Though their weathered, culturally-sensitive writers may deny it, travel guides traffic in generalization. I quote my Lonely Planet Western Europe (Lonely Planet Publications, 2005): “The Scottish regard themselves as a separate race occupying the same island as the English and Welsh” (p. 221); “Some 90% of France’s Muslim community are non-citizens; many are illegal immigrants” (p. 264); “Bologna’s reputation for spawning fiery rhetoric and socialist sympathies has mutated into a more agreeable one of open-ness and tolerance” (p. 735). Lonely Planet’s blithe four-column portraits of entire foreign countries may nibble at accuracy but, for Royalist Scots, Muslim citizens of France, and Maoist Bolognese, are difficult to swallow. However, I find it impossible not to add my own observations to Lonely Planet’s overflowing collection of stereotypes: the Spanish love tile.

I am American, and have an American’s appreciation for tile. This hardy building material—multicolored and often arranged in visually-pleasing patterns—is appropriate for kitchen floors, kitchen countertops, backsplashes, bathrooms, and, for those who have the means, gardens and outdoor areas. Yet, an American determined to build a rock and roll venue armored in tile might be thought an eccentric fetishist, and be shunned by potential performers and audiences. “That tile-apologist’s rock and roll venue is very cold, and the sound too harsh and reverberant,” someone might say. “Yes,” someone else might agree. “Why have a punk band play in the acoustic equivalent of a swimming pool?”

Spain’s senors, senoras, y senoritas have an answer to this question: “Why not?” (Though, in truth, I suspect the Spanish equivalent of this English rhetorical form does not exist.) In one week, I have played at two ably-tiled Spanish clubs. Intricate mosaics line foyers, stages, backstages, bars, green rooms, and—if one wishes to go outside—city sidewalks. Tile patterns of all imaginable shape and sizes delight the eye and amplify the upper frequencies of all instruments, but most particularly the snare drum.

Though tile is less-than-spectacular venue-construction material, my time is Spain has proven less tragic than Don Quixote’s and less painful than George Orwell’s. Promoters have proven well-organized. Audiences have been enthusiastic. In Bilbao, I was taken to a charming cafe to dine on tortillas. In San Sebastian, I breathed the salty air of the Bay of Biscay and scoured bookshops for libros en ingles. If I could stop speaking pidgin Italian to those I meet and begin speaking pidgin Spanish, I would be well off. Again I cannot complain about Spain, but must remark that tile has outlasted Franco.

I thought to provide pictures of explemary Spanish tile, but find that they have been more ably photographed elsewhere. Instead, I post a portrait of a dog I met in Bilbao named Ven. Ven is not an enviable moniker—it is a verb in the imperative form, the Spanish equivalent of “Come here!” My photo expresses Ven’s melancholy, as he is the tortured king of a three-storey tile realm—the sole guard of a Spanish concert promoter’s ceramic home. Unfortunately for Ven, this Spanish concert promoter loves Unsane, treble-crazy pracitioners of New York aggro-metal whose music attacks the peaceful, pink shores of a dog’s inner ears, becoming more and more trebly with each reverberation and, finally, driving Ven slowly crazy with penetrating frequencies above and beyond 60,000 hertz.

A day off while on tour in Europe? Who wouldn’t want one? Perhaps Mike Watt best addressed the advisability of a “day off” on tour when he said: “If you’re not playing, you are paying.” Though a day off on the continent may provide an opportunity for sightseeing, resting vocal chords, and watching MTV Europe, these leisure activities are ruined by the feeling that one is paying to do something unrelated to what one came to Europe to do. Every day my band does not play in Europe still costs 140 Euro for gear and van rental—a small amount, but one that can still break our budget. I cannot imagine what a day off costs for the reunited Stooges, as I suspect that their members have more equipment and larger appetites than I do.

