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The Two Meter Sessions album is a document of The Bad Examples' first European tour on several levels. Musically, it is the complete recording sessions the band played at the the Dutch national radio station VARA for the program Two Meter Sessions, with host Jan Doewe Kroeske. As surprising at it might seem now, so many years past MTV Unplugged and our modern tradition of bands playing acoustic sets, at the time the radio show was revolutionary for having acts play unplugged, and, in fact, it was the first time The Bad Examples had played a show unplugged.
When we released the CD, we chose to use it as the opportunity to tell the story of that first tour. In the winding history of The Bad Examples and our many ups and downs as we chased the dreams of mainstream superstardom that eventually eluded us, our initial 10 day tour of Holland was a glimpse into the world of success that might have awaited us had we had a few more of the requisite lucky breaks and good fortune that are part of the rock n roll secret recipe of success. I say that not whining at what never happened, but by way of celebrating and sharing with you the story of how for these ten days we really did conquer the world. And so... here are the liner notes to the Two Meter Sessions CD. |
The first trip to Europe was laced with magic. On New Year's Eve '91 we played at the now defunct Clearwater Saloon on Lincoln in Chicago. The next morning we were on a plane to Amsterdam, far too excited to worry about lost sleep. The band at that time consisted of John Duich on lead guitar, Terry Wathen on drums, and Pickles Piekarski on bass. Terry had been with me from the very first days, and Pickles almost as long, but all of us felt the same sense of intensity we'd carried on the road for over a year -- we believed in the music we were making.
Our album "Bad Is Beautiful" had recently been released in Holland and was doing well, so a tour was arranged for The Bad Examples. Joining us were Jay Whitehouse from Waterdog Records (Jay and I had founded the label to release my music in America), and our stage manager, Mike Byrne. Our first single, Ashes Of My Heart, had narrowly missed entering the charts in the Top Ten (it was bumped by a new Michael Jackson single just before the chart was published!), but expectations were high, our Dutch label was excited about our prospects, and our last year of touring in America had forged us into a well-seasoned live band. (Cheap Beer Night was recorded a month or so before.) It was our time, and we were ready.
We were met at Schipol Airport in Amsterdam by Ronald ben der Meijden, who was running CNR, the label that had released our music outside of the US. It was a cold slate-grey dawn, and traffic was building as he drove us to our apartment in Amsterdam. Because Holland is such a compact country, the plan was for us to leave and arrive back at the same apartment each day of our tour, and it turned out to be an excellent solution. We were met there by Ronald's assistant, Karen van Buuren. Our place overlooked a canal on Amstel Street, not far from the lovely Rembrandtsplein, known to English speakers as Rembrandt Square. There was a hash shop at one end of the street and a convenience store that sold porno postcards at the other end.
The apartment had fewer beds than we needed, and there was no seat on the toilet. Not knowing Dutch customs, I tried to politely ask how one conducted certain bodily functions. Was there a local art to hovering or balancing above the thin rim of the toilet? Ronald, when he realized what I was asking, burst out laughing.
"We're not barbarians here!" He exclaimed. "I'll have the manager fix it." It was never fixed, nor was was the shower. After two days the hot water broke as well, so we only had ice-cold water from the bath faucet for the rest of our stay. Still, we weren't complaining. It was Amsterdam, and we were there.
We'd arrived on a Thursday, and, after getting settled in, spent the day walking around the city, fighting the jet lag. Ronald took us to dinner at an Argentinian steakhouse. Later we discovered an Irish bar up the street that poured a very smooth Guinness. We ended up at that same bar at the end of almost every night of the trip. Why mess with perfection?
Our album "Bad Is Beautiful" had recently been released in Holland and was doing well, so a tour was arranged for The Bad Examples. Joining us were Jay Whitehouse from Waterdog Records (Jay and I had founded the label to release my music in America), and our stage manager, Mike Byrne. Our first single, Ashes Of My Heart, had narrowly missed entering the charts in the Top Ten (it was bumped by a new Michael Jackson single just before the chart was published!), but expectations were high, our Dutch label was excited about our prospects, and our last year of touring in America had forged us into a well-seasoned live band. (Cheap Beer Night was recorded a month or so before.) It was our time, and we were ready.
We were met at Schipol Airport in Amsterdam by Ronald ben der Meijden, who was running CNR, the label that had released our music outside of the US. It was a cold slate-grey dawn, and traffic was building as he drove us to our apartment in Amsterdam. Because Holland is such a compact country, the plan was for us to leave and arrive back at the same apartment each day of our tour, and it turned out to be an excellent solution. We were met there by Ronald's assistant, Karen van Buuren. Our place overlooked a canal on Amstel Street, not far from the lovely Rembrandtsplein, known to English speakers as Rembrandt Square. There was a hash shop at one end of the street and a convenience store that sold porno postcards at the other end.
The apartment had fewer beds than we needed, and there was no seat on the toilet. Not knowing Dutch customs, I tried to politely ask how one conducted certain bodily functions. Was there a local art to hovering or balancing above the thin rim of the toilet? Ronald, when he realized what I was asking, burst out laughing.
"We're not barbarians here!" He exclaimed. "I'll have the manager fix it." It was never fixed, nor was was the shower. After two days the hot water broke as well, so we only had ice-cold water from the bath faucet for the rest of our stay. Still, we weren't complaining. It was Amsterdam, and we were there.
We'd arrived on a Thursday, and, after getting settled in, spent the day walking around the city, fighting the jet lag. Ronald took us to dinner at an Argentinian steakhouse. Later we discovered an Irish bar up the street that poured a very smooth Guinness. We ended up at that same bar at the end of almost every night of the trip. Why mess with perfection?
My journal describes it:
"Jay and I went out walking at about 10, would drink coffee, walk (we went to Centraal Station, headed back south). We'd eat, drink coffee, walk, drink more coffee... went in a bunch of record stores... saw our album. Twisting, interconnected alleys bustling with people and lined with shops. Narrow cobblestone streets with too-fast cars, bikes determined to nick someone off the sidewalk as they whiz by. Bike and mopeds have their own lane on the road. So: late afternoon we started drinking to slow the spinning whirl of exhaustion. Bumped into Pickles on the way back to our apartment at 132 Amstelstraat, drank with him, came back home. John was in a foul mood from lack of sleep. Terry was still sleeping -- sick with something, I think.
