David Byrne Journal:2004-03-22

David Byrne's journal entry for March 22, 2004 was untitled. This was the third entry on David Byrne's journal.

== Body ==Last night's show went pretty well, though many of us, for one reason or another, made mistakes. That and the basketball arena setting made us slightly less than relaxed; the show was fine but not totally thrilling. We were previously to be playing the Verdi opera house in Parma, but due to the delayed release of my record, and therefore the tour, the first 10 days or so of the tour were lopped off and, in re-juggling them, some of the nice venues were no longer available.

Ending the set with "I Zimbra" and "Blind" seems to work extremely well, especially the new "insert" at the end of "Blind," where the strings kick in to high gear. When this happens the audience is caught by surprise, which they like, and then when we return to the normal ending, re-energized, they are thrilled. We can sense it. It feels like an ending, too, which every show needs.

Afterwards I was introduced to the leader(?) of Banda Ionica, a brass band whose record with guest singers I had said in interviews I admire. He is a large man dressed like a Mexican actor from the 40s: suit, slicked back hair, and skinny mustache. He is accompanied by a sort of punky spotted youth who speaks good English. They make an odd couple.

In the afternoon I took a bike ride and saw that the whole town isn't as ugly as I'd previously thought. If it were an American town it would be considered charming (the center, anyway). But for Italy, it's pretty plain.

I am about to lock up my bike and enter one of the few restaurants that seems to be open (it's Sunday afternoon) when another cyclist pulls up and produces my new record from his satchel. He asks if I want to know of a restaurant with real local food and I say yes. So we pedal off to Ristorante Canossa, which is full and bustling families, old couples, and a few Sunday afternoon dates.

The two old women seated next to me order a bottle of sparkling white wine. One of them has a serious mustache, like a man's: gray and bushy. I wonder why she doesn't shave it. I say "hi" to her and she begins to practice her English. When I leave she says carefully, "Until we meet again," which makes me wonder if all her English is from old song lyrics. One would simply consult the memory banks of lyric phrases for words to fit particular situations.

I order from the meat trolley, a big stainless steel affair in which various meats are submerged in hot water and juices and heaved into view when a lever is pulled. It is served with 3 bowls of salsas - red, green and yellow. I point to the tongue and some ham. There are other cuts I don't recognize, though one of them certainly is a foot. It is delicious. I wash it down with the local wine, Lambrusco, a sparkling red. The bubbles form a pink head in the glass.

Across from me is a large table filled with an extended family. A businessman in a suit, jutting jaw and stern posture, is at the head of the table. Around him are what must be his blonde wife and their parents. Further down are 2 boys, bored out of their skulls, and a tarted-up brunette who might be his wife's sister.

Who wears a suit and tie to Sunday lunch? This guy is stiff, his posture erect. I wonder if maybe he's Scandanavian; one set of parents seem vaguely Nordic. At one point I am startled to glance up from my book ("The Price of Loyalty") and am confronted by the face of the blonde wife up close to mine. She was more attractive from behind. Her face asks me if I'm English, which I tend to assume means do I speak English. I say yes and she then asks "Labour or Conservative?" I wonder if her husband is a politician. I think to myself briefly "normally Labour, but I'm not going to support Tony Blair." So I clarify that I live in NY and will vote Democratic.

After the show some of the band and I have drinks in the hotel bar, then a bunch of them decide to go to the local disco. I decline. In the morning they say it was full of men in mullets with their shirts off.