Still, I took advantage of my day off and read The Age of Innocence, by Edith Wharton. This Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, published in 1920, details the emotional crisis of Newland Archer, a bourgeois who struggles with the stifling norms of 1870’s New York capital-”S” Society. Though Newland is engaged to May Welland, a vapid debutante from a “good” family, he has fallen in love with her cousin, Countess Olenska. Olenska, a free-thinking Bohemian, has fallen from grace—trapped in a bad marriage to the openly unfaithful Polish Count Olenski, she refuses to play the good wife and ignore her husband’s scandalous behavior. Instead, she leaves Europe for New York, seeking a new life. Though Olenska loves Archer as he loves her, their affair de amour is doomed—after much ado, neither proves strong enough to resist Society’s expectations and follow their hearts. Three decades after Newland marries May, she dies, and he is given the opportunity to see Olenska again. Heartbreakingly, Newland refuses, realizing that he cannot resurrect his chance to find happiness with his beloved. Here, Wharton’s monument to melancholy ends.

Some may find it unusual for a 30-year old male to read a novel of manners while on a rock and roll tour. Those who doubt my literary tastes may wish to visit the English-language section of a typical European bookstore to see what is available beyond “the classics.” Here is a partial list of books I have read while in Europe:

Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser
The Mayor of Casterbridge by Thomas Hardy
Sons and Lovers by D.H. Lawrence
Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen
Anna Karenina by Fyodor Dostoyevksy
The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway
For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway
Across the River and Into the Trees by Ernest Hemingway
Hemingway: A Biography by Jeffrey Meyers

To those interested in The Age of Innocence who do not wish to read it: Edith Wharton’s novel was later made into an Oscar-winning film by American visionary Martin Scorcese starring Daniel-Day Lewis (Newland Archer), Michelle Pfeiffer (Countess Olenska), and Winona Ryder (May Welland). Though The Age of Innocence is often overlooked by those who fetishize Scorcese’s uber-violent gangster pictures, the film is a triumph of actorly restraint and costume design.

For eighteen months in the late 1980’s, I wore braces. My braces corrected my overbite, but the braces-wearing experience was uncomfortable, and I will not repeat it. However, human society has been beset by a phenomenon I like to call “adult braces.” I am not a dental historian, but suspect that adult braces (a.k.a. grills) originated in the hip-hop community. Now, the trend has been exported to Europe. Exhibit A: the Spanish band Sex Museum.

Sex Museum is a quintet from Madrid—vocals, guitar, keyboard, bass, and drums. I found myself making smart-ass remarks about Sex Museums aesthetics—think Eurotrash cock and roll, or L.A. garage with blousy shirts—but was forced to check my bullshit American attitude for the following reasons:

1. Sex Museum very generously allowed my band to jump their bill in rural Verbania, Italy. At this show, my band played, sold merch, was fed and housed on what would have been a money-burning “day off” in Europe.
2. Though rock critics and nitwit record collectors may groan to hear me say it, Sex Museum sounds like the Stooges.

Forced to abandon my cynicism by these Spanish Good Samaritans, I turned my attention to interpreting Sex Museum’s dental work. Three-fifths of this band—the vocalist, the guitarist, and the keyboardist—have procured adult braces. These braces were not the ubiquitous, unsightly metal that mars the features of many crooked-tooth adolescents, but constructed of a clear, plasticene material that shone in the Italian sun like glimmering beams of light reflected from a wine-dark sea. I could not discern what purpose these adult braces served—all members of Sex Museum are quite attractive and, from my perspective, require no grillwork. However, as the saying goes here in the Old World, “fashion trumps function.”

Over dinner, I was able to strike up a conversation with Sex Museum’s bass player, a Spanish Adonis with a flowing mane ‘o glorious black hair and, unlike his bandmates, no adult braces (see blurry picture above). As he does not speak English and I do not speak Spanish, our repartee was restricted to band-related topics. Sex Museum has played Mexico, it turns out—the bass player assured me that it is “an incredible party.” The gentleman also encouraged me to play Madrid, where “there are many wonderful nightclubs.” I was keen to hear more about these parties and nightclubs, but, when not worrying about all the adult braces in the room, was distracted by the name “Sex Museum.”

