earlier about things to do in Amsterdam, right? You probably won't be surprised that various members of the group had procured some of these things when we had been in that good city on the previous evening. And now these things were being joyously smoked in the aforementioned hotel room. And a splendid time was had by all.

This is true even though the Dutch stuff did nothing for me personally. To be honest (uh-oh, I sense a tangent), I've always had a very tenuous and troubled relationship with pot. Seems like every band I've been in, somebody has wanted to get me high. Most of the time I demur -- some kind of anti-social gene kicks in, or something. But I've partaken enough times, and with such feeble results, to begin to strongly suspect that I may be one of those poor bastards who is actually immune to the stuff. (On a related note, I have also never ever been bothered by the smell of garlic or so-called "garlic breath." In fact I freakin' love garlic. I'm just weird that way.) I suppose my possible "resistance to cannabis" is a good thing to some extent -- lord knows I already have enough addictions -- but it doesn't stop me from wondering what all my stoner friends are raving about. And it doesn't stop me from being bummed by the fact that some rheumatologists will prescribe medical marijuana as a viable treatment for the particular strain of arthritis I have.

Okay, I've already dragged this story on for far too long. Here are the highlights of the last 24 hours or so of the tour:

1. Saturday was a free day. I spent it with Daphne and Thandie, wandering around the city, and just generally relaxing for the first time in weeks. We were thrilled to find a museum dedicated to M. C. Escher (if I ever become a rapper, by the way, that's going to be my stage name). Not only because of the bitchen prints (of course), but also because the place was illuminated by the most intriguing array of chandeliers I have ever seen (not Escher's -- I don't know who created them, actually). Below is a skull-and-crossbones chandelier that any card-carrying modernist would be pleased to have hovering over their dinner table.



2. Also on Saturday, we temporarily misplaced a few of our personnel. (!) I won't go into the sordid details here, but suffice it to say that (all night partying) + (an unforseen change of hotels) + (the fact that most US cellphones don't work in Europe) = a somewhat nailbiting end to this particular adventure. The cliffhanger factor was such that when I boarded the plane home on Sunday morning (mine was one of the first flights out), I still didn't know where one of my guys was, or whether he was going to get to the airport in time. Of course, everyone made it home safely. (Of course, I say "of course" now...)

* * * * *

So that's it. That's the saga. It was a seriously kickass tour. Huge thanks again to everyone who made it possible, and to all the musicians who participated.

(Pause.)

Um, what do we do now?

Catching up, part two

(Continued from part one.)

On Thursday (May 17) I woke up on the early side (night-time back pain can be a powerful alarm clock) and immediately set to confirming how we were going to get to Amsterdam (about an hour away from Den Haag) for that evening's gig at the world-famous Bimhuis (and here I must extend gratitude to Wolter Wierbos, whose longstanding connections with this venue are, I am convinced, what got us the gig). The festival folks had informed me that they'd be able to provide us with transportation to Amsterdam, but this seemed almost like too much to hope for, given the distance involved and the fact that our Bimhuis show had nothing to do with our festival shows. Rien, the transportation coordinator (who, incidentally, epitomized that Dutch tendency toward what I can only call "gruff good cheer") had assured me the night before that we'd be able to work it out, as long as I gave him our schedule in advance. We had already discussed departure and return times, but knowing the way these sorts of things can fall apart in a moment's notice, I was still trying to be proactive.

My worries were unwarranted. The vans (driven by Hans and Jo) picked us up (with Josh Sinton now in the mix) at around 1 PM, and we made it to Amsterdam without incident. Actually, once we got there, we did have some trouble finding the venue, but in our travels we got better acquainted with the city, which was nice. Somewhere along the way a third leitmotif of the tour emerged: the question that has haunted me (and flummoxed many an unsuspecting Ministry fan) since the inception of the group: "What exactly is Industrial Jazz"? In this case it came from Hans, I think, and if I have ever fretted about trying explain the group name to a fellow American, in this case the task seemed more daunting because of the cultural differences at hand (even though Hans spoke perfect English). Truth be told, "Industrial Jazz" has had multiple different personal meanings for me, and I have more or less rotated them depending on the interview or conversation. But at this point it's just a term that refers to the music this group makes (as Zappa once said when asked about the goofiness of his titles: "Well, ya gotta call 'em something"). Anyway, I'm no longer interested in definitions per se. I told Hans the group name had to do with chocolate, and we left it at that.



