11/15, MONTPELLIER (When is a show NOT a show?): Everyone up at 5:30am, and my comment “time to go fishing” seems to enliven the proceedings. Not much in the way of foot-dragging as I feared, and we’re on the road reasonably quickly. I soon discover that I’ve left my Bob McChesney and John Nichols book “The Death and Life of American Journalism” behind-BAH! Fortunately, I snagged a copy of Oliver Twist at the hostel–hey, it was slim pickings for English books–and devour it greedily.
LOOOOONG, grueling  trip–I think we were in the van for a good 14 hours, including various pit stops. Fortunately, everyone is still somewhat buzzed over last night’s show, and there’s lots of discussion [among the members still awake] on making future shows even better. We arrive in Montpellier around 8pm–quite beautiful, and Shawn remarks that it reminds him of Monte Carlo. GPS eventually guides us to an older area of town among steep hills and tall, faded yellow buildings, and, as the driver at this point, I’m alarmed at the narrow streets and lose track of the various cafe chairs I’ve knocked over. This seems to be where the university kids live, as I don’t see ANYONE over 25. We finally discover the Up and Down, tonight’s host venue. We walk in, and learn to our horror we’re basically playing in a tiny pit in which we have to go down steep steps and cross a tiny 5-ft rope bridge to get to our tiny playing area. There’s a sad-looking drum kit that appears to have fallen off a truck, and there’s no bass or guitar amp as promised before the tour.

Some back-tracking: this was the only gig during the organizing phase in which contact with the venue was almost non-existent. My contact in Toulouse, Manu Muré, gave me the name of a woman who booked the Montpellier show, then she handed me off to the club itself for further details which never arrive, despite all efforts on both my and the Mentats’ part. Finally, the week before I left, someone involved e-mails about drum details, and that was the end of any contact. So, I was a little uneasy about this particular gig from the beginning.

I finally managed to guide everyone back to the club to retrieve our gear. When we crept down the narrow steps and reached the bottom, we were greeted by the spectacle of a bug-eyed Shawn rocking out solo to a full room of happy and energetically dancing audience members, some of whom [including the insistent gal I met earlier] were banging away on the various drum pieces scattered across the tiny stage! We began to gather up our gear to occasional “BOOO’s”, and carried them back to the van. At some point, I slipped on the rope bridge, and landed face-first into a soft canvas case of ours–I’m sure this was a nice summation of our exit to the crowd.

During one of our trips to the van outside, a tall, heavily-tatooed audience member [whom I later learned was the guy who set up the show and provided the drums] blocked Nini and me and angrily announced “I think you are being very unfair about what you are doing!”, and proceeded to list the reasons why. After seeing the crowd downstairs, I was beginning to weaken in our decision anyway, so I asked how long it would take to get the amps needed, but he waved me off and said it was too late – but not too late to make sure we knew about his displeasure at this turn of events. He then lapsed into French arguing with Nini, so I don’t know where it went from there, but it wasn’t pretty. By now, we were getting a little nervous, and began retrieving our stuff together as a group, but there were no further incidents–not that we didn’t deserve it! We also retrieved Shawn, who seemed a little uncertain whether he’d done the right thing–I thought he took the PERFECT course of action, and told him so.
We finally pile into the van, which was parked about30 yards down the hill from the club, and Ludo backs it slowly up the hill while dodging various pedestrians and cafe furniture to get to a good turning-around point. We pass the Up and Down, and realize the transmission is smoking! There was a general feeling of “WELL, PERFECT! WE BREAK DOWN IN FRONT OF THE CLUB WE BAILED ON! WE’RE DOOMED!”, but despite the smoke, it seems to be running alright. Once we get going, it seems impossible to find our way back through the too-narrow streets, so Shawn jumps out of the van and guides us to possible escape routes. We eventually find the highway, drive for another 2-3 hours, during which I reflect on how this wasn’t exactly our finest hour, and whether I should be allowed to be in a decision-making position for the rest of the tour. We get a motel, and the regrets continue until I fall asleep.