“Sex is not something you put in a museum!” I longed to say. “Sex is not a dead thing to be hung on the wall, like a Renaissance portrait or hunting trophy! Sex is to be celebrated—a living, organic, mysterious thing that plays its Freudian part in all our lives! Your band should be called ‘Sex Parade,’ or ‘Sex in Your Face,’ or even ‘Destination: Sex!’” Lacking the Spanish to convey these complex ideas, I was forced to ask the first question that came to mind.

“Are there many incredible parties and wonderful nightclubs in Barcelona?” I asked.

“Yes,” Sex Museum’s bass player assured me. I do not doubt his opinion.

My first European booking agent was an Italian from Pisa. On my first day in Italy, we wandered around the streets of Pisa killing time until our first show. At one point, my booking agent pulled me into a pizzeria, pointed at an unfamiliar food item, and said, “Eat this.” What my booking agent pointed at was cecina, and thus began my love affair with this obscure gustatory delight.

I have had cecina three times in my life, each time in Pisa or neighboring Livorno. In Pisa and Livorno, cecina (SHESHINA) is available at some—but by no means all—pizzerias. Cecina is an oily cake sold cheaply by the slice. It looks like pizza with no sauce and no cheese. Though I’m told it is not made with egg, it has the consistency of an omelette and a mild, salty, nutty flavor.

There are many things I don’t understand about cecina:

1. I don’t understand why cecina has two names. Livornese living fifteen minutes from Pisa claim not to know what cecina is, but eat an identical food called cinque cinque. Meanwhile, Pisans claim not to know what cinque cinque is.

2. I don’t understand what cecina is made of. A Livorese friend told me cinque cinque was made of chickpea flour, and was called cinque cinque because it has five ingredients (cinque is Italian for five). However, he couldn’t speak enough English to explain what these ingredients were, and I can’t speak enough Italian to seek clarification.

3. I don’t understand why cecina can only be found in Pisa and Livorno. I have asked citizens of both towns why they have a monoply on the cuisine, but no one knows, or tries to explain in Italian, which I can’t understand.

4. I don’t understand cecina’s place in Italian food and culture. Perhaps it is as significant as the consecrated Host. Perhaps it is the Italian equivalent of funnel cake.

5. I don’t understand why cecina is so hard to find—even in Pisa and Livorno. After a perfunctory visit to the Leaning Tower today, I asked every nearby pizzeria for cinque cinque. First, each pizzeria insisted that I wanted cecina, not cinque cinque. Then, each directed me across the Arno River to another Pisan neighborhood near the center of town. Though I was short of time, I ran across the Arno to this neighborhood and visited four pizzerias. The first two were closed. The third pizzeria directed me to a fourth pizzeria. The fourth pizzeria was closed. Giving up my quest for cecina, I ran back over the Arno towards the Leaning Tower to try to find my bandmates. There, on the same side of the Arno where my cecina search had begun, I found cecina at a fifth pizzeria. I paid 1.70 euros for a slice, and, though I meant to ask what it was and photograph it, ate it first.

Further internet research would reveal the nature of cecina. The food is mentioned here on an English website, and I’m sure Google Italia has something to say about it. However, I will not research cecina further.

At my show in Livorno last night, I saw the Pisan booking agent who had first introduced me to cecina. We discussed how much touring Europe has changed in last five years because of MySpace, digital downloading, the death of record labels, et cetera, et cetera. We marvelled how much more accessible Europe was for bands armed with laptops and GPS navigation as we told tales of woe about the lost glory days of 2002.

I am not one for tales of woe—I am a fan of GPS navigation and digital downloading—and am old enough to know that the glory days were none too glorious. Still, for now, am happy to let cecina remain mysterious, obscure, and unphotographed, and continue to imagine that one still has to travel somewhere to get something.

Who will sing the praises of visionary Italian musician Samuel Katarro who, last night, opened for my band in Prato, Italy? Herein, I praise the music of visionary Italian musician Samuel Katarro.