The six of us were thrown into the machine-gun rhythm of the tour the following morning. Ronald (photo, left) had masterfully organized the trip. We were picked up in the morning for meetings at the label (meeting all the folks who were working on promoting Bad Is Beautiful) and the first of many interviews. That night we played our first show with Golden Earring at a 1,500-seat hall. There were problems with the rented gear up until minutes before we went on stage, but we played well and the crowd loved us. Later, when Golden Earring played "Radar Love," I had chills running up and down my body. Golden Earring had some hits stretching from the late sixties into the eighties, but continue to be a superstar act in their home country of Holland yet have never achieved that status in the rest of the world. (NOTE picture of Barry, etc.) Everyone in Earring, especially lead singer Barry Hay, took us in like we were long-lost brothers.
The next day was filled with more interviews, photo sessions, and radio visits. We did a radio interview with a legend of Dutch broadcasting, a guy named Big Al (Alfred LeGarde), who, with his partner Kees (pronounced "case" -- it's a typical Dutch first name) had a show called Countdown Cafe. I've always been quick at picking up languages, and thought it might be fun to learn a couple sentences with which to make some kind of joke in Dutch. I brainstormed with Karen, and she recalled a TV commercial then popular in Holland. In it, a recurring character kept trying to scam his insurance company. He would get caught lying every time, at which point he would say, "Faute, bedankt!" (Fow-cha, be-donked), which means "Sorry, my mistake," or perhaps "Oops, my bad!" The phrase had become a popular slang catch-phrase in the way TV commercial punch-lines sometimes do. I had an idea of how to use it, and had Karen and Ronald teach me a few sentences in Dutch. When we were brought into the studio, I was ready.
Big Al, who was sitting in front of his microphone live on the air with a half-empty bottle of vodka, said in English, "Ladies and gentlemen, we have in our studios guests from America, a band called The Bad Examples.
I answered him in Dutch, saying the Dutch sentence for "Actually, we're The Beatles, and I'm Paul McCartney." He stared at me for a confused few seconds, until I continued, "Faute, bedankt!" That I was speaking Dutch and making a local slang joke totally broke the ice. The show quickly accelerated into hilarity and madness. John and Big Al were sparring at each other with their mutual quick sarcastic humor. Typical was when Big Al told us in English: "Take your picks and play with each other." What we didn't know was that the rhyming Dutch phrase "Tek youw peks..." (which of course is what his Dutch speaking audience understood) translate as "Grab your dicks, and..." well, you get the idea!
"Jay and I went out walking at about 10, would drink coffee, walk (we went to Centraal Station, headed back south). We'd eat, drink coffee, walk, drink more coffee... went in a bunch of record stores... saw our album. Twisting, interconnected alleys bustling with people and lined with shops. Narrow cobblestone streets with too-fast cars, bikes determined to nick someone off the sidewalk as they whiz by. Bike and mopeds have their own lane on the road. So: late afternoon we started drinking to slow the spinning whirl of exhaustion. Bumped into Pickles on the way back to our apartment at 132 Amstelstraat, drank with him, came back home. John was in a foul mood from lack of sleep. Terry was still sleeping -- sick with something, I think.
The six of us were thrown into the machine-gun rhythm of the tour the following morning. Ronald (photo, left) had masterfully organized the trip. We were picked up in the morning for meetings at the label (meeting all the folks who were working on promoting Bad Is Beautiful) and the first of many interviews. That night we played our first show with Golden Earring at a 1,500-seat hall. There were problems with the rented gear up until minutes before we went on stage, but we played well and the crowd loved us. Later, when Golden Earring played "Radar Love," I had chills running up and down my body. Golden Earring had some hits stretching from the late sixties into the eighties, but continue to be a superstar act in their home country of Holland yet have never achieved that status in the rest of the world. (NOTE picture of Barry, etc.) Everyone in Earring, especially lead singer Barry Hay, took us in like we were long-lost brothers.
The next day was filled with more interviews, photo sessions, and radio visits. We did a radio interview with a legend of Dutch broadcasting, a guy named Big Al (Alfred LeGarde), who, with his partner Kees (pronounced "case" -- it's a typical Dutch first name) had a show called Countdown Cafe. I've always been quick at picking up languages, and thought it might be fun to learn a couple sentences with which to make some kind of joke in Dutch. I brainstormed with Karen, and she recalled a TV commercial then popular in Holland. In it, a recurring character kept trying to scam his insurance company. He would get caught lying every time, at which point he would say, "Faute, bedankt!" (Fow-cha, be-donked), which means "Sorry, my mistake," or perhaps "Oops, my bad!" The phrase had become a popular slang catch-phrase in the way TV commercial punch-lines sometimes do. I had an idea of how to use it, and had Karen and Ronald teach me a few sentences in Dutch. When we were brought into the studio, I was ready.
Big Al, who was sitting in front of his microphone live on the air with a half-empty bottle of vodka, said in English, "Ladies and gentlemen, we have in our studios guests from America, a band called The Bad Examples.
I answered him in Dutch, saying the Dutch sentence for "Actually, we're The Beatles, and I'm Paul McCartney." He stared at me for a confused few seconds, until I continued, "Faute, bedankt!" That I was speaking Dutch and making a local slang joke totally broke the ice. The show quickly accelerated into hilarity and madness. John and Big Al were sparring at each other with their mutual quick sarcastic humor. Typical was when Big Al told us in English: "Take your picks and play with each other." What we didn't know was that the rhyming Dutch phrase "Tek youw peks..." (which of course is what his Dutch speaking audience understood) translate as "Grab your dicks, and..." well, you get the idea!
Saturday night we found ourselves in a 2,000 seat venue. We had been moving almost non-stop for two days, and things seemed to have clicked into place.
My journal entry the next morning reads:
"It looks like a rainy, overcast day. Last night's show was great. It was a better auditorium than Friday. During soundcheck I sat on the floor in the empty hall while GE jammed to "When The Bullet Hits The Bone." Vocals sounded muddy. Great during the show, though."