Outside the Bimhuis: stairway to heaven. (L-R: Rosenboom, Schnelle, Schenck, Canniere, Francis.)

We arrived in time for a quick bite before our sound check (at which point I discovered two quirks in Dutch restaurant culture: 1. You never need to wait to be seated. You just sit. 2. It would probably be impossible to have a "power lunch" in Holland. Cuz, like, no one seems to be in a rush to get anywhere). From there we infiltrated the stage.

I have to say, the Bimhuis is a trippy place. The venue itself is ensconced within a larger structure (the MuziekGebouw, itself a performance space for classical music), which sits right on the River IJ. There is a gigantic window behind the stage so that from the audience one can see the city, and more specifically the trains that regularly stop across the street. (For our show these windows were covered by curtains, because I had decided to do a full-on multitrack recording and we were trying to cut down on unnecessary reflections.)



A room with a view: the Bimhuis stage, viewed from the audience, pre-show.

Most of you probably know that the BH moved a few years ago. The original space, where the venue established its world-renown, had actually been receiving noise complaints (sound familiar?). According to Wolter, what the original lacked in high falutin' appearance, it made up for in a more musicianly vibe -- it was, apparently, the place for jazz musicians to hang out in the city. But I don't know; I for one didn't have much to complain about regarding the new incarnation. The entire venue was beautiful and clean. We had a spacious green room, bowls of fruit and candy, plenty of beverages, a few practice / warmup rooms, access to a computer, and a generally comfortable and relaxing environment. Oh, and all this was supported by the freakin' government.

Anyway, we had a team of maybe four or five people to help us with our stage setup, blew through a good soundcheck (though I stupidly neglected to run through "Yo, Jimbo!," our "extra" tune, because I thought we had more than enough material to play), and took a short break before dinner.

There are of course many things to do in Amsterdam (I'll have more to say about some of them by and by), but I ended up playing it pretty low-key in the interim between soundcheck and dinner by heading across the street with Jill and Matt to get a (tiny) cup of coffee at a mysterious place called "11." Here was the schtick, if you must know: the place was a restaurant located on the eleventh floor of an abandoned (condemned, in fact) building. Since the site was scheduled for demolition at some point in the near future, someone (the proprietor of the restaurant? the city itself?!) had given the green light to a general paint-off, and as a result much of the building was decorated in some of the most beautiful (and some of the bleakest) grafitti I have ever seen. (The restaurant itself actually seemed sort of lame in comparison, even though they were clearly trying to extend the artistic vibe to their dining experience.)



"11" graffiti, exhibit A.



"11" graffiti, exhibit B.

Made it back to the venue in time for a kick-ass buffet dinner (this is what we musicians call the "royal treatment") and then general futzing around before the show. Somehow in the process of said futzing, I was jarred out of my pre-gig mellow and drawn irresistably toward a manic burst of music-making that was coming through the theater door (the Bimhuis restaurant is separated from the performance space by a wall). This was the duo of Tatiana Koleva (on marimba and percussion) and Rutger van Otterloo (on saxophone), the first act of the evening. Two things blew me away as I stepped into the theater to get a better hear:

1. Koleva's marimba playing was great, but it was really when she moved over to the drumset and began playing it while simultaneously triggering a whole array of profanity-laced samples (from what source, I dunno), all in the kookiest rhythmic combinations and in extreme tightness with Otterloo, that I had that all-too-rare feeling of not being able to tear myself away from a performance. It was stunning -- and it was all the more successful because, cynic that I am, I generally approach any "art music" involving samples with extreme caution; usually I get the sense that folks who indulge in this sort of thing are trying too hard to convince me of their hipness. But I never once got that "forced" feeling with this duo.