Beyond the obvious—that he is an Italian man with an acoustic guitar—I do not know much about Samuel Katarro, and my conversation with him did little to enlighten me. This conversation is reproduced below, verbatim:

Me: Hello, I am Justin.
Samuel Katarro: Yes.
Me: My band plays with you tonight.
SK: Yes. (At this point, I realized that Samuel Katarro may not be a master of the English language. Because I am not a master of the Italian language and we are not yet equipped with Star Trek Universal Translators, I intuited that I would be unable to have a meaningful conversation with Samuel Katarro.)
Me: I enjoy your music. I want to thank you for playing with me.
SK: Yes.

Though I cannot communicate verbally with Samuel Katarro, I can describe Samuel Katarro’s aesthetics in the decadent lexicon of ethnomusicology. (After all, I have earned an undergraduate degree in music from a prestigious East Coast liberal arts university.) Like the music of Syd Barrett, Samuel Katarro’s songs are blues-based and vaguely psychedelic. This Italian wunderkind is an accomplished instrumentalist, but is not interested in mere guitar virtuosity. An aggressive player, Samuel Katarro’s swipes at John Lee Hooker-dom often unexpectedly collapse into Ex-ish noise breakdowns. Samuel Katarro’s voice is unforgettable—a bizarre banshee wail that knows pitch, register, or native tongue. Many Italian musicians fret over whether to sing in English or Italian. Italian is, after all, their lingua franca, but, beyond Italy, has little currency. Samuel Katarro ignores matters of linguistics—like Entrance, or an unplugged My Bloody Valentine, he sings in no language but the language of the heart.

The music of Samuel Katarro is not for everyone. Recordings do not convey his genius. He is not “in tune.” He is not ‘well-dressed.” He is “photogenic,” but not “danceable” or “clever.” Certainly, Samuel Katarro was not an appropriate choice as an opener for my band in Prato, Italy. (My band is, of course, frequently “in tune,” often “well-dressed,” sometimes “danceable,” occasionally “photogenic,” and, ever and always, “clever.”) However, I wondered after my set—which was much loathed by Samuel Katarro’s crowd—whether Samuel Katarro had not excavated music that was beyond me, much like 1955 Doc Brown in Back to the Future could not understand 1985 Doc Brown’s flux capacitor.

In the 19th century, feted American historian Frederick Jackson Turner formulated what has come to be called “frontier theory.” Though implicitly racist and built on the tedious architecture of American exceptionalism, frontier theory encapsulates a powerful idea: when one is forced into an alien environment, one will prove atypically open to new ideas, unusual experiences, and novel self-definition. Put simply: when you leave home, you act funny.

I will admit that the music of Samuel Katarro may represent a musical dead end. However, I love the music of Samuel Katarro. Out here—in a tiny club in an industrial park in a suburb of Florence on the European frontier—one must love something.

“When you play in Europe, where do you sleep?” a friend inquired.

“Different places,” I replied. “Sometimes at a person’s house. Other times, in a hotel, or at the club.”

“At the club?” my friend persisted. “You mean the club you just played?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“That sounds terrible,” my friend observed.

“Actually, sleeping at the club is quite humane,” I declared. “While touring America, one never knows where one will sleep. In America, I have slept in vehicles parked at rest stops, on floors of group houses amidst bong forests, and, once, in a pile of dirty mattresses on the floor of a warehouse in Providence. However, in Europe, a place to stay—or, in Old World parlance, ‘accommodation’— at a club can prove quite comfortable. The back rooms of many European clubs, which often have showers, bunk beds, and free-flowing Coca-Cola, are nicer than some places I have lived.”

“Perhaps, then, you have not lived in the right places,” my friend commented.

“Perhaps,” I conceded. “But the main problem with sleeping at a club is not one’s comfort, but one’s schedule.”

“Whatever can you mean?” my friend exclaimed.

“Well, consider,” I explained. “On October 11, 2007, I played at a club in Bologna, Italy. I arrived at the club at 5:00 p.m. At 6:00 p.m., I sound-checked. From 6:00 p.m. until 11:30 p.m., I waited to play. I played from 11:30 p.m. until 12:30 a.m. Between 12:30 a.m. and 12:45 a.m., I held awkward conversations with Bolognese friends I had met during previous trips to Europe—they do not speak English, and I do not speak Italian. From 12:45 a.m. until 4 a.m., I waited for every single person in the club to leave. This included, but was not limited to, showgoers, soundpersons, bartenders, the clubowner himself, and some drunk guy. At 4:16 a.m., I raided the club’s fridge in search of something—anything—to eat. At 4:20 a.m., I brushed my teeth using the bar sink. And, finally, at 4:25 a.m., I went to sleep. When I finally left the club at noon, I had been in the club for 19 hours straight.”