During our soundcheck we played (new song) "What's Really On My Mind" and "Reaching For Shadows" (older song not on Bad Is Beautiful and so not familiar to our Dutch label), and blew Freddie (Haayen, Earring's manager and head of our label) and Ronald's mind. Barry came out before our set and introduced our set to the crowd, which helped. Alfred (Big Al) was going to, but he was late -- he said he'll do it tomorrow. We played a great set. The audience was ours. We even had the audience sing "Sammy The Dog Has Learned To Play Trombone" in Dutch. I stage dove at the end. I learned later that no one ever does that here yet, so it went over even cooler."
The Amsterdam Hell's Angels were hanging out at that second gig. One of Earring's many Dutch hits was an homage to a biker friend struck and killed by a train, and the bikers have all been devoted fans ever since. The president of the chapter gave John a bag of pot he had grown in his own backyard... fine wine caliber shit, my friends. Just smelling the unsmoked leaves was like walking into an enchanted garden.
On Sunday we played a show in a town called Gilse, in the south of Holland. When we arrived we found the concert was taking place in a giant circus tent. The biggest hall in town had sold out in such a short time that the promoters had gambled and kept selling tickets, and so had rented the tent and set it up on the small town right next to a sprawling broccoli patch. Really bizarre. I was scheduled to do a live radio link via telephone to WLUP Chicago with DJ Ed Tyll, but of course the big yellow tent had no phones! (And these were of course the days long before cell phones!) We went for a walk, but there were no pay-phones on or near any of the streets there at the edge of town. Finally, as the clock ticked down the time approaching my interview, Ronald took matter in his own hands and went knocking door to door until he found a family who would let us use their home phone. They were a quiet middle-class family named the DeGroots. In typical Dutch fashion, they sat quietly on the couch reading their newspaper, politely ignoring us as we did this live radio hook-up to the States in their living room!
My journal entry the next morning reads:
"It looks like a rainy, overcast day. Last night's show was great. It was a better auditorium than Friday. During soundcheck I sat on the floor in the empty hall while GE jammed to "When The Bullet Hits The Bone." Vocals sounded muddy. Great during the show, though."
During our soundcheck we played (new song) "What's Really On My Mind" and "Reaching For Shadows" (older song not on Bad Is Beautiful and so not familiar to our Dutch label), and blew Freddie (Haayen, Earring's manager and head of our label) and Ronald's mind. Barry came out before our set and introduced our set to the crowd, which helped. Alfred (Big Al) was going to, but he was late -- he said he'll do it tomorrow. We played a great set. The audience was ours. We even had the audience sing "Sammy The Dog Has Learned To Play Trombone" in Dutch. I stage dove at the end. I learned later that no one ever does that here yet, so it went over even cooler."
The Amsterdam Hell's Angels were hanging out at that second gig. One of Earring's many Dutch hits was an homage to a biker friend struck and killed by a train, and the bikers have all been devoted fans ever since. The president of the chapter gave John a bag of pot he had grown in his own backyard... fine wine caliber shit, my friends. Just smelling the unsmoked leaves was like walking into an enchanted garden.
On Sunday we played a show in a town called Gilse, in the south of Holland. When we arrived we found the concert was taking place in a giant circus tent. The biggest hall in town had sold out in such a short time that the promoters had gambled and kept selling tickets, and so had rented the tent and set it up on the small town right next to a sprawling broccoli patch. Really bizarre. I was scheduled to do a live radio link via telephone to WLUP Chicago with DJ Ed Tyll, but of course the big yellow tent had no phones! (And these were of course the days long before cell phones!) We went for a walk, but there were no pay-phones on or near any of the streets there at the edge of town. Finally, as the clock ticked down the time approaching my interview, Ronald took matter in his own hands and went knocking door to door until he found a family who would let us use their home phone. They were a quiet middle-class family named the DeGroots. In typical Dutch fashion, they sat quietly on the couch reading their newspaper, politely ignoring us as we did this live radio hook-up to the States in their living room!
The days blasted by. We'd usually be picked up early in the morning, and whisked off to interviews, photo shoots, and appearances coordinated by the publicist from our label, Annette Breeuwer. Only now, years later, have I realized how lucky we were to have her. I have worked with many great publicists since, but the 40-50 interviews and appearances she set up in our ten day visit was a something a band like The Beatles at their peak might have expected, but to generate that much interest for a new band like we were required an amazing amount of talent and hard work on her part, and from the staff at CNR. Some reporters came to our apartment, but many of the interviews took place at the famous Nightwatch Cafe of the American Hotel on the Leidseplain. Many musicians and movie stars have stayed there over the years, and as a result it has become a common meeting place for interviews. The bar is decorated with photos of its many guests. Last I visited, you could still find my picture with Annette on the wall of the Nightwatch -- a piece of proof that the whole thing actually happened.
Lots of little stories flicker through my mind that I can't place on an exact date or time. John showed up one day after he'd been over at the open-air market by Waterplein. He'd found a vinyl record that featured a number of Chicago blues acts, including a recording he'd played on. He told us this story of buying it.
"I played on this album!" he said to the vender.
The guy blinked impassively and responded, "Ten guilders." (Guilders were the Dutch currency before the EU and Euros.)
"No, you don't understand," John continued, holding up the record cover. "See, that's me in the picture!"
Again the guy blinked and said, "Ten guilders."
At that very moment the guy's radio began to play "Promises In The Dark." John exclaimed, "That's my band on the radio right now!"
The vender shrugged and said, "Ten guilders."
Jay hung with us the first three or four days, then went over to England to have some meetings on our behalf, meeting us to return for the flight home. Terry was sick with a virus, and was very jet lagged the first half of the trip, though he played his ass off every night before returning to the apartment to collapse in bed. Every day Ronald, Karen, or Annette would pick me up (and sometimes the other guys) and drove us to where ever we needed to be. When you can drive across the entire country in two-three hours, it's sensible to stay in a central location, and if I was at interviews, the guys didn't seem to mind exploring Amsterdam!