2. There were, uh, people in the audience. Not sold out, but a pretty healthy crowd for a Thursday night after 9 PM (perhaps the turnout was affected by the fact that in the Netherlands, the sun is just setting at 9:30). Phil Rodriguez, who was also drooling over the Koleva/Otterloo performance, remarked that a show like this would bring out maybe ten people in New York, and three people in Los Angeles. Maybe that was a little bit of an exaggeration, but there was an essential truth underneath it, and I consequently stole the observation for some of my between-song-banter later in the evening. In any case, as we (and a few of the other IJG folks) stared incomprehensibly at the numerous couples and friends out for an evening of dinner and crazy music -- well, there was a bit of a kid-in-a-candy-store thing going on. (I'm sure we looked like idiots.)

All of this was a great way to kick off the evening. I must admit that I more or less couldn't focus on the second act (a trio called Spoon 3) -- not sure if it was something inherent in their performance or just that I was anxious to play, but I spent the next hour or so (we were the final act of the evening) pacing, as is my wont, and watching the antics of my fellow Industrials; antics which included a "clash of the titans" moment between a crab, a lobster, and a chicken:



Phil Rodriguez, Katharina Thomsen, and Brian Walsh work out their artistic differences.

The performance itself flew by (we went on at 11 PM). Blah, blah, blah, we got an encore (would've been nice to have rehearsed "Yo Jimbo," n'est-ce pas?), we almost got another encore (but we had nuthin' else to play) -- you can get more of the details at Jill's recap post. For me, one of the most interesting aspects of our portion of the evening (confirmed later when I started working my way through the recording) was the emergence of a unified looseness in the group sound. In the past I have generally aimed for precision when it came to the execution of my written charts. I have tended to shy away from recording the band's live performances, because I was always concerned with things staying as "close to the ink" as possible... and the ink is, well, difficult to execute. But I have never subscribed to the "benevolent dictator" model of the composer-conductor, and I think everyone in the band has known that, and with this show there was a strange transmogrification of the set, in that the majority of the players knew the music well enough to be able to play it as if it were all improvised. In other words, the group as a whole started to develop some of the suppleness -- in terms of well-placed and judicious interpretive liberties that never sacrificed the cohesion of a given piece -- that is usually only possible in a smaller configuration (a quartet or quintet, say). They owned the music -- an exceedingly difficult thing to do in a big band setting. Once again, my hat is off to the cats involved: I am humbled and in awe.

Trusty Hans and Jo picked us up at around 1 AM, and it was back to Den Haag for a little shuteye. And that's the wrap-up for day two. Next: IJG live at the World Forum Convention Center.

Catching up, part one

What a week.

Hell: what a year. Even if I factor in the less-than-inspiring turnout at our Pacific Northwest gigs this past March, 2007 has been one incredible period for the band so far. So much so that if you had told me, even last December, that we'd be where we are right now, I'd've thought you were loopy or something.

Our Bakersfield appearance of eleven days ago was the perfect continuation of the good vibes established with January's "IJG on Ice" east coast tour (vibes which had already been extended by the late March shows we did in SoCal -- especially our Dizzy's hit, an annual tradition that always yields a good time). The behind-the-scenes machinations here really point to the essential without-which-not of this business: stubborn, single-minded persistence. Getting the group to a place where it can be self-sustaining seems to require a maniacal degree of stick-tuitiveness (what's that definition of insanity again?). At least, in the case of Bakersfield, the madness was not entirely mine -- Kris Tiner (whose new CD, by the way, is absolutely gorgeous) had been trying to get us into that festival for a few years now. Thank [insert the deity of your choice -- or not] that he finally succeeded, and thank (festival director) Doug Davis for taking a chance on our wacky monstrosity, because we broke numerous personal bests with this show: 1. the highest per-person fee I've been able to pay without losing money myself, 2. the biggest audience we have ever had, 3. the first time (I think) we had ever had bona fide dancing by audience members, 4. the first time we have ever had a trailer (all to ourselves), 5. the first time the big band has ever been fed before a show, 6. the most CDs sold at a single show (19), 7. the most CDs I have ever had to sign after a show (I didn't count, but it was a lot). It was quite unbelievable and quite delightful all at once.