“That is a long haul,” my friend commented.

“Yes, but it is possible to get some reading done,” I declared. “Once, while touring Europe alone, I played a show in Koeln, Germany. This show took place in Nazi bunker-turned-artspace—a Kulturbunker, if you will. The night I performed in Koeln, I happened to be reading The Plot Against America, a WWII-themed modern novel by Philip Roth. After the show, the promoter led me deep underground to my sleeping quarters. ‘You will sleep here alone,‘ the clubowner said, ‘and you will be locked in here until morning.’ Too terrified of Nazi ghosts to sleep, I proceeded to read The Plot Against America straight through.”

“That sounds…unusual,” my friend offered.

“Not so unusual,” I observed. “I gained an appreciation for The Plot Against America, and no Nazi ghosts materialized.”

Milan’s sharp fashion sense and wealthy citizenry make this glimmering metropolis the Paris of Italy. Rome is poorer, dirtier, hipper, and artier—think Dublin or San Francisco. Pescara, a charming city of 200,000 nestled into Italy’s West Coast, is neither fashionable, glimmering, poor, dirty, hip, or arty. Because it overlooks the Adriatic Sea, I do suspect Pescara’s seafood is impeccable. However, because I am a vegetarian, I have never tasted any.

Pescara is so small that one promoter—Paolo—has booked every show I have ever played there. Though I have played in Pescara four times in five years, stayed at Paolo’s house, met Paolo’s girlfriend and mother, and petted Paolo’s dog, I have never learned Paolo’s last name. Yet, I often avail myself of the opportunity to practice “my Italian” on him.

“Ciao, Paolo!” I exclaimed when greeting Paolo in Pescara. My Italian is limited to five phrases—ciao, grazie (thank you), prego (you’re welcome), scuzi (excuse me), and dice euro (ten euro, the price of a CD)—supplemented by a number of English phrases Italians often use.

“Ciao, Justin,” Paolo replied.

“How is your girlfriend?” I inquired. “I met her when I last arrived here.” The phrase arrived here is not proper English, but is used by Italians when they mean to say visited. Thus, when talking to Italians about visits and visiting, I use the phrase arrived here.

“My girlfriend and I is good,” Paolo replied.

“Perfecto!” I replied. “I remember your story was having some troubles when last I arrived here.” The phrase story is not proper English, but is used by Italians when they mean to say relationship. Thus, when talking to Italians about their relationships, I use the phrase story.

“The problems with our story is over,” Paolo replied. “We last four years. She come tonight.”

“Perfecto!” I replied. “And do we play tonight when I prefer?” The phrase when I prefer is not proper English, but is used by Italians when they mean to say when I want. Thus, when talking to Italians about things |I want, I use the phrase when I prefer.

“You play as you prefer,” Paolo replied.

“Perfecto!” I replied. “And how are your parents?”

“My mother is hosting a festival of philosophy,” Paolo replied.

“A festival of philosophy?…Perfecto!” I replied.

I realized that festival of philosophy meant academic conference and opened my mouth to point this out. However, I soon closed it again. Festival of philosophy is a better name for academic conference than academic conference. “And what is the subject of your mother’s festival of philosophy?” I inquired.

“The laity,” Paolo replied.

“The laity,” I repeated. “What?”

“Church and state,” Paolo explained. “The separation.”

“Bueno!” I exclaimed, forgetting that bueno is Spanish, not Italian. “Your mother is celebrating her rights under the 1st Amendment.” I immediately realized that the 1st Amendment does not exist in Italy, but did not dwell on my error. “I only wish that your mother’s festival of philosophy was taking place when I had arrived here,” I continued. “Now that your story is resolved, you, your girlfriend, and I could all attend the festival of philosophy as we prefer!”