We did a taping for Dutch MTV (back then MTV was still a big deal, and still featured lots of music.) Our appearance was lip-synched not live. We were not happy about that, but then they took us back to make-up, and when the four of emerged together we each had on so much base, blush, lipstick and eye make-up we looked like worn-out whore. We kept protesting, and saying "Are you sure this is necessary?" but they insisted, telling us, "Oh yes, you need to look good for the cameras." They had brought in three or four busloads of schoolgirls who stood and screamed while we played like we were The Beatles, even though I'm not sure they knew who we were. (Maybe they were screaming because the make-up scared them?) John and I were busy for 45 minutes after the two songs we played. Backpacks, jeans, shoes, notebooks, t-shirts, autograph books -- anything you can imagine schoolgirls would have with them.
The other guest on the same show was Right Said Fred, the band now famous for "I'm Too Sexy." The song had not yet become a hit, and we only saw them on the TV monitors with no sound -- two bare chested bald guys singing and strutting while pumping their hips. It looked like a bizarre Saturday Night Live skit. We didn't know at the time they were from the UK, or that the song we couldn't hear would be a huge hit by the time we returned home. John described it as our greatest missed photo opportunity.
Lots of little stories flicker through my mind that I can't place on an exact date or time. John showed up one day after he'd been over at the open-air market by Waterplein. He'd found a vinyl record that featured a number of Chicago blues acts, including a recording he'd played on. He told us this story of buying it.
"I played on this album!" he said to the vender.
The guy blinked impassively and responded, "Ten guilders." (Guilders were the Dutch currency before the EU and Euros.)
"No, you don't understand," John continued, holding up the record cover. "See, that's me in the picture!"
Again the guy blinked and said, "Ten guilders."
At that very moment the guy's radio began to play "Promises In The Dark." John exclaimed, "That's my band on the radio right now!"
The vender shrugged and said, "Ten guilders."
Jay hung with us the first three or four days, then went over to England to have some meetings on our behalf, meeting us to return for the flight home. Terry was sick with a virus, and was very jet lagged the first half of the trip, though he played his ass off every night before returning to the apartment to collapse in bed. Every day Ronald, Karen, or Annette would pick me up (and sometimes the other guys) and drove us to where ever we needed to be. When you can drive across the entire country in two-three hours, it's sensible to stay in a central location, and if I was at interviews, the guys didn't seem to mind exploring Amsterdam!
We did a taping for Dutch MTV (back then MTV was still a big deal, and still featured lots of music.) Our appearance was lip-synched not live. We were not happy about that, but then they took us back to make-up, and when the four of emerged together we each had on so much base, blush, lipstick and eye make-up we looked like worn-out whore. We kept protesting, and saying "Are you sure this is necessary?" but they insisted, telling us, "Oh yes, you need to look good for the cameras." They had brought in three or four busloads of schoolgirls who stood and screamed while we played like we were The Beatles, even though I'm not sure they knew who we were. (Maybe they were screaming because the make-up scared them?) John and I were busy for 45 minutes after the two songs we played. Backpacks, jeans, shoes, notebooks, t-shirts, autograph books -- anything you can imagine schoolgirls would have with them.
The other guest on the same show was Right Said Fred, the band now famous for "I'm Too Sexy." The song had not yet become a hit, and we only saw them on the TV monitors with no sound -- two bare chested bald guys singing and strutting while pumping their hips. It looked like a bizarre Saturday Night Live skit. We didn't know at the time they were from the UK, or that the song we couldn't hear would be a huge hit by the time we returned home. John described it as our greatest missed photo opportunity.
On the sixth day we finally had a morning off, and Karen took us on a little tourist trip to an old fishing village named Marken that is still kept up in the style of centuries gone by. No cars allowed, quaint old houses. They still have a shop that makes and sells wooden shoes, essentially catering to the tourists. The guy working there recognized us and called his girlfriend. She called her friends, who called their friends... in a PR event that was not planned in advance, we ended up spending a half-hour autographing wooden shoes with a wood burner! So much for our morning off!
Part of my routine while I was there was getting up early each morning before we would be picked up and going for a run. It was my one opportunity to see more of the city than interviews and shows would allow me. One morning I ran past a small brown church ringed by a narrow cobblestone walkway. There were mulatto whores standing in the doorways of the buildings which lined the street around the church, older and less glamorous than the women in Amsterdam's famous Red Light District. As I jogged past each doorway, a hooker would gesture for me to join her, then turn away sullenly as I continued past and the next prostitutte would reach out to me. On my left the beckoning plump hookers, on my right the ancient brown church with its steeple pushing up into the dawn sky. This strange, contradictory image stayed with me as I ran past the tulip barges, the Rijksmuseum, and the old brick clock tower which served as the landmark to guide me home from my morning runs.
We had dinner one night in The Hague at Barry Hay's house, with his wife Sandra and their three year-old daughter Isabella. Big Al came over later, shot some pool, and took some Polaroids. We laughed and drank until late at night, enjoying every minute of our hosts' hospitality. Then Ronald, who always came through for us on that trip, drove us home while a horrible rainstorm raged. His good-natured response to each day, no matter how good or bad the prospects seemed, was, "New day, new chances!" A fine motto, which served us well over time, even years later when his label failed us and things weren't so rosy. On that trip, at least, he had proven himself worthy of our respect and never let us down.
We traveled to Belgium, a country half Dutch-speaking (though they called it Flemish), and half French-speaking (although the French refuse to consider that dialect French!). The National Radio building reflected the divided culture of the time (I have no idea how the modern EU has affected the Belgian identity). It was a mirror-image building split down the middle: French on one side, Flemish on the other -- including the twin banks of elevators each serving their own side, and a lobby with two smiling receptionists, one on either of the semi-circular desk. We did an interview and recording on one side, took the elevator down to the lobby, then up to the same floor on the other side to do a similar recording and interview in an identical studio, facing of course in the opposite direction!
We sent a post-card to Tommy O'Brien, whom John had replaced a year-and-a-half earlier as lead guitarist, and who was therefor missing the madness.