Needless to say, it's a fucking shame that Kris and Damon (Zick, one of the other IJG stalwarts), who have both been in the front lines with this group for a long time, and have both weathered some pretty out-and-out shit gigs with us, weren't able to cash in on the fruit of their hard work by joining us for the Netherlands trip. Suffice it to say that both gentlemen had very good reasons for being unable to go abroad, and both know (I hope) that they will be more-than-welcome to make the return trip, should one be offered. Of course, their subs were both able and beautiful players, about whom I shall have more to say by-and-by. All of this is just for the record.

Anyway, last week's journey out to the "low countries" was not without its share of stresses, but not for the reasons I had expected. Daphne and Thandie came along for the tour as well (we had some vague notion of giving Thandie a "character building experience" that none of her toddler buddies could match), and I'll confess that one of my biggest worries getting on the plane was that the little one wouldn't sleep at all during the flight out. Turns out she passed out somewhere over Ohio, and slept, well, like a baby until we got over the North Sea. By then we were flying into the sunrise, and it was the next day. Her folks, in the meanwhile, had fretted the night away, wide awake. Ah, parenthood!



Must be nice.

However, I digress. I learned during a frantic layover in Houston that not one, but two of our esteemed number (Phil Rodriguez and Josh Sinton) had unfortunately missed their flight to Holland earlier that afternoon. Turns out international flights out of JFK are very difficult to make. Kudos to the dudes for not giving up: in the end, Phil was able to get an alternate flight (to Belgium, I think) that got him over in time for Wednesday's gigs. Poor Josh fared less well, but he nevertheless arrived in time for the Bimhuis gig on Thursday. Whew.

Anyway, mine was the next-to-last of the IJG flights to arrive Wednesday morning (May 16), and by early afternoon the entire group (sans Josh) had been shuttled (courtesy our Dutch drivers -- Hans, Jo, and a few others whose names I didn't get (volunteers all, by the way, and a more cheerful bunch you will not find anywhere)) from Schiphol to the hotel in Den Haag, a quaint little number located next to the World Forum Convention Center (the locus of the festival). In addition to Daphne and Thandie, we were accompanied by a few other significant others / auxiliary members of the group: Matt Lichtenwalner, affiliated with Jill; and Kay [sorry Kay, don't know your last name], affiliated with Cory. Both would prove to be of invaluable assistance -- Matt as a videographer and all-around "what can I do to help out?" sort of dude (if this band ever gets somewhere, I can easily see him in a tour manager sort of role), and Kay as a dispenser of CDs and collector of money. I hereby officially thank them both for their help.



A couple of couples: Matt, Jill, Kay, Cory (L-R).

European newbie that I was, I immediately noted a few things about our temporary home-away-from-home: 1. Everyone speaks English to some degree. Even the TV is primarily in English. 2. It is not unusual to find beer in vending machines. Heineken is the beer of choice in said machines. (Okay, so the system isn't perfect.) 3. Everyone smokes. A lot. It's like they don't believe in cancer. 4. The coffee, which is exquisite, comes in very small doses. (And incidentally, I didn't see a single Starbucks the entire time I was in-country.)

Anyway, we made our various introductions (this special international version of the group [personnel here] included west coasters, east coasters, and Europeans) and then set off to our first show, a half-hourish "preview" thing designed to pique people's interest in the festival proper. It was free, it was outdoors (somewhere in the midst of a fun little shopping area of the city), and it was windy as fuck. At one point during the performance I watched in horror as some of Wolter Wierbos's music blew clear across the stage and under the drum kit. Given those conditions, and the fact that we had a few brand-new folks on board, I was genuinely surprised when we made it to the end of the set without any train wrecks.