As you may be aware, Europe is a distant continent accessible only by steamer or expensive, unreliable plane travel. To reduce costs for my touring musical ensemble, I found what may be the cheapest flight from the middle-Atlantic states to Rome, Italy. Not surprisingly, this flight departed from one of least reliable travel marketplaces in these United States: Philadelphia International Airport.

I am from Philadelphia, and deem criticism of the City of Brotherly Love loathsome and unnatural. However, as the second hour of my aircraft’s wait on the tarmac at PHL concluded, I was forced to admit that my hometown gets flights off the ground about as well as it wins sports championships. My flight’s delay was made worse by the following factors:

1. Pirates of the Caribbean 3
Pirates of the Caribbean is a charming Disney theme ride/filmic showcase for visionary French actor Johnny Depp. Pirates of the Caribbean 2 was not very good, but, carried by Depp’s broad, tanned shoulders, the film avoided disaster. However, even with a cameo by Rolling Stone Glimmer Twin Keith Richards, Pirates of the Carribbean 3 is a terrible film, and need not be shown on any flight, foreign or domestic.

2. I Am Not Concerned About Air Conditioning
My plane’s delay was caused by an “auxiliary power failure,” a serious-sounding condition whose chief consequence is an “air-conditioning failure.” My physical and philosophical opposition to air conditioning is too complex to detail here. In sum, I ask: if a plane’s air conditioning does not work, why not just take off?

Consider: if you are an NPR devotee/American liberal, you are concerned about global warming. Perhaps you sit in your air-conditioned office in late October and complain to fellow liberal, over-air-conditioned co-workers about global warming as NPR drones in the background. “I just don’t understand it,” you might say your breath plumes white before you. “How can Midwestern fatbody moral majority conservatives not see the importance of global warming and work to stop it? By the way, can someone turn up the air conditioning? I think it’s 66 degrees in here! Anyone for Starbucks?”

3. Passenger Anti-Feminism
I fear that the following exchange, which I overheard on the PHL tarmac, is offensive:

Pilot (on PA system): “OK, folks—please do not complain to the flight staff about the plane’s delay. There is nothing they can do about it.”

Unnamed passenger: “Steward, steward—when are we getting out of here?”

Steward: “Sir, we will not leave for some time. You just have to be patient—just like when you take your wife shopping.”

Despite the delay, my flight arrived safely in Rome at 10:40 a.m. on Oct. 9, 2007. Rome’s airport is named after the great-great-grandfather of air travel, visionary Renaissance artist Leonardo da Vinci. I was honored to be welcomed to Europe under his auspices.

My name is Justin Moyer and I am a rock and roll musician from Washington, D.C. This weblog, which I call “Iceland,” details many wonderful and terrible adventures undertaken between Oct. 8 and Nov. 11, 2007, the dates of my band’s upcoming four-week European tour. Failing financial disaster or personal tragedy, I expect many noteworthy things to happen during this 33-day period, and am here recount these happenings for your entertainment.

Today, the United States of America observes Columbus Day. Christopher Columbus, a Genovese navigator, sailed west across the Atlantic in 1492 in search of a route to the East Indies. Unfortunately for many, an enormous continent prevented this would-be genius explorer from reaching his visionary goal. Still, Columbus’s “discovery” of a “New World” set the stage for many events—some wonderful, some terrible. These include, but are not limited to, the mass murder of the American indigenous population, the invention of the cotton gin, World War I, the unrolling of the Eisenhower Interstate Highway System, the widespread availability of the “The Sopranos” on DVD, and the continuing urgency (or, at least, the continuing existence) of punk rock.

With a Columbian mind—that is, with a determination to blaze trails across the psychogeographical landscape no matter what formidable physical, ethical, and financial obstacles may block the path—I now return to the Old World in the name of punk rock, a.k.a. “my art.” The Old World has taught me much about geopolitics, new wave cinema, the Protestant ethic, and the spirit of capitalism. Quid pro quo, I will now educate the Old World about the glory of my uncompromising, American-made rock-and-roll aesthetics.