Tom - Amsterdam. The sky is a pale blue grey, the electric trains are banana yellow, and the cobblestone streets are lined with 700-year-old houses... this is not Omaha. Of course, the toilet has no seat and the shower is broken. -Ralph
Hi Tom. One million people listened to our live interview on national Belgian radio yesterday. This place is unbelievable. -Terry
Yo' Tommy - You still owe me a road trip...uh, not this one. Love, John
Tommy- I drank all the beer- don't come. -"pickles"
On Thursday, January 9, 1992, we went to the studios of the Dutch national radio station, VARA. Our host was Jan Douwe Kroeske (Yahn Dow-ah Kroos-kah), whose show, The Two Meter Sessions, was at the time the most important popular music program broadcast in the country. His guests through the years have included such internationally lauded artists as John Cale, Crowded House, Julian Lennon, Radiohead, James Taylor, Suzanne Vega, K's Choice, Bruce Cockburn, and Melissa Ethridge. The name of the program refers both to the fact that Jan Douwe is two meters tall (about 6' 7"), but also to the small sound booth (or big closet!) in which many of his famous recordings have been made. Back before playing acoustic on the air was commonplace, Jan Douwe was jamming bands into the little studio at VARA and rolling tape.
The sessions generally are limited to two to four songs. In our case things went so well that Jan Douwe and his recording engineer, Hugo Vogel, kept us going until we played eleven songs. He devoted an entire hour, that's half of his weekly two-hour show, to playing the tapes and to his interview with us. He has remained though the years a good friend and tireless champion of our music. While he is indeed a towering two meters tall, his spirit and enthusiasm are even bigger. The songs are presented here in the order they were recorded. It was the first time we had ever played acoustically and we were using rented instruments. In the session you can hear the band settle in and find its groove, then dig in with more and more confidence as we went on. There was barely enough space for all four of us in the room, but the year of heavy touring we had been through had created a musical bond bigger than the constraints of the cramped quarters. The emotional rush from the past year building up to the successful tour came out in the music, and infused the sessions with the spirit of the trip: the sense that every show we had played, every interview, every radio show - everything was going our way. It felt good, it felt right, and it felt like the way things were supposed to be. Play a few songs acoustic for you? You bet your sweet ass we will. Would you like a couple more? For ten fleeting days we were given the opportunity to play with the big dogs, and we exceeded every expectation.
We sent a post-card to Tommy O'Brien, whom John had replaced a year-and-a-half earlier as lead guitarist, and who was therefor missing the madness.
Tom - Amsterdam. The sky is a pale blue grey, the electric trains are banana yellow, and the cobblestone streets are lined with 700-year-old houses... this is not Omaha. Of course, the toilet has no seat and the shower is broken. -Ralph
Hi Tom. One million people listened to our live interview on national Belgian radio yesterday. This place is unbelievable. -Terry
Yo' Tommy - You still owe me a road trip...uh, not this one. Love, John
Tommy- I drank all the beer- don't come. -"pickles"
On Thursday, January 9, 1992, we went to the studios of the Dutch national radio station, VARA. Our host was Jan Douwe Kroeske (Yahn Dow-ah Kroos-kah), whose show, The Two Meter Sessions, was at the time the most important popular music program broadcast in the country. His guests through the years have included such internationally lauded artists as John Cale, Crowded House, Julian Lennon, Radiohead, James Taylor, Suzanne Vega, K's Choice, Bruce Cockburn, and Melissa Ethridge. The name of the program refers both to the fact that Jan Douwe is two meters tall (about 6' 7"), but also to the small sound booth (or big closet!) in which many of his famous recordings have been made. Back before playing acoustic on the air was commonplace, Jan Douwe was jamming bands into the little studio at VARA and rolling tape.
The sessions generally are limited to two to four songs. In our case things went so well that Jan Douwe and his recording engineer, Hugo Vogel, kept us going until we played eleven songs. He devoted an entire hour, that's half of his weekly two-hour show, to playing the tapes and to his interview with us. He has remained though the years a good friend and tireless champion of our music. While he is indeed a towering two meters tall, his spirit and enthusiasm are even bigger. The songs are presented here in the order they were recorded. It was the first time we had ever played acoustically and we were using rented instruments. In the session you can hear the band settle in and find its groove, then dig in with more and more confidence as we went on. There was barely enough space for all four of us in the room, but the year of heavy touring we had been through had created a musical bond bigger than the constraints of the cramped quarters. The emotional rush from the past year building up to the successful tour came out in the music, and infused the sessions with the spirit of the trip: the sense that every show we had played, every interview, every radio show - everything was going our way. It felt good, it felt right, and it felt like the way things were supposed to be. Play a few songs acoustic for you? You bet your sweet ass we will. Would you like a couple more? For ten fleeting days we were given the opportunity to play with the big dogs, and we exceeded every expectation.
The last day, I wrote "Over in a heartbeat," in my journal, and left the rest of the page blank. I went for my morning run, and had my cappuccino under "a peaceful whoosh of light rain on the glass roof here at Cafe t'Centrum." The rest of the band overslept, the van from the label was late, and we still weren't ready when it arrived. Traffic was terrible, and we arrived at Schipol Airport dangerously close to our departure time. Things were so rushed at check-in that the KLM agent checked all of our bags under my name to get us through more quickly! All the tickets and passports were handed back to us at once and we were rushed through, implored urgently in Dutch to hurry so we wouldn't miss our flight. To make things more tense, we had a show booked in Chicago that same night at the Elbo Room, and if we missed the airplane, we missed the show.
We ran through the airport. It was stressful and confusing to be rushing in an unfamiliar place. Jay, Mike, Terry, and I made it to the gate together, just in time. John, winded, had fallen behind, and Pickles as well. To our surprise and delight, the first four of us were informed that Economy Class had been oversold, and we were bumped up to KLM Business Class, which is a luxurious way to go, upstairs on the second floor of the jetliner, and very, very cozy. John showed up a few minutes behind us. He was barely admitted to the plane, and given a solitary seat in Economy. When he was not able to see us anywhere around him, he asked for us, and was sent up to join us in our swank accommodations.
Pickles had been not far behind him in the terminal, he said, so we laughed at the idea of Pickles sitting alone down in Economy, wondering where we were. After a few laughs at his expense, we sent a flight attendant down to find him and let him know where we were at. She returned with the news that he wasn't on the plane. No, we assured her, she must be mistaken, and could she check again. We began to get worried, or at least a little confused at the mix up. We had him paged, and waited. The plane pulled back from the gate, then sat for a half hour because of some minor mechanical glitch. The flight attendants brought a wine list - excellent wines, all free. We laughed at what Pickles was missing, and wondered when they'd straighten things out and he'd arrive.