Now, it's always difficult for me to judge the reaction of any given IJG audience, seeing as how my back is to them most of the time during a show. Of course I was well aware going into this that Europe in general has a fantastical reputation amongst jazz musicians as a fairytale haven of "true jazz lovers." But I have also always wondered how much of that is exaggerated, fed by a level of rejection-by-one's-home-country so telling as to make even the slightest appreciation abroad appear much more significant than it is. I suppose there must be a pretty broad range of experiences out there, but as for the reception we got -- well, it started out great and only got better. This first show had a pretty good crowd going -- it was, after all, outside, and people just got swept up in what we were doing as they were out running errands or whatever. The fact that we didn't scare folks off -- the reaction we probably would have had given a similar public performance situation in the states -- suggests a real difference in the everyday relationship that Dutch people have with the arts. While we have our street fairs, of course, the music is usually that which, by virtue of its commercial viability, most complements the sea of commerce in which it is situated.

Anyway I think with this first show that we succeeded in our goal of charming the people of Den Haag. (And I must say that the preview concept is brilliant, particularly for a festival this young -- it may in part help explain why the thing eventually sold out.) Next we indulged in our first round of Dutch beer, and then everyone piled back into the vans and was driven back to the hotel. This even though we were scheduled to have dinner -- which, we soon learned, was located at the next performance site. (In other words, no sooner did we empty out of the vans then we had to pile back in. And such is how it goes with a large festival like this.)

Site number two was adjacent to one of the many public squares that can be found throughout the city. It was a bit of a bigger stage, a bit windier, with a bit more of an urban vibe. (Like a moron I neglected to write down any of the location addresses (or even pick up a map) while I was in the Netherlands. But I think this area is referred to as the Grote Markt or "Big Market.") There were a few things that were particularly notable about this set -- which was also well-received by a moderately-large crowd. The first notable thing was our MC, whose name I didn't catch, but who is apparently well-known by his countrymen. He announced us in the raspiest, most gruff voice I have ever heard (he sounded sort of like Miles Davis being strangled by Howlin' Wolf, or maybe vice versa). It was quite comical for many of us in the band to hear these strings of spastically-uttered gutteral Dutch words, punctuated by words we recognized, despite the heavy accent (e.g. "[dutch word] - [dutch word] -[dutch word] -[dutch word] -Tuxedo Trouble!", or ""[dutch word] - [dutch word] -[dutch word] -[dutch word] -Industrial Jazz!").



Our mysterious raspy announcer is the guy in the white sport coat. Also visible, left to right: Wolter Wierbos (playing the keyboard), Beth Schenck, James Hirschfeld, and Dan Schnelle (getting all meta on our asses by taking a picture of me taking a picture).

The other notable thing about this show is that we came face to face (for the first time, in my case) with the formidable force known as Spyro Gyra. We thought we had a good crowd, but the Spyros were mobbed. And once they started playing, you could see why. It was like being on a cruise ship without ever having to leave dry land. Silly me: I thought Lee Ritenour was the man!



Fuck Industrial Jazz. Gimme that Spyro Jazz!

Actually, the Spyros provided the first of several leitmotifs for the tour. Later that same evening, while back at the hotel, quietly enjoying my fourth or fifth beer (alcohol is like air over there), and mulling over the events of the day, I involuntarily overheard an argument between two members of the group. Somebody had pissed somebody else off, and person number two was not going to take it anymore. (Oh, jeez. Their music is so bubbly, who knew they were such tortured souls?) Jill mentions another occurrence of the SG leitmotif here (find it quickly by searching for the word "grope").

The second leitmotif, discovered after tearing myself away from this eavesdropping situation, emerged during a drunken conversation between Schnelle, Brian, Jill, Matt, and myself. Dan, it turns out, is an anthropologist of sorts; his research has primarily consisted of compiling a dictionary of beyond-the-pale-sex-acts-that-go-by-funny-names, such as the infamous Alaskan Pipeline. These, in turn, would work their way into the various lacunae that populate our music (such as the constantly-changing four syllable utterance that concludes "Hang Ten Through Hell").

So that's the wrap-up for day one. Next: IJG live at the Bimhuis.