Meanwhile, back in the airport, after we had checked in, things for Pickles had moved at a little different pace. For one thing, apparently in all the bustle it hadn't occurred to him how late we really were. For another thing, Pickles may be one of the slowest shoppers on the planet - on the road, he'll be standing inside the truck stop meditating on which bag of chips to buy long after the rest of the band has gassed the van, cleaned the windows, gone to the bathroom, and belted in again - and, here's the problem: he was shopping. We had been so busy that most of the band had had very little time to pick up gifts for friends back home, and as he passed the Duty Free shop Pickles remembered he had bought nothing for his parents or his girlfriend. So he decided to get them something.
We ran through the airport. It was stressful and confusing to be rushing in an unfamiliar place. Jay, Mike, Terry, and I made it to the gate together, just in time. John, winded, had fallen behind, and Pickles as well. To our surprise and delight, the first four of us were informed that Economy Class had been oversold, and we were bumped up to KLM Business Class, which is a luxurious way to go, upstairs on the second floor of the jetliner, and very, very cozy. John showed up a few minutes behind us. He was barely admitted to the plane, and given a solitary seat in Economy. When he was not able to see us anywhere around him, he asked for us, and was sent up to join us in our swank accommodations.
Pickles had been not far behind him in the terminal, he said, so we laughed at the idea of Pickles sitting alone down in Economy, wondering where we were. After a few laughs at his expense, we sent a flight attendant down to find him and let him know where we were at. She returned with the news that he wasn't on the plane. No, we assured her, she must be mistaken, and could she check again. We began to get worried, or at least a little confused at the mix up. We had him paged, and waited. The plane pulled back from the gate, then sat for a half hour because of some minor mechanical glitch. The flight attendants brought a wine list - excellent wines, all free. We laughed at what Pickles was missing, and wondered when they'd straighten things out and he'd arrive.
Meanwhile, back in the airport, after we had checked in, things for Pickles had moved at a little different pace. For one thing, apparently in all the bustle it hadn't occurred to him how late we really were. For another thing, Pickles may be one of the slowest shoppers on the planet - on the road, he'll be standing inside the truck stop meditating on which bag of chips to buy long after the rest of the band has gassed the van, cleaned the windows, gone to the bathroom, and belted in again - and, here's the problem: he was shopping. We had been so busy that most of the band had had very little time to pick up gifts for friends back home, and as he passed the Duty Free shop Pickles remembered he had bought nothing for his parents or his girlfriend. So he decided to get them something.
His slow motion shopping rapture was interrupted as he heard his name over the loudspeakers. He dropped both of the bottles of perfume he was deliberating over and came running. Arriving at the gate, he could see the plane still waiting.
"I'm sorry, sir, the plane has left."
"It's right there."
"I know, sir, but we can't let you on."
"But... but... but..."
"I'm sorry, sir. Is there anything else we can do for you?"
Now, international law states that no plane may take off if it has baggage on it which does not belong to a passenger on board, and Pickles' bags were certainly in the hold. The plane should have been prohibited from taking off without him, but we had all been so late that the all the bags had been checked under my name. The plane took off. We had no idea Pickles was 50 feet from us.
On the flight home we had a grand time. Champagne, wine, and a superb meal. The trip had been a huge success, and it was worthy of celebrating it in grand style... other than the troubling fact that every now and then we'd remember that Pickles was missing. It didn't seem real, but it was. He'd actually missed the plane. It was bigger than life. It was impossible. It was real! We eventually used the airplane phone to call his girlfriend Kim in Chicago, and explained what had happened. We instructed her to call Tom O'Brien. As our long-time guitar player before John, he knew the songs well enough that he could fake his way through them on bass in an emergency, and, well, apparently this was just that emergency. I had his bass, and she'd arrange to bring his amp. We'd get through the return-home show, and surely Pickles would arrive by the next night. We were covered. Still, he'd actually missed the plane... wow.
When we arrived at O'Hare, the drug dogs were as cute and affectionate as can be. A bit wet behind the ears,I didn't realize their cuddly behavior was their way of turning us in to the fellows at narcotics. We had been around enough pot in Holland to give the dogs a contact high, so it's no wonder they were very friendly. John and I had been singled out for immediate personal attention. In his case because he had done his best to take full advantage of Holland's liberal substance policy. In my case, I still had all the bags checked under my name.
"Did you pack all these bags yourself?" the customs man asked as he began to stack them on his huge table and unzip them.
"Actually, no," I answered, pretending to ignore the "I-can't-believe-you're-this-dumb" look he was giving me. "Those two are mine - the rest belong to the other guys in my band." He began emptying all 15 bags and all the instrument cases one by one, pocket by pocket. I had to repack them. It took hours.
When he got to Pickles' bags, things got worse. Pickles is, of course, our band's resident gourmet chef, and he had brought his spices with him. He's also pretty disorganized, so the ziplock bags were left open and their contents were spilling and mixing with his dirty socks and laundry. With all the herbs everywhere it looked like a DEA agent's dream drug bust when he unzipped Pickles' suitcase.
"And what's this?"
"Herbs. Spices. For cooking."
"Yeah, I'll bet. Is this your bag?"
"No. It's our bass player's."
"Well, go get him."
"Um, I can't. He missed the plane."
"He what?"
"He missed the plane."
"Oh Jesus fucking Christ."
"I'm sorry, sir, the plane has left."
"It's right there."
"I know, sir, but we can't let you on."
"But... but... but..."
"I'm sorry, sir. Is there anything else we can do for you?"
Now, international law states that no plane may take off if it has baggage on it which does not belong to a passenger on board, and Pickles' bags were certainly in the hold. The plane should have been prohibited from taking off without him, but we had all been so late that the all the bags had been checked under my name. The plane took off. We had no idea Pickles was 50 feet from us.
On the flight home we had a grand time. Champagne, wine, and a superb meal. The trip had been a huge success, and it was worthy of celebrating it in grand style... other than the troubling fact that every now and then we'd remember that Pickles was missing. It didn't seem real, but it was. He'd actually missed the plane. It was bigger than life. It was impossible. It was real! We eventually used the airplane phone to call his girlfriend Kim in Chicago, and explained what had happened. We instructed her to call Tom O'Brien. As our long-time guitar player before John, he knew the songs well enough that he could fake his way through them on bass in an emergency, and, well, apparently this was just that emergency. I had his bass, and she'd arrange to bring his amp. We'd get through the return-home show, and surely Pickles would arrive by the next night. We were covered. Still, he'd actually missed the plane... wow.
When we arrived at O'Hare, the drug dogs were as cute and affectionate as can be. A bit wet behind the ears,I didn't realize their cuddly behavior was their way of turning us in to the fellows at narcotics. We had been around enough pot in Holland to give the dogs a contact high, so it's no wonder they were very friendly. John and I had been singled out for immediate personal attention. In his case because he had done his best to take full advantage of Holland's liberal substance policy. In my case, I still had all the bags checked under my name.
"Did you pack all these bags yourself?" the customs man asked as he began to stack them on his huge table and unzip them.
"Actually, no," I answered, pretending to ignore the "I-can't-believe-you're-this-dumb" look he was giving me. "Those two are mine - the rest belong to the other guys in my band." He began emptying all 15 bags and all the instrument cases one by one, pocket by pocket. I had to repack them. It took hours.
When he got to Pickles' bags, things got worse. Pickles is, of course, our band's resident gourmet chef, and he had brought his spices with him. He's also pretty disorganized, so the ziplock bags were left open and their contents were spilling and mixing with his dirty socks and laundry. With all the herbs everywhere it looked like a DEA agent's dream drug bust when he unzipped Pickles' suitcase.
"And what's this?"
"Herbs. Spices. For cooking."
"Yeah, I'll bet. Is this your bag?"
"No. It's our bass player's."
"Well, go get him."
"Um, I can't. He missed the plane."
"He what?"
"He missed the plane."
"Oh Jesus fucking Christ."
They strip searched John and I. They were nice about it (a good cell-side manner is important), but I still don't recommend the experience. There's nothing quite as cozy as standing around naked in a cold room on cold tile surrounded by a bunch of guys holding semi-automatic weapons. Welcome home, boys.
Meeting back by the bags, John shrugged off the experience.
"It's not like we're dumb enough to try to smuggle anything in," he quipped. We both joked about feeling a little disappointed that we had come so close to checking "having a cavity search" off our bucket lists. It wasn't until years later that John came clean to me that a cavity search would have revealed several ounces of high grade hash in his derrière. Our story would have turned out quite differently had that little secret come out at the time.
The entire experience of getting through customs took 3-4 hours, but the rest of our touring party and welcome home committee of girlfriends and fans were tired but still waiting when John and I finally passed through the doors with all fifteen bags and all our instruments. At that point we barely had enough time to drive into the city, pick up our amps and the rest of our gear and set up on stage at the Elbo Room.
The room was packed. In a strange time-warp coincidence, I believe it was the one time in history all our past and future lead guitarists were in the same room. John was there, of course, and Tommy holding Pickles' bass, but Rob Newhouse (AKA Rob Elvis) and Steve Gerlach were there, both of whom later joined the band for significant stints, because they were fans of the band. Anyway, we started by telling some stories of the trip. These were the days before Facebook, of course, so no-one had any news of our adventures. We built up to explaining that Pickles had missed the plane, which was why Tommy was there on the bass. John had brought back a menu from a hash bar, so we read from that, and shared our escapades at the airport. Finally, Terry counted off the first song...
Back in Amsterdam, after our plane had left, Pickles had gone to the KLM counter to follow us home on the next flight, but was told the next flight to Chicago wasn't until the next day. And there was worse news. It turned out that in the rush of checking in he had been given John's plane ticket, which didn't match the name on his passport. He began to panic. He was forced to purchase a ticket to New York into JFK, and another ticket out of New York to Chicago out of LaGuardia. They told him that there wasn't enough time between the flights to get from one airport to the other. He bought the tickets anyway.
Meeting back by the bags, John shrugged off the experience.
"It's not like we're dumb enough to try to smuggle anything in," he quipped. We both joked about feeling a little disappointed that we had come so close to checking "having a cavity search" off our bucket lists. It wasn't until years later that John came clean to me that a cavity search would have revealed several ounces of high grade hash in his derrière. Our story would have turned out quite differently had that little secret come out at the time.
The entire experience of getting through customs took 3-4 hours, but the rest of our touring party and welcome home committee of girlfriends and fans were tired but still waiting when John and I finally passed through the doors with all fifteen bags and all our instruments. At that point we barely had enough time to drive into the city, pick up our amps and the rest of our gear and set up on stage at the Elbo Room.
The room was packed. In a strange time-warp coincidence, I believe it was the one time in history all our past and future lead guitarists were in the same room. John was there, of course, and Tommy holding Pickles' bass, but Rob Newhouse (AKA Rob Elvis) and Steve Gerlach were there, both of whom later joined the band for significant stints, because they were fans of the band. Anyway, we started by telling some stories of the trip. These were the days before Facebook, of course, so no-one had any news of our adventures. We built up to explaining that Pickles had missed the plane, which was why Tommy was there on the bass. John had brought back a menu from a hash bar, so we read from that, and shared our escapades at the airport. Finally, Terry counted off the first song...
Back in Amsterdam, after our plane had left, Pickles had gone to the KLM counter to follow us home on the next flight, but was told the next flight to Chicago wasn't until the next day. And there was worse news. It turned out that in the rush of checking in he had been given John's plane ticket, which didn't match the name on his passport. He began to panic. He was forced to purchase a ticket to New York into JFK, and another ticket out of New York to Chicago out of LaGuardia. They told him that there wasn't enough time between the flights to get from one airport to the other. He bought the tickets anyway.
Arriving at JFK, he had OJ'ed through the airport, and jumped into a cab, yelling "My plane to Chicago leaves LaGuardia in 25 minutes!" His cabbie took it as a personal challenge, and jammed the pedal to the metal. On the way to the airport, as the cabbie was driving on the shoulder at 85 miles an hour to pass a truck, Pickles picked himself up from the floor of the cab and shouted, "I'll miss the plane - slow down, I'm going to be sick!"
The cabbie said, "Don't worry, you are in no danger of the missing of the plane," cut off the truck, swerved in front of another cab, and slashed through three lanes of traffic to make the entrance ramp to the airport.
The stage at the Elbo Room, as I mentioned, is in the basement of the club. The stairway is on the opposite end of the room as the stage. As the band kicked into the first chords of our first song, Trying Too Hard To Be A Gentleman, Terry suddenly stopped playing. We lurched to a stop, and looked back at him, confused. He was pointing at the stairs with his drum stick. We turned and looked, and as we did, the crowd all looked back over their shoulders as well. Pickles was walking down the steps. A hushed silence fell over the room as he approached, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea to let him pass through to the stage.
He walked up and took the bass from Tommy, and approached me.
"Twenty years, never missed a show. Think about it," he said. He looked out at the crowd, and then around at the rest of the band.
"Gentlemen, shall we make some music?"
The cabbie said, "Don't worry, you are in no danger of the missing of the plane," cut off the truck, swerved in front of another cab, and slashed through three lanes of traffic to make the entrance ramp to the airport.
The stage at the Elbo Room, as I mentioned, is in the basement of the club. The stairway is on the opposite end of the room as the stage. As the band kicked into the first chords of our first song, Trying Too Hard To Be A Gentleman, Terry suddenly stopped playing. We lurched to a stop, and looked back at him, confused. He was pointing at the stairs with his drum stick. We turned and looked, and as we did, the crowd all looked back over their shoulders as well. Pickles was walking down the steps. A hushed silence fell over the room as he approached, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea to let him pass through to the stage.
He walked up and took the bass from Tommy, and approached me.
"Twenty years, never missed a show. Think about it," he said. He looked out at the crowd, and then around at the rest of the band.
"Gentlemen, shall we make some music?"
POSTSCRIPTS
In December of 1997, John toured in Canada with Lynn Jordan and The Shivers. He was separated from the band on re-entry to the States, and the rest of the band was delayed. After several hours waiting on the US side, they finally made it through, and he saw them approach, laughing. They had been stopped at customs, and one of the DEA agents had said to them, "Wasn't that John Duich I saw you with? I strip-searched him in '92. Tell him Garvey says Hi, and Sparky The Drug Dog who tagged him and Ralph has retired but is doing fine."
New Year's Day 1998, Alfred LeGarde died of a stroke - the Dutch music industry lost the last of the original rock and roll pirates, and the world lost a passionate lover of music. When I called John to fill him in on our friends' passing, we talked about the tragedy of such an untimely end, and had a lengthy conversation catching up on events in each other's lives, and musing together about life and death and the things we loved. John had just made a trip around the country visiting many friends and relatives, and filled me in about a recent evening at his ex-wife's house that he spent rough-housing and playing with his two boys, James and John. A few nights later, I was out at a play, and during the first act my pager began receiving alert after alert. I excused myself, and was devastated to learn that John had been found in his apartment, dead of a heart attack. Two very different men, the gonzo DJ and the deep-thinking bluesman, but they will both be missed very much.
It was in a much different world in mid-August of 2013 when my cell phone began ringing again and again, but the news was equally devastating. Pickles, the soulful chef and bass-playing heart of The Bad Examples, had been found in his home, also the victim of heart failure. I have to assume that when he arrived at the Pearly Gates John was waiting for him with his smirk of a smile and a pint of Guinness poured in Amsterdam.
We played Elbo Room many times after that night, including on January 27, 1995, when my daughter Fiona's mother attended, very pregnant, and danced all night in an attempt to jumpstart labor (Fiona was born the next day!). The most recent time we played there, after a long hiatus, was on Saturday, November 8, and it was a healing night. Not only were The Bad Examples playing, but the opening act was Fiona, playing her first Chicago full-band show of her own original music to conclude her first short tour promoting her new EP. (Pickles was her God-father, by the way). Not only that, but her guitar player on that tour was none other than John's son James. Late in the show, both Fiona and James joined us on-stage. We had told the story of that first tour, and of the missed flight home, and it really did feel like both John and Pickles were with us that night.
In December of 1997, John toured in Canada with Lynn Jordan and The Shivers. He was separated from the band on re-entry to the States, and the rest of the band was delayed. After several hours waiting on the US side, they finally made it through, and he saw them approach, laughing. They had been stopped at customs, and one of the DEA agents had said to them, "Wasn't that John Duich I saw you with? I strip-searched him in '92. Tell him Garvey says Hi, and Sparky The Drug Dog who tagged him and Ralph has retired but is doing fine."
New Year's Day 1998, Alfred LeGarde died of a stroke - the Dutch music industry lost the last of the original rock and roll pirates, and the world lost a passionate lover of music. When I called John to fill him in on our friends' passing, we talked about the tragedy of such an untimely end, and had a lengthy conversation catching up on events in each other's lives, and musing together about life and death and the things we loved. John had just made a trip around the country visiting many friends and relatives, and filled me in about a recent evening at his ex-wife's house that he spent rough-housing and playing with his two boys, James and John. A few nights later, I was out at a play, and during the first act my pager began receiving alert after alert. I excused myself, and was devastated to learn that John had been found in his apartment, dead of a heart attack. Two very different men, the gonzo DJ and the deep-thinking bluesman, but they will both be missed very much.
It was in a much different world in mid-August of 2013 when my cell phone began ringing again and again, but the news was equally devastating. Pickles, the soulful chef and bass-playing heart of The Bad Examples, had been found in his home, also the victim of heart failure. I have to assume that when he arrived at the Pearly Gates John was waiting for him with his smirk of a smile and a pint of Guinness poured in Amsterdam.
We played Elbo Room many times after that night, including on January 27, 1995, when my daughter Fiona's mother attended, very pregnant, and danced all night in an attempt to jumpstart labor (Fiona was born the next day!). The most recent time we played there, after a long hiatus, was on Saturday, November 8, and it was a healing night. Not only were The Bad Examples playing, but the opening act was Fiona, playing her first Chicago full-band show of her own original music to conclude her first short tour promoting her new EP. (Pickles was her God-father, by the way). Not only that, but her guitar player on that tour was none other than John's son James. Late in the show, both Fiona and James joined us on-stage. We had told the story of that first tour, and of the missed flight home, and it really did feel like both John and Pickles were with us that night.
